“She wants to come here,” Eleanor said. “To my flat. She asked if that was alright.”
Cloe stood in Eleanor’s small kitchen with Mac beside her, the morning sun cutting through the window in a way that felt too gentle for what was about to happen. Eleanor’s hands were wrapped around a mug of tea she hadn’t touched, and her voice, usually so steady, had a tremor running underneath it that Cloe had never heard before.
“Is that okay with you,” Mac asked his mother.
“I don’t know,” Eleanor said honestly. “But I think it’s right. If she’s coming here, to where I live now, then she’s the one walking into it. Not me walking into something of hers.” She looked at Cloe. “Does that make sense.”
“It makes sense,” Cloe said.
They didn’t have to wait long. The doorbell rang at half past ten, and El
