Hold Me Close - Talia Hibbert Page 0,219

off to worship the devil in London, didn’t he?”

Hannah tried not to smile. “I couldn’t say. But I will remind you that he’s here to help his mother, and he has two kids, and his wife passed away—”

“God rest her soul.”

“God rest her soul. So, we should be good Christians and speak nicely about him.” Honestly, this conversation was odd. Patience Kabbah was not the sort of woman to gossip about people, or disapprove of people, or even think of people. She typically existed on another plane. Hannah sometimes wondered if she even knew what day it was.

And yet, somehow, she’d noticed that her daughter was acting strangely. She’d even managed to pin down the cause, whether she realised it or not.

Hannah’s heart ricocheted around her chest. Fuck. Her mother had been playing them all along. She was secretly a hyper-aware Sherlock Holmes in sheep’s clothing, and now she was on the cusp of ferreting out Hannah’s biggest secret. This could not stand.

She searched frantically for a topic important enough to serve as a distraction. The murky waters of her mind had never been more fucked up—but out of nowhere, a suitable subject bubbled to the surface. It was one she’d been avoiding for a while, one she’d desperately wanted to drown. Now she clung to it like a life-raft, blurting the words out abruptly. “Do you ever hear from Dad?”

Silence fell, heavy as January snow. Hannah tried not to wince as another puff of steam passed over her sensitive scalp. A full minute passed, filled only with the tinny applause of the Deal or No Deal audience.

Then, finally, Patience said, “You have never asked me about your father. Not for years. Not once since he left.”

Well, no, Hannah supposed she hadn’t. She didn’t like talking about him. The word ‘Dad’ tasted like rust on her tongue. Of course, once upon a time, she’d loved talking about him. She’d told all the kids at pre-school: “My dad’s rich and he comes to see us every month, all the way from Sierra Leone because he loves us, and he buys us whatever we want because he loves us…”

Yeah. Kids were easily confused. And rich men, it turned out, were easily bored. Even with their second families.

“I didn’t need to ask,” she said finally. “You told us what happened.” They’d been given an unfulfilling, childish sort of explanation at the time, and then a more complete story when they were slightly older. By which point, the most important thing had already become clear: their father was not coming back.

Really, what more was there to ask about?

“True,” Patience allowed. “But you have never asked why I fell in love with a married man in the first place.”

Hannah’s jaw dropped. “I… you…” I would rather die than ask anyone about something like that, but especially not my mother.

Patience gave a little laugh and patted Hannah’s shoulder, as if she’d heard that thought. “We are very different, angel. But I do love you so.” She sighed and ran the straighteners over another section of Hannah’s poor hair. “You know, I don’t like to speak badly of your father in front of you girls.”

Did that mean Patience spoke badly of their father at all? If so, she certainly hid it well.

“But,” the older woman went on, “Now that time has passed, I have decided that he did not behave correctly. I think, perhaps, he used our positions to his advantage. I worked for him, you see. Did you know that?”

“No,” Hannah whispered. She certainly had not known that. The words settled greasily in her stomach, heavy and sickening.

“I cleaned his office,” Patience said. “And he was there so much—he was a lawyer, you see—it was as if I lived with him. Things were not fair between us, I don’t think. Of course, it all worked out for me, in the end.” She pressed a quick kiss to the top of Hannah’s head. “But I understand now, why my mother was so angry at the time. It is not something I would want for my daughter. Especially not you. You are not like me. You are very sensitive.”

Hannah should snort at that, should mock the idea that she could ever be considered more ‘sensitive’ than her wispy mother. But for some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to make a sound.

Instead she sat rigid, locked into place by her own screaming thoughts. It was as if the volume had been turned up on all the snide whispers she’d