Page 4 of The Inn on Bluebell Lane
“Goodness, Josh. Ben. Jessica. How you’ve all grown!” Gwen’s voice rang out a bit too jolly and she laughed and shook her head. These were her grandchildren, and she’d been desperate to have them here with her for so long. Jess was so tall and slender now, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, her expression doleful. Ben was almost as tall as she was, with shaggy blond hair in desperate need of a haircut, but fortunately a ready smile for his grandmother. Josh was much smaller, with dark hair and eyes and looking decidedly wary.
Gwen hugged and kissed them in turn, which they submitted to politely, the way you would with a stranger; she knew she was nicknamed Faraway Granny, which stung, even though she’d told herself it shouldn’t.
If she was painfully honest with herself, she knew their relationship had always been one based on good manners rather than real affection, unlike that with Ellie’s parents, who had been intimately involved in all their lives from the moment each child had emerged, squalling, into the world, or so it seemed to Gwen when she ventured onto social media to see the many photographs of their holidays and family dinners together, candid snaps of them playing in the garden, decorating a Christmas tree, watching fireworks.
But that was going to change now, she reminded herself. Finally, it was her turn to be the one on hand, close by, there, just as she’d wanted to be, even if it felt a little odd at the moment.
Matthew and Ellie were coming in now, Ellie hanging back a little as Matthew strode toward her, arms outstretched.
“Mum!”
“Oh, Matthew.” Unexpected tears pricked Gwen’s eyes as her arms closed around her son’s familiar form. “It’s so good to have you here.”
“It’s so good to be here, Mum. I can’t believe we’ve left it so long.”
“It doesn’t matter now.” Gwen stepped back, brushing at her eyes. “It’s just so lovely to see you. All of you,” she added, making a deliberate effort to include Ellie, who was looking as if she’d rather not cross the threshold.
Typical, Gwen couldn’t keep from thinking a little sourly, and then told herself to banish the thought, along with the emotion. She was going to make a real effort with Ellie now that they would be living together. She’d never felt that they’d managed to get along properly, all these years, for one reason or another. They’d never fallen out, never had a cross word, even, but somehow the tension had remained between them, like a thickness in the air.
Gwen knew she was most likely too prickly with her daughter-in-law, just as she recognized that, for whatever reason, Ellie was somewhat stiff and standoffish with her. It had started, really, before she’d even met Ellie; when Matthew had rung her from New York, where he’d been doing his MBA, and told her he’d met the most wonderful girl—an American girl—and Gwen had clutched the receiver to her ear, one hand pressed to her middle, and thought, Oh.
When Ellie had flown over to meet her a few months later, already sporting a sparkly engagement ring, Gwen had meant to make an effort, but somehow it had all felt rather hard. Ellie had found everything impossibly quaint and said so repeatedly, and after a while Gwen had felt herself start to bristle at her loud, American ways, how she exclaimed over everything like it was all so ridiculously old-fashioned and cute. She’d used that word a lot—Gwen’s garden, her pride and joy, an acre of neatly tended vegetables beds, raspberry canes, and great, big blooming hydrangeas, was cute. Her kitchen, a large, pleasant room, once the bustling heart of her house, was cute. Even her jumper was cute.
Gwen had started to hate that word—just as she’d hated how Ellie had made it abundantly clear that she and Matthew would be staying in America. For Ellie, the idea of moving to Wales—or even Great Britain—clearly wasn’t even to be thought of, never mind discussed. If Gwen had suggested it, she feared her soon-to-be daughter-in-law would have simply laughed and said what a cute idea that was.
By the end of the week-long trip, Gwen had felt winded, wounded, as if a whirlwind had blown through her house—her whole life—and then left again, without remotely realizing the devastation it had wrought. She’d managed, over the next few months, to come to grips—more or less—with the idea of Matthew marrying Ellie, and even of them living in America. She’d always tried to have a game face on when chatting with Matthew via video call, and at their wedding she’d been the dutiful mother of the groom, staying in the background, being quietly supportive. Yet she and Ellie had never really got past that first stage of finding each other rather… different.
With their infrequent meetings and formal visits, they’d never managed to move past those initial reactions, but now Gwen knew they would have to. Or at least try to. And she wanted to—of course she did. Really.
“Come into the kitchen,” she urged them all. “I’ve made Welsh cakes and I’ll go put the kettle on. Then I can show you all your rooms…” She glanced at Ellie, to gauge her reaction, and saw her daughter-in-law force a smile. She looked strained, her blue eyes tired, her light brown hair pulled back into a limp ponytail… but then they had been on an overnight flight.
“That sounds lovely, thank you, Gwen,” she said, a response that should have gratified Gwen but didn’t, perhaps because her tone was so… dutiful.
“Come through,” she instructed, firmly now, and led the way into the kitchen.
The children gathered silently around the big oak table, the same table Matthew and Sarah had eaten so many meals at—full English breakfasts, and hearty soups for lunch, bangers and mash for tea, night after cozy night, when the house had been full and the home happy. It had been a long, long time since those days; most evenings, Gwen took her supper into the sitting room and ate while watching the telly or doing a crossword.
“It’s lovely to have children in the house again,” she told her grandchildren. “I’ve always felt this was a house made for children.”
These children, however, were looking decidedly nonplussed, as they took in the room’s shabby comfort—an ancient Aga, a Welsh dresser crammed with odds and ends of dusty china, a lumbering fridge that wheezed every so often and had been on its last legs for about three years.
Perhaps she could tempt them with food.
“Look, here are some Welsh cakes I made just this morning,” she said brightly.
With a little flourish, Gwen took the plate of sugar-dusted cakes from the dresser and put them in the center of the table. They’d been a teatime favorite with her guests and had won the local Women’s Institute’s baking competition back in the day.
The four children stared at them on the plate, not one of them going forward to take one. Gwen kept her smile firmly in place.
“Mommy,” Ava finally asked in a loud whisper, “do those have raisins?”
Gwen saw Ellie bite her lip, casting her an anxious look before glancing back at her daughter. “I think so, yes.” Another questioning look to Gwen. “They do have raisins?”
“Yes, they’re Welsh cakes,” Gwen replied, far too stiffly. “Of course, they have raisins.”
“They’re a bit like a flat scone,” Matthew explained as he nicked two from the plate and scoffed one of them in a single bite. “I’m sure you’ve had them before, Ellie, when you’ve visited? They’re scrummy. Try them, you lot.”
Ellie’s mouth twisted as she let out a funny little laugh. “You’re already sounding so much more British,” she remarked. “I don’t think I’ve heard you say scrummy before, or call us ‘you lot’.”