Semua Bab OFF LIMITS: Bab 51 - Bab 58

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO POV: Sandy She’d been planning it for three weeks. Not the dinner specifically. The dinner was Marcus’s — he planned the dinners, that was his thing, she understood the division of labour. What she’d been planning was the approach. The specific way of bringing Rosie into the house so that Rosie understood what the house was before she had to figure it out herself. Rosie didn’t like not knowing things. Sandy had identified this in the first week of school and had been working with it ever since. Not around it. With it. There was a difference. Rosie needed to know the shape of things before she stepped into them. Once she knew the shape she was fine — better than fine, Rosie was remarkable once she was oriented — but the not-knowing was hard for her. Sandy understood this. She had the opposite problem. She knew things before she should and the challenge was waiting for everyone else to catch up. Together they balanced. She’d told Rosie about the house for thre

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR POV: Damon The drive home was long. Five hours. Edinburgh to London on a Saturday in March with two children in the back and Marcus in the front passenger seat because Marcus had decided this was his seat and had been in it since the first family road trip and had never vacated the position. Sandy was reading. Marcus James was asleep with the bear. Rosie was looking out the window. He drove. Zara was in the middle row with the children. He could see her in the rearview mirror occasionally reading something on her phone, watching the road, the specific quality of her presence that had been beside him for seven years and that he still noticed every time. The way it should be. The way he intended it to stay. Somewhere past Newcastle. Sandy put her book down. Looked at Rosie. “You’re thinking,” Sandy said. “I’m always thinking,” Rosie said. “About the building,” Sandy said. “Yes,” Rosie said. “What about it,” Sandy said. Rosie looked out the window.

CHAPTER FIFTY SIXPOV: ZaraThey found it in May.Not dramatically. Not the way houses appeared in films — the door opening and the light and the knowing immediately. It took six weeks of looking and seven viewings and two near-misses and one house they’d almost convinced themselves into before Sandy had stood in the kitchen and said no with the considered expression and they’d both known she was right.The seventh one.Semi-detached. A quiet street in Hackney. A garden that needed work. A kitchen that was larger than Marcus’s by exactly enough. A room for Sandy with a south-facing window. A room for Marcus James with a north-facing window that got the specific grey morning light he’d been assessed at. A room that could be an office. A room that could be other things.A dining room with space for a bigger table.They walked through it twice on the day.Sandy was last to come downstairs.She’d been upstairs for seven minutes.She appeared at the bottom of the stairs.Looked at them.“Y

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHTPOV: MarcusSix months.Six months of Sundays.Six months of Catherine at the table learning what the table was. Not being told — she’d been told before she came the first time and she’d understood before she sat down. Learning in the other way. The accumulative way. The way you learned things that mattered by being present for them over time.She’d been present.Every Sunday.Without fail.She brought something different every time. Not always food — sometimes a specific tea she’d found. A book she thought Zara would like. A wooden thing for Marcus James that had arrived in a bag with no ceremony and which he had assessed for three minutes and then accepted into the rotation of wooden things with the expression.The rosemary was still on the windowsill.Had been there six months.The kitchen smelled like something was about to happen.Always.She was not like anyone he’d been with before.He’d been with people. Not many — he hadn’t been a person who moved through