life revolved around.
But he didn’t know how to explain that to Ruth without sounding sickeningly selfish. He realised suddenly that his intentions tonight—his idea that he’d reveal all the knowledge he’d collected and excuse her of all sins like some kind of fucking God—had been selfish.
She looked up at him, a heartbreaking little frown on her face, and said, “You do know me.”
Evan swallowed. “That’s not what I meant.”
But it was too late. He could see that in her weary, hopeless eyes, in the way she rubbed at her temple.
Then she said, “Just go. Okay? Please?”
Jesus. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to leave things like this, and he didn’t want to leave her at all.
But he couldn’t refuse. So he went.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Patience Kabbah was neither observant nor assertive. Those who knew the Kabbahs often wondered how, exactly, she had produced one daughter who was particularly sharp, and another who was especially demanding.
If anyone had thought to ask Patience, she would have told them that it happened quite by accident. But people rarely asked Patience about things.
Her name suited her well, but ‘Contentment’ would have suited better. She was, by nature, an eternally satisfied woman—and despite the difficulties life had thrown at her, this commitment to satisfaction always carried her through. Of course, she didn’t think of it as a commitment to satisfaction. She saw it as God’s plan and followed faithfully.
When the love of her life, an older, powerful lawyer, turned out to be married, Patience had not worried. She had simply loved him anyway, and been rewarded with two children, a large house, and a life-long income.
That the house was in England as opposed to Sierra Leone, and that the love of her life eventually moved on to greener pastures, did not trouble Patience overmuch. She supposed that England would do, since she spoke the language well and it was not too foreign. She supposed also that she would eventually find the next love of her life, and at least she could take her time looking.
And so, decades after arriving in Ravenswood, Patience was, always had been, and doubtless always would be, blissfully content. Her greatest sorrow was that, somehow, her daughters had ended up quite the opposite. Neither of them were happy to simply float through life, and as far as she could tell, it caused them nothing but trouble.
Take this Sunday, for example. The family had cooked together, as they did every week, but their usual laughter was absent. It was not at all hard to discern why. Within minutes of her daughters’ arrival, Patience deduced that Hannah was worried about Ruth, and furiously resentful of the fact. She also deduced that Ruth was oblivious to Hannah’s resentment, but was certainly upset over… Something. With Ruth, one never really knew.
Patience spent the rest of the painfully silent afternoon wondering if she should assist her awfully prideful children in resolving their issues—all of which stemmed from caring and doing far too much in a world made for the careless and passive. She decided, after many internal sighs, that she’d better. Her daughters had a knack for running into trouble if left unattended.
“Girls,” she said, as they moved to clear the table.
Hannah answered quickly and politely. “Yes, Mummy?”
Ruth, who had always been a strange and disrespectful child, said, “Yeah?”
“Do not come out of the kitchen,” Patience said, “until you have solved your problems.”
Ruth frowned. The child would certainly wrinkle before her time. “What problems?”
With a weary sigh, Patience said, “Ask your sister.” Then she turned and began her search for the TV commander. She was quite exhausted by that tense interaction, and she wanted to watch Deal or No Deal.
“What was that about?” Ruth crouched by the cupboard under the sink, hunting out a fresh bottle of washing up liquid.
Then she heard the kitchen door shut with a decisive click.
Ruth pulled her head from the cupboard and stared. Her sister was standing in front of the door with her arms folded, a familiar, stern set to her mouth.
“You know,” Ruth began cautiously, “Just because Mum said—”
“She’s right. She’s always right. I want to talk to you.”
The word talk had become Ruth’s personal nightmare over the last few days. She’d examined it from every angle, explored its every connotation, remembered every time Evan had asked her to do it, and decided that talking was for the devil.
But she always tried not to upset her sister. So Ruth stood, dusted off her hands on the back of her