I mean, I wish I’d been on the call, now.
It was Hannah’s idea to set up our meeting today, and it was Nicole who thought of emptying the coffee machine of beans. I mean, honestly. Since when did she become so practical?
“So, is there anything I can do?” I ask, a little too briskly. “We were just …”
“We know,” says Leila with a sudden gurgle of laughter. Then her expression changes. “Fixie, let me …” She adjusts my hair quickly, patting and tweaking it, then gives me one of her sweet smiles. “There. That’s better!”
“How’s Drew?” says Mum as Jake hands out the Cava, and Nicole colors slightly.
“Actually, Mum, there’s something I need to tell you. I won’t be here for Christmas. I’m off to Abu Dhabi to see Drew. I’m flying tomorrow.”
Mum’s sharp eyes survey Nicole as though searching for trouble—but then something in her face relaxes.
“Good idea, Nicole,” she says. “Good idea, darling.”
“Well, here’s to you, Mum,” says Jake, lifting a glass. “Welcome back!”
We all take a sip and then Mum says, “Here’s to you, loves. All of you. You’ve done so well, keeping the house spotless and everything running so well. The shop looks in marvelous shape! Morag sent me some pictures of you, Jake, all dressed up as a gingerbread man.” She smiles at him. “And the events for children are such a good idea.…”
“The sales aren’t bad either,” I say eagerly. “Last week’s takings are better than last year’s.”
I got Bob to pull some figures together for me yesterday, and as he handed them over, he smiled. He actually smiled.
“Mum,” I add a little nervously, because I want to get it over with, “there’s something I need to tell you too. I’ve made Morag a director.”
I’ve been plucking up courage to tell her, but first she was ill, and then I was distracted, and then I thought, Face-to-face is better. Although now I’m thinking: No, face-to-face is worse; I should have sent an email in the middle of the night.
“I know, love.” Mum pats my hand kindly. “It was exactly the right thing to do. I should have done it myself. You’ve brought a fresh eye to the business. All of you,” she adds, looking around. “I should have gone away years ago! And was Uncle Ned helpful?” she adds innocently, and there’s such a charged silence I think I might explode.
I’m dying to tell Mum everything. I want her to know the truth about Uncle Ned … and Bob … and all of it. Actually, I want her to become Ninja Mum and see off Uncle Ned for good.
But not now. That’s for another day.
“Here’s to Farrs!” exclaims Jake, lifting his glass, totally ignoring the question. We drink again, and Seb adds robustly, “Best store in Europe!”
“And here’s to you, Jake,” says Mum, turning toward him. “Well done for being the head of the family in my place, for keeping everyone together, for stepping in when the shop needed you—” She breaks off as Jake puts a hand on her arm.
“I’d love to take the credit,” he says, in his familiar drawl. “But I’ve got this new annoying habit of being honest. And the truth is … it was Fixie.”
There’s silence and I stare at him, gobsmacked.
“Fixie?” Mum looks taken aback.
“Fixie was the head of the family while you were away,” says Jake. “A lot of stuff went on and … well … Fixie took care of it.”
“Fixie was the head,” Nicole agrees. “She sorted us all out. She was boss.”
“Boss-y,” amends Jake wryly, and Leila gives a nervous giggle, which she hastily quells.
“I see.” Mum looks around at the three of us, as though reappraising things. “Well … to Fixie, then.”
“To Fixie.” Jake raises his glass. “For everything.” He meets my eyes gravely and I nod back, unable to speak, my head hot.
“Fixie.” Nicole nods, her glass rising too. “Well done.”
“You know me,” I say, finally finding my voice. “I just have to fix stuff. It’s always been my flaw—” I break off as I see Seb shaking his head, his eyes warm and loving.
“It’s your strength,” he says. “It’s what makes you. Don’t ever stop fixing stuff.”
“We need you to fix stuff!” agrees Nicole. “Except the coffee machine,” she adds as an afterthought. “I’m totally on that.”
“To Fixie,” says Leila eagerly, and Seb lifts his glass, his hand tight in mine.
“To Fixie,” he says. “To Fixie Farr.”
“Well,” I say, still flustered. “Thanks very much and … and … let’s have lunch.”
Mum goes off to freshen up, and the rest of us crack into catering-team mode, and in a few minutes we’re serving up lamb casserole with baked potatoes and broccoli, along with Mum’s favorite crusty bread.
“Wait,” I say, as she sits down and Jake starts pouring wine. “Wait. We haven’t got enough seats. I don’t understand …” I look around the table, confused, then realize it’s because Seb’s here. There’s an extra person.
“Use that chair?” Seb suggests, pointing at Dad’s empty carver, and I stiffen automatically.
“No, we don’t ever use that. It was Dad’s. But it’s fine—we can bring one in from the kitchen.…”
“You sit in it, Fixie,” says Nicole suddenly, and I gape at her, stunned that she would even suggest it. “Why not? You wouldn’t mind, would you, Mum?”
We’re all looking at Dad’s chair, and back at Mum, and I can see her thinking hard, looking at us again, her unfamiliar earrings dangling. I can almost read her mind: Everything’s changed.
“Yes,” she says slowly. “I think it’s time to use it again. Fixie, love, you sit in it.”
“But …” I flounder. Dad’s chair? The chair at the head of the table? Me?
“Go on,” says Jake, nodding at the chair. “Sit down, or I’ll take it. Seriously, you deserve it,” he adds in a nicer voice.
“I’ll lay an extra place,” says Leila quickly. “It’ll only take a second.”
As Nicole passes broccoli around the table and Seb pours out the wine, I venture toward the big heavy chair. As I pull it out, I’m remembering Dad in this chair. His authority. And just for an instant I think, I can’t sit here, I’m not worthy—but then I glance up and catch Seb’s eye. He gives me a tiny, infinitesimal nod, and I suddenly remember those words he hurled at me in fury: You need to start thinking less about what you owe other people and more about what you owe yourself.
He might have been angry, but he was right.
I owe this to myself. I do. I owe it to myself.
I sit down in my place, pull the chair in with more confidence, and shake out the napkin that Leila’s set for me, with a smile of thanks. And as I survey the faces that I love so dearly, I feel a kind of contentment. So we’re not flash. So we’re not moneyed. So we don’t have all the answers or know exactly where we’re going. We’ll still be all right, our family. We’ll be all right.
To my reader
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe one to many, many people.
Francesca at Transworld, Kara and Susan at Penguin Random House NYC, and all my woderful publishers around the world.
Julia and Becky, Debbie, Jess and Sharon and the whole amazing Team Kinsella, with a special thank-you to Richard Ogle.
My tireless agents, Araminta, Marina, Kim, Nicki, and Sam and all at LAW and ILA.
My writerly friends for cocktails and wise counsel—especially Jojo, Lisa, Jenny, Kristy, Linda, Joanna, Tom, and the Board.