The Summer of Secrets by Sarah Jasmon Read Free Book Online

when she heard voices at the door. She braced for the storm that must be about to erupt.
    But the woman in the doorway was oblivious to the pizza on the floor and the sauce that had found its way into one twin’s hair and across the other twin’s T-shirt. She tapped them both on the head as she crossed the room to get to the stairs, but otherwise ignored them.
    Anyway, this couldn’t be anyone’s mother. Helen had never seen such a beautiful face; the pale, delicate oval seemed to float against the peeling wallpaper, remote in some way, and calm. Helen gazed at the swathe of hair cascading over the woman’s shoulders, each strand a different shade, ranging from buttered toast to the most fragile baby white. She was wearing the same voluminous Eastern trousers that Victoria had, but in deep purple and with heavy embroidery at the ankles and waist. As she reached the corner she stopped, as if considering something. Helen eased herself back behind the cover of the sofa’s edge, and looked from one face to another. Pippa was leaning against Seth’s arm. Victoria’s head was down, and her fingers held the remains of a pizza crust, which she pinched and ripped into crumbs. Will was taking no notice of anyone, lying flat on his front and driving a toy car around the legs of the armchair.
    Seth’s voice broke the silence. Disentangling himself from Pippa, he gave her cheek a gentle stroke before putting her to one side and standing up.
    ‘Was it good?’ He reached the woman and took her bag and her coat. ‘Come on, you need to go to bed.’
    The woman’s eyes rested on him. The pause went on for a fraction too long.
    ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, it was good. But there were too many people.’
    As Seth steered her with a gentle hand towards the stairs, Victoria finally looked up. Her face was in the shadows and hard to read.
    ‘Night, Alice.’

Chapter Six
    Helen peered through the window of the oven door. The recipe book said twenty minutes, but she didn’t want to burn them. The glass was dark with the scorched brown of old meals, though, and she couldn’t see through. She reached for the handle and paused. Wasn’t it supposed to be bad for cakes if you let air in? Everyone laughing in Home Economics at someone’s disaster? She cracked it open a tiny bit but changed her mind. The warm, sweet smell wafted up towards her face as she checked the timer again. She’d better leave it a few more minutes.
    The good weather had rolled out like a red carpet, one day of sunshine and blue sky after another. No, like a yellow brick road. She thought back to the emptiness of the time before the Dovers had come. Had it only been a week? She’d have died, spending the whole summer by herself. And the Helen from then floated through her mind, pale and wobbly. She rubbed her hands down her bare legs, now unmistakeably starting to turn brown, to reassure herself she was real, that this was happening. The timer started to ping, and she opened the oven door.
    The cakes down one half of the tray were golden, well risen and firm. The others had fallen away a bit, with the ones in the last row barely reaching the top of their paper cases. They were a much darker brown as well, but not, she hoped, actually burned. The previous day, she and Victoria had discussed their favourite cakes. Hers was Battenberg, something remembered as a special childhood treat, to be picked apart and eaten in constituent order. Victoria had scoffed at cakes that you bought in packets, and instead described freshly cooked doughnuts from roadside stalls, and pastry shops where the shelves were stacked with delicate squares glazed with fruit. The stories of Victoria’s travels coiled through most of their conversations, until Helen could almost imagine being there as well.
    Seth’s voice had broken into this particular thread: ‘They never taste as good as they look, though.’
    ‘Didn’t stop you eating them,’ Victoria had said.
    ‘Wouldn’t have them