Page 103 of Boomerville at Ballymegille

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Jo stoodon the headland and looked out to sea. The view was stunning, as waves rolling in from the vast Atlantic Ocean crashed against towering cliffs, hundreds of feet below. She’d walked for almost an hour, on a circular route that took in the Old Head of Kindale, a large promontory that jutted out from the spectacular coastal path. Bunty padded alongside, occasionally running ahead to chase a gull or pick up the scent of a rabbit.

The weather was wonderful and with the sun hot and wind warm, Jo felt her skin tingle. For the first time in weeks, she relaxed.

She smiled when she remembered Hattie’s call and couldn’t believe that Pete had turned up at the manor. The audacity of the man! Jo knew that she would have to face him and in a while, she’d head back and do the right thing. Pete would have a bite to eat and get whatever he needed to say off his chest, and then, to put the matter in Hattie’s words, she wanted him to pack up and piss off.

Jo never wanted to lay eyes on Pete again.

Let him go back and make up with Saint Amanda. Or spend his days alone in his farmhouse with only his vintage tractors to keep him company. There may be another woman to hook up with in time, but Jo was certain of one thing. It would never be her.

As she stared out at the Atlantic, she thought of an island so far away, across this vast sea, where the very same slate grey breakers rolled in until they crashed along windswept shores. The wild Atlantic east coast of Barbados was such a contrast to the tranquil Caribbean waters of the west.

Jo sat down with her knees drawn up and wrapped an arm around Bunty. As the warm wind caressed them both, she remembered a holiday that seemed so long ago, when she’d met a man named Long Tom Hendry and for four glorious days, he’d stolen her heart.

Hattie had always told Jo that to mend a broken heart you should engage in a fling, no matter how short. She maintained that dipping your toes back in romantic waters could help ease the pain of heartbreak. Jo had been grieving for the loss of John, her beloved Romany husband, who’d succumbed to a sudden and devastating cancer.

In Barbados, Long Tom had mended her.

She’d never forget John, but time spent with Long Tom had taught her that it was okay to move on and to enjoy herself.

To take a leap of faith.

They’d spent evenings on the veranda of an old plantation house, where he’d strummed on a guitar as they listened to the nocturnal chirruping of cicadas and the chatter of monkeys, hidden in branches that hung over sweet-smelling orchids, ginger lilies and gardenias in the garden below. In the day they’d wandered along the east coast to sit and watch rain fall like drift smoke on huge volcanic rocks, then they’d eaten at rickety rum shops, gorging on freshly caught fish with yellow rice and garlic-smothered plantain.

Jo hugged Bunty as she stared out at the sea, the very same sea thousands of miles away, where together with Long Tom she’d marvelled at humpback whales that leapt out of the deep waters. On the island, at night, he’d played a grand piano, positioned in the corner of their guest suite. As the stars sparkled in the ink-black sky, Long Tom had written a new song and now as she remembered, she sang the words.

‘The sun is going down on this island so unknown,

We’re out of sight and all alone,

Don’t forget me!

Don’t forget me.’

They’d madelove in the mahogany four-poster, savouring the pleasure of two bodies, perfectly tuned in the act of passion, before watching the sun rise beyond open doors that overlooked a coast as dramatic as the one that now lay before her.

Salty tears spilled over Jo’s windblown face and Bunty licked them away. As she reminisced, she wondered how she’d let Long Tom go. It had seemed so complicated at the time, his life so different to hers.

He’d promised to make her happy. He’d urged her to take a leap of faith.

But Jo had chosen Pete over the ageing rock singer. She’d settled for stability. Whatever that was. Life had continued and she’d settled into a routine, working long hours in her businesses and enjoying Pete’s company for meals out, days away to vintage tractor rallies and someone to cuddle up to at night.

Jo looked at the horizon and the watery depths below the cliffs and wondered if Hattie was right. Had she bought Flatterly Manor on the hope that one day Long Tom would return? Perhaps, subconsciously, she had. But she knew in her heart that it was a fantasy. His life was on the other side of the world, in very different circumstances and now, their fleeting romance would be as forgotten as the many that had undoubtably followed.

As Jo nestled her head into Bunty’s soft, silky fur, she wondered what would have happened if she’d taken that leap of faith.

A sudden, much cooler wind had whipped up and Jo stood, shrugging her shoulders. She looked at her watch and realised that she’d been out for far longer than she ought to have been. What on earth was she doing, day-dreaming about something that could never be?

The past was gone. Buried. Over.

It was the future that mattered and right now, she had an ex-lover to send on his way, a guest that needed a secure environment and a funeral to arrange. Not forgetting a new business to get open and operational.

‘Come on, Bunty,’ Jo called out and the dog ambled alongside.

Together, silhouetted against a sun slowly setting into the ocean, Jo and Bunty began to jog back to her car, as the orange and gold sky stretched far and wide over a land that she now called home.

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