Page 73 of One Last Gift

“She got over it, of course, but she had to work at it. And Tom, he was like your mum, yes, but he had bits of your dad in there too. They were both always willing to give people a chance.”

Like Sam, Cassie thought. Tom had been willing to give Sam a chance, where Cassie wasn’t.

Claire reached out, took Cassie’s hand across the table. “Your mum, she got over her fear about your dad. Obviously, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. She was strong, so much stronger than me. I let the grief of losing someone I loved stop me from getting close to anyone else—including you and Tom.” She shook her head. “Don’t become me. Don’t let what’s happened to you stop you taking chances elsewhere.”

Cassie stared at Claire—when had she become so insightful?

Claire squeezed Cassie’s hand and Cassie squeezed back.

She jumped at the sound of the chair scraping out next to her, and looked up to see Hazel there. She hadn’t noticed her and Linda coming back. “What do you think of our new scarves?” Hazel asked, flipping a purple scarf with a blue-and-silver pattern on it over her shoulder dramatically. “I got one for you too.” She held up a deep-red scarf, dropping it around Cassie’s shoulders. “It goes with your hair.”

Cassie smiled, running her fingers over the soft fabric, and Claire made admiring noises as Linda and Hazel presented their purchases.

Don’t let it stop you from taking chances. Claire was right. She thought of Sam, trying to tell her that he loved her. How she’d run. How her mum had nearly done that, too, apparently. Then she thought of Tom, trying to tell her she was brave. And she took a breath.

One thing at a time.

The time had come to open Tom’s last clue.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“It’s just not the same, is it?” Hazel said, leaning back against one of the faded red chairs in the Costa Coffee they were currently sitting in. The sounds of coffee beans grinding, milk being frothed, and a particularly unhappy toddler filled the coffee shop. Cassie wrinkled her nose as she took a sip of her oat milk latte—something Josh had gotten her into.

“Not quite.” They’d come for a breakfast coffee before work, trying to re-create Bordeaux vibes. But a cramped Costa in the middle of central London wasn’t having quite the same Zen effect as outside under the sun in France. Cassie glanced at her handbag, to where she’d stashed Tom’s last clue. She’d promised herself she’d open it this morning.

“So. Have you spoken to Sam?”

Cassie jerked her head up to look at Hazel. “What? That’s a bit random.”

“No, it’s not,” Hazel insisted. “I wanted to ask in France, but I didn’t want to upset you on holiday.”

“And now?”

“Now I think it’s time,” she said simply.

Cassie gave Hazel a narrowed-eye look but when Hazel just sat there, waiting patiently, she sighed. “No, I haven’t spoken to him.” Hazel knew most—but not all—of what had happened in Cornwall. She knew Cassie and Sam had slept together, but Cassie had kept the details of the argument to herself, and she’d tried to keep how she felt about it all concealed, to some degree. But Hazel knew her, and she’d picked up on some things—just as she’d picked up on things when they were teenagers.

“Has he tried to get in touch?”

Cassie squirmed. “No.” And he wouldn’t, she thought, not after she’d up and left him in the middle of bloody nowhere. She wouldn’t have gotten in touch, either, if their situations had been reversed.

Hazel leveled a look at Cassie, leaning forward in her chair. “Cassie. Don’t you think you should give him another shot?”

Cassie scowled. How long had Hazel been planning to push this on her? “This is Sam we’re talking about.”

Hazel nodded, her black hair swishing with the movement. “Yes, Sam. Sam, who gave up his savings to save the pub for you, who came back from New York for you, went with you to Cornwall.”

Cassie pressed her lips together and said nothing.

“Don’t you think he deserves another chance?” Hazel said softly.

Another chance—what, to break her heart again?

She didn’t say that out loud, though, thinking it might sound a touch melodramatic, so instead she scoffed. “You’re one to talk—you close yourself off all the time, you never give anyone a chance. How is that any different?”

Hazel didn’t look at all fazed by the accusation. “I like to think that when the right guy comes along, I’ll be ready, but in the meantime I genuinely am happy being single. It suits me, and I don’t buy into you needing a guy to make you happy.”

“Then why—?”