A Matter of Time
Chapter One
In the darkness she felt her way along the wall in search of an opening, a way in. As her mind moved over the cold, hard surface, a whispered thought offered a mere suggestion as to the length of time the wall had been there and the resistance necessary to create a thing of such density. She brushed the thought away as if flicking an irritant hair from her eye and continued with her search.
The wall had not always been there, she knew that, but it was a long time since she'd had access to whatever lay on the other side. She decided it had been there long enough; it was time for it to come down. There were times when her mind explored the wall, she felt unsure how and why it was there. Was it to keep something in or something out? She expected to come across a door that would require a key, a word, an image or a symbol which, like magic, would open the door to a torrent of bright light and it would collapse, disintegrate.
The very thought created a strange feeling within her head. She saw a little girl rushing towards her with open arms, full of joy and playfulness. The little girl wanted to take her by the hand and eagerly show her what pleasures lie in wait for her. As suddenly as she had appeared the child was gone and she was left facing the stone wall again that now appeared more icy and unmoving than before.
“Doubt. It's doubt that will do it every time. You must believe.” Where did that come from? She turned inside herself to see but the thought had gone. “If you believe, anything is possible. Give your doubt to the wind and walk through the wall.” She observed the solidity of the dark cold wall.
“You have created it and are therefore one with it. Walk though it.” Her chest tightened and she felt she would never breathe again. Is that what it is? Fear? A wall of fear? She caught a fleeting glimpse of the child with her arms reaching towards her, only to be replaced again by the wall, the tightness, unable to move, frozen in time.
The stirring of a memory crept from deep within her mind. Words from a book.
“Remember,” there was the voice again, “you must focus. Become one with the wall and move through.” Slowly, she felt a strength stir, a belief in the seemingly impossible and she took a small step towards the wall.
“Keep your focus.” Taking a deep breath she stepped forward and realised the wall was not solid at all. The atoms separated in front of her and she moved between them, like walking into a strong grey wind. Before she could breathe out the wind dropped and she gazed in awe at the bright colour filled landscape. Shock, relief, amazement washed over and through her.
“I did it!”
London, ENGLAND
The alarm grew louder as she surfaced from her dream, dragging her consciousness with her as she reached towards the clock, silenced it and slipped from the bed. She fumbled for her robe and made her way to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror at her dishevelled reflection, the result of yet another disturbed night, she tried to shake off the exhaustion that wanted to seduce her back to the oblivion of sleep. It was always the same; the forest, the house, the wall, impervious, the same feelings of fear and inevitability. No doubt a therapist would be able to explain these dreams but she didn't have time for that now. There were people to see and deadlines to meet. She showered and dressed, still haunted by leftover emotions that hung on the edge of her consciousness, remnants begging resolution.
It was two weeks now since the dreams started, not every night, but frequent enough to disturb her usual equilibrium and encroach into her daily life.
Downstairs in the kitchen she prepared breakfast. Unhelpfully her mind sought out the dream wanting to make sense of it, re-engaging the fearful emotions. “No!” she screamed silently, “Not now”. She could feel the pressure of the day's commitments close in around her. Okay. She would do something about it, but later. She would call James, meet him for a drink after work. Maybe he could help her make sense of it all.
She grabbed her jacket, after all it was only mid-May and the temperature could be so unpredictable. She checked her briefcase and, closing the front door behind her, determined to get on with the day.
Elegant and petite, inherited from her Italian mother, she hailed a taxi and told the driver her destination. Leaning back into the seat, Lucia closed her eyes and mentally went over the details for her first meeting. Despite some early misgivings she was in fact excited by the project. As an art journalist she had secured a much coveted interview with Giacomo Martinelli to discuss his family's prestigious art collection. First she was to meet with a representative here in London who would make the arrangements for her visit to the Martinelli villa just outside Florence where the collection was housed. As the taxi pulled up outside the hotel, Lucia felt the adrenalin rise and any other residual feelings dissolve into the shadows.
Newly opened and still trying hard to impress the hotel was not to Lucia’s taste. Light reflected from the abundant shiny surfaces as she made her way to the lounge with its bright red seating and mirrored tables.
Antonio Martinelli stood and walked towards her, offering his hand in greeting.
“Signorina Walker, buongiorno” he smiled. “Sono Antonio Martinelli.
”Piacere,” she responded shaking his hand, a little disconcerted. She had not expected the representative to be Signor Martinelli’s elder son. He reminded her of someone but there wasn't time for her memory to explore it as she was directed to a seat and coffee ordered.
The next hour passed quickly and arrangements were discussed and confirmed for Lucia to fly to Florence the day after tomorrow, Wednesday. She would be collected at the airport and taken to a hotel nearby the Villa Martinelli. She would meet with Signor Martinelli for lunch on Thursday followed by a tour of the gallery and the interview. It was made clear she was to focus only on the art collection and not the family's personal lives.
“It was a pleasure to meet with you Signorina Walker and I hope you will enjoy your stay in Italy. Any problems please do let me know. You have my number.” Antonio Martinelli smiled as he stood and offered his hand again, this time to finalise the meeting. Again Lucia felt a sense of recognition, a cobweb brushing across her mind and quickly lost in their goodbyes.
She left the hotel satisfied the meeting had gone well and then realised she would be leaving for Italy in 48 hours. She felt the panic surge to her throat and her breathing constrict as the thought sank and lodged itself at the forefront of her mind.
“Ok, ok,” she breathed deeply, “Calma, calma.” A phrase remembered from childhood, used by her grandmother in times of stress and one where she now sought comfort.
She had a day and a half to prepare for the interview and her visit to Florence. As she tried to focus on the day ahead she felt remnants of the dream seeping through. She shook her head to clear the unsettling images and, returning to the present, called James. They arranged to meet at six.
“Si, si, va bene.” How many times must he say so, he thought, as he ended the call to his father. Antonio Martinelli knew very well that his father was used to having his own way and getting what he wanted.
There had been much speculation recently about Antonio’s younger brother, Lorenzo and his connection to some dubious business dealings. Did his father think he could deflect any negative publicity by giving this rare interview about the family's art collection? He had been emphatic, and repeatedly so, that there were to be no questions about the family's personal lives. It had been Antonio's job to find an art journalist not only with integrity but one who also understood Italian culture. And what did he mean by that – someone not only appreciative of the valuable collection but also aware of the Italian need to maintain la bella figura and would not pry below the surface? He had approached the task with some trepidation. As an Italian, he understood the culture only too well. Also, the world of journalism was not necessarily known for its sensitivity.
Antonio tugged at the cuffs of his shirt and buttoned his jacket. Immaculate in a beautifully tailored suit he glanced in the long mirror. “Hmm … la bella figura”, he thought ruefully and quietly smiled.
His work at his father’s gallery in the centre of Florence and independent of the collection that was housed at the villa, had brought him into contact with artists, collectors, gallery owners and journalists around the world and although he had been reluctant to become part of his father’s business, he had discovered early on that his opportunities were limited if he wanted to stay in Florence. He had studied art hoping that one day he would become a successful artist and had found this required more than he was willing to invest. Florence was full of aspiring artists and it turned out that his love for Florence was stronger than his dream of being an artist. Uncomfortable with such strong competition Antonio soon realised his path would be better paved by joining his father at the gallery. A mixture of youthful naivety and arrogant charm Antonio quickly found the success he desired. Now in his early thirties, experience had tempered the arrogance and, with a little maturity, he had gained a quiet confidence.
Like many unmarried Italian men Antonio lived in the family home but often used the small apartment above the gallery. He loved Florence, and was happy he had not made the compromise made by many of his peers of moving away from the city to find work. Somewhat oblivious to his own good fortune of being born into a wealthy and successful family, he took for granted a lifestyle to which many in Italy could only aspire.
So, here he was in London having fulfilled his father’s very specific wishes.
“Just find someone,” his father had said. “And make it clear, they are to ask about the collection only – our private lives are not to be discussed!”
“But...”
“Basta! I do not wish to discuss it. Please,” he added gently, “just do as I ask”.
Antonio knew when not to press him.
Returning to the present, he remembered the meeting earlier with Lucia Walker. What was it about her? He was sure that they had not met before but he felt as if he already knew her, there was a feeling of familiarity that he could not explain. Anyway, he thought, dismissing any further musings, she was the perfect choice, fulfilling the criteria so adamantly set by his father. Satisfied that he had done his job well he made arrangements to return to Florence as quickly as possible.
Meanwhile, not far from Antonio's hotel, Lucia was making her own arrangements to travel to Florence. She had booked her flight online for the following day from Gatwick, and decided that she would stay on a few more days after the interview so she could catch up with her aunt and cousins. She loved Chiara, her maternal aunt, and thought this would be a wonderful opportunity to spend time with her. She had only managed to see Chiara once in the last two years when she had visited London on business and that had been more rushed and fleeting than either would have wished.
Ah, the time! There was still another meeting to attend and she then had to go to the office to tie up loose ends there before meeting James.
On and off throughout the day James had pondered on his sister's words and her uncharacteristic behaviour. Always calm, some may say controlled, he had never heard her sound so flustered and, well yes, emotional. It wasn't that she was unemotional, just that he'd heard something in her voice, something he hadn't heard before. Fear, that was it, fear. He tried not to dwell on these thoughts too much and told himself that she would make sense of it all when he saw her later, unaware that it was Lucia who was expecting him to make sense of her irrational feelings.
As the eldest, James had always felt responsible for his younger sisters despite them now being adults and perfectly capable of taking care of their own lives. Whilst he did not intrude in their lives he, inexplicably, worried about them and their ability to make good choices even though experience told him otherwise. Maybe it was a trait carried by many first born children. How many times had he been told by his mother “....look after your sisters” or “...... watch your little sisters, won't you”. It was like an inbuilt password protected computer programme which he could not access to modify.
As for himself, James, now in his mid-thirties, was a successful businessman. As the director of an Italian food and wine company, he travelled frequently between London and Italy. Through his business he had maintained strong ties with his mother's family there and visited them whenever time allowed. He had initially studied law with dreams of becoming an international lawyer and, as often happens, life had other ideas for the young James. After gaining a training contract with a top London law firm he quickly became disillusioned and when his father died he had taken leave to help his mother tie up the estate. He had also kept the business going while his mother decided whether to keep it on and put in a manager or to sell it. His father had created a moderately successful, if somewhat outdated, business importing fine wines from Italy and had met James' mother during a business trip to Tuscany many years earlier.
James soon found he enjoyed running the business far more than being a lawyer and quickly became inspired with new ideas. It was not long before he introduced some carefully sourced foods to complement the wines and discovered to his surprise that he had found a niche market that proved to be very profitable. Relieved to find her son was a natural entrepreneur, James' mother happily handed over the business, content it would remain within the family domain for at least another generation.
As his working day came to an end, James' thoughts returned to his sister.
“Well Luci, what's this all about? You sounded flustered on the phone.”
“Oh, probably nothing really. How are you? How's the business?” she feigned interest in James' life in an attempt to avoid the irrational feelings of rising panic.
“Luci. What's going on?”
She took a gulp of wine and watched the pale golden liquid settle in the glass as she put it down on the table.
“It's just that.... you remember ...” Lucia faltered over the words, and avoiding James' eyes, breathed deeply as if about to dive into a deep pool. “You remember when we were little and used to go to nonna's for the holidays and we'd walk through the forest to that house? Well, I've been having this dream, the same one, for about two weeks.” She felt her breath catch high in her chest as she spoke. She went on before the air ran out, “and there's a wall and.... and.. I'm sure it's there, and......”
“Calma, calma, Luci,” James watched his sister with concern, “this is not like you.”
“And …. and I fly to Italy the day after tomorrow.”
Lucia looked at her brother with an intensity he found unsettling.
“Luci, Luci, what are you trying to say?” James said gently.
“Oh, I'm not sure. It's just that now that I'm going to Italy the dream seems to have taken on …... er, it seems more real. And the feelings – they’re so strong, and, ... visceral. I was scared, James. I am scared and I don't understand why”. Lucia took another gulp of wine then said in a calmer tone, “James, you know me, I'm not exactly known for falling apart”.
James smiled, “True, Luci”, he said.
“Oh, maybe I'm being silly. You know, reading, feeling too much into it. I've been so busy recently that I don't have time to think, outside of work that is.” Lucia gave James a faint attempt at a smile. Another sip of wine and she felt some of the stress from the day slip away as she was able to relax a little in the safety of her brother's presence. “It's good to see you. Thanks for coming.”
“Niente,” James said, it's nothing. “How about we get something to eat, if it's not too early for you.”
“Yes, no, that's a good idea” Lucia paused for another sip of wine, before adding, “We can eat here or go to the Italian round the corner.”
“Let's go to the Italian – get you in the mood.” As soon as the words were out James regretted them as he watched Lucia's expression darken. “Sorry Luci, I didn't mean to …... look let's go somewhere where we can sit quietly, have some good food and talk this through.”
Relenting, Lucia smiled faintly and said, “It's okay James, the Italian's fine. Sorry if I'm a bit edgy. Let's finish our drinks and go.”
They came out into the already cool evening air and walked the hundred odd yards to the restaurant. Thankfully, James thought, it was Monday evening and early enough to get a table without a prior reservation. They were greeted enthusiastically by the owner, Alberto.
“ Buona sera, buona sera …... certo, certo”, he sang and led them to a corner table by the window.
After the usual pleasantries and perusals of the menus they ordered their food and some wine. James looked thoughtfully at Lucia searching for words that would not startle her and cause her to retreat behind her usual confident mask.
“Don't worry James”, she said, jolting him from his reverie with her sharp intuition, “I do want to talk about it, it's just that I don't know how to explain it, but I will try”.
She unfolded the napkin on the table in front of her and placing it on her lap curled a corner round her finger, her eyes focussed on the table cloth where the napkin had sat. Searching her mind for a beginning and the right words, she took a deep breath in an attempt to speak calmly and clearly. Whilst she appreciated James' patience Lucia was not sure she had that much patience with her own ability to relate something that was still beyond her comprehension.
As she spoke she slowly raised her eyes to look at James. She trusted James more than anyone she knew. Despite any disagreements they may have had, he had always been there, supported her and when necessary, been honest with her. He had an easy openness that she often struggled to find within herself. Maybe she was less tolerant and forgiving of the flaws she saw in others and in herself.
“It began a couple of weeks ago and at first I gave it little thought. It was just another dream. You know how it is, fragmented, half remembered. Then a night or two later it happened again, the same dream. I still didn't pay it that much attention until it happened a third and then a fourth time. Each time my memory of it became clearer and the feelings I experienced on waking were more intense.” Lucia paused for a sip of wine aware that the bottle had arrived at the table and her glass filled without her realising.
“Go on,” James encouraged in a quiet voice.
Finding safety in his attentiveness she continued, “I don't know if I can make sense of it really, and now I have to put it into words it sounds silly. Anyway, remember when we were little and went to stay with nonna? I loved it there. The sun was always shining, we explored the woods, swam in the river and every day brought a new adventure. Then one day we found that old house, the casetta; it was empty, the owners up and gone long ago like so many places in Tuscany. Remember when we got back and told nonna, she seemed angry and said that it was dangerous and not to go there again? I think she said something about vipers and that was enough to dull any curiosity I had after that. Anyway.... the dream. I'm alone in the woods and there's a house. At first I didn't recognise it, or maybe it changed, you know how it is in dreams. So the house, with each dream, became more familiar and I began to explore more of it. Then one night I came across this wall and I was drawn to it. I can't explain it. I know it sounds like nothing but this feeling of fear and inevitability intensified more each time and now I'm waking up drenched in sweat and filled with panic. James it's exhausting and I don't know what to do. Should I go there since I'll be close by or …. oh, I don't know!” Lucia threw her hands up in exasperation at the same moment as her food arrived and nearly sent the plate flying from the waiter's hand.
“O dio! Mi dispiace, I'm so sorry!” Lucia fell back into her chair while the waiter put the plate down on the table in front of her and safely retreated.
James looked quizzically at his sister, “Luci, what do you....”
Before James could finish his sentence, Lucia cut in, “That's it, it doesn't make sense! That's what I don't understand. I remember the house, it was quite sweet and looked so small in the shadow of those cypress trees standing round it, protecting it. No, it's more to do with the sense of the place. It draws me in and the magnetism increases with each dream, as if something is about to happen, something inevitable and I'm involved in whatever it is in some way. Oh James,” Lucia sighed, “I hoped you might remember something or, I don't know, see something I can't.”
Now she'd tried to communicate it, Lucia felt a little foolish about the whole thing and smiling, said, “Maybe I'm more stressed about this interview than I thought. Let's eat.”
She held her glass out towards James who reciprocated, “Salute!” they said in unison.
“Luci, I wish I could remember something, I only vaguely remember the house. Didn't we go there two or three times before we told nonna about it? I don't remember anything unusual though. Maybe Chiara will know something. Have you spoken to mamma?”
“No, no, no. You're the only one I've mentioned it to. I just hoped you'd be able to make some sense of it that's all.” Lucia smiled. “You're right, I'll talk to Chiara. I don't want to worry mamma with it.” She felt better now, for having said it, shared it with someone; it somehow diffused the intensity of it and she relaxed a little more.
“It's so good to see you James. I feel better just talking to you, thank you. Tell me, what's happening with you?”
“Oh, you know how it is.” James leaned back into his chair. “The business takes up most of my time. It's doing well. Better than expected so far this year, in fact. I'm going to have a look at some new oils and wines in a couple of weeks – shame we won't be there at the same time. There's a place on the edge of the Chianti hills that I've heard about. One of those old family estates that are finding they need to expand beyond Italy if they are to survive. They've won awards for their oil and their wine so I'm hopeful it will make a good addition to our range if negotiations go well.” James paused to drink some wine, “Mind you, this wine's not bad, what do you think?”
“Er, yes”, Lucia said, aware she was beginning to drift again and quickly brought herself back to the present. “I've been here a few times and always enjoyed it. Also they do an excellent spaghetti alle vongole, which I love.”
They continued their meal interspersed with conversation about each other’s work and lives, or lack of them, and after they had finished their coffees, James signalled to the waiter to bring the bill.
“My treat, Luci. Let's do it again soon. How about when you get back and before I go?” He handed his card with the bill to the waiter and waited for him to return with the payment machine. “Cara, let me know how it goes. You know if you need anything you only have to give me a call.” Content he no longer needed to worry and that his sister was probably just more stressed than she realised and it was playing out in these dreams, James paid the bill.
“Andiamo.” Let's go. They said their goodbyes to Alberto and promised to return soon then stepped out into the street where they hugged and said their goodbyes.
“Ciao cara, a presto.” James said.
“Ciao James, e grazie,” and Lucia gave her brother one last squeeze and set off in the opposite direction towards home.
Tuesday passed without incident for Lucia as she continued to finalise her research and preparations for the interview with Giacomo Martinelli. James had sent her a text that morning to wish her well and buon viaggio. She had managed to have a dreamless sleep the previous night, and now that her fears had dissolved into the past she felt somewhat embarrassed by her recent reactions to them. Comforted by the thought that in a couple of days the interview would be out of the way and she would be able to enjoy some much needed time with Chiara and her grandmother, Lucia sent James a text to thank him for being there and that she was already feeling better about it all. As she pressed the send button Lucia felt a whisper of fear tinge the moment. She brushed it aside telling herself she was being silly and carried on ticking the items on her check-list. Finally, she put her neatly packed case by the door and made herself a chamomile tea before settling down on the sofa to relax with the still unread Sunday papers.
It was, of course, ridiculous – this dream thing, she thought as she flicked through one of the magazines hardly taking in the headlines. Nothing more than a bit of stress. It's just been so busy and …... well, and I suppose I only have myself to blame for taking on too much.
“Is that so?” she thought she heard a soft voice say in her head and, dismissing it, put it down to a mixture of imagination and stress.
“Well, it couldn't be anything else – I'm on my own; I mean, there's no one else here.” Lucia said out loud in an attempt to convince herself that was the case. Finishing her tea, she took the cup to the kitchen and got ready for bed noting that she must do something about it as soon as she got back from Italy. Or maybe, she would speak to Chiara and ask her for a remedy.
Exhausted, and relaxed by the tea, Lucia fell into a deep sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. She was shocked to be woken by her alarm and the realisation that she had slept through the night. Vestiges of dreams danced across her memory, too flimsy to grasp yet she was aware of fragile, kaleidoscopic images – the house, the wall, but this time too distant and diaphanous to hold their usual emotional charge. She switched off the alarm, leapt out of bed as she realised she had a plane to catch and went straight to the shower where she let the water wash away the remains of the night. Refreshed, she made coffee and grabbed a croissant before getting dressed and doing a final check that she had everything she needed for the trip. She heard the taxi pull up outside to take her to the station and with a deep breath and one last look round the apartment, picked up her case and stepped out into a fresh spring morning.
Victoria station was at its busiest and negotiating her way against the tide of people heading out from the platforms on their way to work, Lucia eventually boarded the Gatwick Express with only a few minutes to spare. She found a window seat and was aware of an anxious fluttering in her solar plexus. She put it down to the anticipation of travelling and took out the book she had brought with her for the journey. As the train pulled away from the station the anxiety increased, rising towards her heart then upwards and catching in her throat. She took a deep breath and looked out of the window as the train passed the old Battersea Power Station.
I must concentrate on the interview and not let these other silly thoughts get in the way. She reminded herself how lucky she was to have been asked to meet Giacomo Martinelli and that this was the first interview he had agreed to give for many years. She was well aware that he had made it a condition that any questions about the Martinelli family were strictly forbidden yet, like any good journalist her curiosity was strong and she hoped there would be an opportunity to touch on something of a more personal nature beyond the art collection itself. She had done her research and found that whilst the art collection was well documented anything else to do with the family was not. Oh, the family's support of the arts, particularly in Florence, was well known as was the small part they played within Florentine society but whenever she had tried to scratch beneath the surface, there was nothing to be found. That was, until recently and the fiasco and rumours surrounding the younger son, Lorenzo Martinelli.
Hm, Lucia thought and smiled, a crack appears in the family portrait. She reminded herself to buy a newspaper when she got to Florence and ensure she hadn't missed any fresh news to do with the Martinellli family. A flicker of excitement rose in her at the thought of an afternoon and evening alone in the city she loved, that was the home of her family.
The train sped past the stations without stopping until it finally arrived at Gatwick. With a little more confidence than when she had left London, Lucia gathered her belongings and alighted from the train to a busy platform. She looked around to get her bearings and headed towards the departure desk to check in.
Relieved of her case, Lucia turned from the desk towards the concourse in search of a cup of coffee. On second thoughts she would be in Florence in a couple of hours or so and maybe it would be best to wait and have a real Italian coffee rather than waste her caffeine quota here.
Once through the security checks and passport control, she went to the departure gate and had time to make a final check of her mobile for any emails before the boarding light came on and the gate was opened.
A few minutes later she settled into her window seat, adjusted and fastened her seat belt and, feeling more relaxed now that she was actually on the plane, waited for the last of the passengers to board and the take-off procedure to begin. She felt a rush of adrenaline as the plane lifted from the runway and soared upwards. She smiled and enjoyed the thought of being unavailable – no mobile, no emails, nothing for at least two or so hours. Ignoring the flight attendant's display of safety instructions, she looked out of the window to see the London suburbs give way to a green and brown patchwork as they headed towards the English Channel. It was not long before the white cliffs of Dover were left behind and the open countryside of France came into view.
The plane climbed above the cloud line and Lucia's spirit rose as the sun's rays sent beams of light into the cabin. Such a different light to the grey mist she had left behind at Gatwick. She mused on the quality of light she had experienced on her travels and like a magnet her thoughts were drawn to her destination; Florence, Italy. A mixture of emotions stirred within her as she contemplated the next few days. Of course, there was the joy and excitement at the prospect of seeing her aunt and grandmother, yet she was aware of an underlying disquiet. No more than a whisper until given attention, it then clung to her consciousness, grappling to take hold and Lucia, once again, became aware of an anxiety deep within, still unexplained.
Attempting to brush away such thoughts she concentrated her mind on the interview with Signor Martinelli. She was looking forward to meeting this man who had become an enigma over the years and she wondered whether this was by design or merely his own nature.
Giacomo Martinelli was the head of an old Italian family whose ancestors had arrived in Florence in the sixteenth century. Having fled from Cortona they had managed to preserve valuable works of art that now formed part of the famous Martinelli collection. Once settled in Florence they soon became a presence in Florentine society. She mused that the upper echelons of Florentine society are still a closed circle today and their walls not easily breached and wondered if much had changed from the time of the Medici and their hold on the city in the 15th and 16th centuries. How the renaissance had changed the city and indeed beyond, with its far reaching influence.
She brought her thoughts back to Signor Martinelli, and, in particular, the son Lorenzo. His father cannot have been happy that his recent escapades had gained attention from the press. Again, the phrase came into her mind “la bella figura” and she thought how fragile that veneer becomes once cracked.
Would the family be able to smooth this over, she wondered, or was this only the beginning of far deeper cracks? She was well aware of the complex politics within such families and gave thanks for the comparative simplicity of her own family.
