‘It doesn’t matter,’ replied Jennifer in the quietest of voices.
‘It does,’ said Jim more passionately.
He took another tentative step closer to her.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
He was ashamed of even trying to justify his actions, but he wanted her to know.
‘Bryn was my father, my hero,’ he said, bowing his head. ‘And now he’s gone. Part of me blames myself for his death, and that’s the reason why I behaved like I did back there. But I guess he wasn’t the person I wanted him to be.’
‘I think we just have to accept that people are flawed. We all are, in our own ways.’
‘Will you forgive me?’ he asked.
For a second, Jennifer didn’t say anything. Time seemed to drag on for ever, and Jim had a fierce and dreadful sense that he had just lost everything.
‘Please,’ he whispered.
‘Only if we have no more secrets,’ she replied, and his shoulders sagged with relief.
‘No more secrets,’ he agreed, holding out his hand, and when she took it, he drew her into his arms. He inhaled deeply, smelling the fresh scent of her shampoo, never wanting to let her go, and she rested her head on his shoulder as if, against all the odds, she felt the same.
‘You know you shouldn’t blame yourself for what happened to your father,’ she said into the fabric of his dinner jacket. ‘That doesn’t end well, and I should know.’
He pulled away and looked at her.
‘About that . . .’
He saw a wave of anxiety creep across her face and thought about Sylvia’s box of letters sitting in a drawer in the house. He had spent half the night tossing and turning, wondering what to do with them, and had woken up deciding that it would serve no purpose to tell Jennifer about her mother’s affair with Bryn. He had stood there in front of the roaring fire that the housekeeping staff had lit and taken the letters out of the box, imagining them disintegrating to ash and taking the memories of that summer with them.
But something had stopped him.
No more secrets, repeated a voice in his head.
‘You shouldn?
??t blame yourself for your mother’s death either,’ he began.
‘I know,’ agreed Jennifer quietly. ‘But it’s not easy to do. We had words. I went down the stairs. She must have followed me and slipped . . . If we hadn’t argued . . .’
‘I don’t believe it happened that way,’ said Jim with conviction.
He looked away, and wiped his mouth, knowing that he was doing the right thing.
‘Sylvia and Bryn were having an affair,’ he said gently.
‘What?’ said Jennifer incredulously.
‘I found love letters they had written to each other. I’ve got them upstairs.’
‘An affair?’ she repeated, her face crumpling into a frown. ‘For how long?’
‘I’d say a month or so, from the letters. Your mother’s were very eloquent, passionate. I think she had intense feelings for Bryn, or perhaps they just felt intense at the time,’ he continued carefully. ‘But I’m not entirely sure they were reciprocated.’
Jennifer was looking down at her shoes.
‘Bryn called it off the night of the party. I think she was distraught.’