Maddy’s Christmas Wedding (Little Duck Pond Cafe #37)

CHAPTER FOUR

I sat at my laptop in the study staring at the spreadsheet Jack had made me to help with the wedding planning.

I was supposed to be writing my vows – but since Dad had broken his shattering news the week before, it had been hard to think about anything else. Even now, my fingers were itching to Google Huntington’s disease again. I knew it was a bad idea. But it was so urgent, this need I felt to find out everything there was to know about the condition. I wanted to know how the illness would progress and how quickly, although from what I’d read, it seemed that it was different for everyone. That’s probably why even our GP had said it wasn’t helpful to Google Dad’s symptoms.

I’d been putting on a cheery front for Jack, but underneath it all, I couldn’t stop worrying about Dad.

He’d been having so many tests over the past week to find out why his balance had been affected recently and the waiting for results – for Mum and me and my twin sisters, Chloe and Jasmine – was quite frankly terrifying. How on earth Dad must be feeling, I couldn’t imagine. We didn’t even know it was Huntington’s disease. Dad had been convinced that it was after the consultant mentioned the condition during their initial meeting, but I just kept thinking that if they were so sure, why was Dad having more tests? Surely that meant that they weren’t sure at all, and that there might be other reasons why Dad had stumbled a few times recently.

In my darker moments, though, I knew I was only fooling myself, trying to look on the bright side . . . if there even was a bright side.

With a determined effort, I transferred my attention to the spreadsheet, glancing down the names of invited guests who’d already replied to our wedding invitation. I’d need to phone the people who hadn’t so that we could firm up final numbers for the reception. But my heart really wasn’t in it. And before I knew it, I was Googling again.

And that’s when I found it.

A golden nugget of information that I’d missed on my previous trawls.

It was buried right at the bottom of a personal account written by the sister of a man who had Huntington’s. ‘If the condition is managed well, it’s possible for people to live a relatively “normal”

life for years – and my brother is proof of that.’

I sat back, tears in my eyes.

That’s all I needed to know to give me hope . . . that Dad could continue to live life to the full for a long time yet. That would give me the courage I needed to face it.

But what if Dad wasn’t one of those people?

And there I was, back to worrying and thinking dark thoughts all over again.

Dad had been adamant he didn’t want anyone to know it might be something serious and I understood his reasoning. He didn’t want people treating him with kid gloves. So I hadn’t even mentioned it to Jack, even though Dad had said it was okay to tell him. I felt guilty about that, though, and I was puzzled why I couldn’t seem to bring myself to tell him. He’d asked me a few times recently if I was okay, so even though I was trying to keep up a cheery front, my worry over Dad must have been leaking out. I guess Jack knew me so well by now that he could probably spot a mood change straight away.

Then it occurred to me.

Why I hadn’t told Jack the news yet.

I swallowed hard, feeling tears burning my eyelids. If I told Jack – or any of my friends – I’d be making the whole situation with Dad horribly real.

Right now, I could almost pretend that it wasn’t happening . . . that after all the tests, the consultant might turn around and say they’d got it wrong and Dad was fine. And everything would be okay again.

But if I told Jack, he would naturally want to talk about it. He’d ask lots of questions that I really didn’t have the strength to answer just now. I knew I was probably living in fairyland, but until it was confirmed, what was the point of worrying about what it might be? (The other day, when we’d visited my parents, I’d had to dash into the house and warn them not to talk about Dad’s hospital tests because I hadn’t told Jack yet.)

But I’d explain everything to him just as soon as we had a formal diagnosis and were in possession of the hard facts . . .

My eyes were losing focus staring at the spreadsheet. I glanced at the time on the screen. There was somewhere I needed to be and if I didn’t get moving, I’d be late.

Ellie had phoned, asking if I was free at lunchtime because she wanted my opinion on something. I’d laughed and asked what it was. But she’d said, very mysteriously, that she wasn’t going to tell me until we were there, because then she’d get my genuine reaction to it.

I’d no idea what was in store but I was suddenly very grateful for the distraction . . .