Page 44 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
Vicky laughed, relieved that her mother had diverted the conversation herself. “Sensible isn’t the only criteria for a happy marriage, Mum.”
“Of course not — but it doesn’t hurt.”
They chatted for a while — Vicky was relieved that her mum didn’t mention Jeremy. She could just imagine her response when she told her she was breaking off her engagement — the word ‘sensible’ would definitely be in there somewhere.
At last, her mum had exhausted all the local gossip. “Well, I’d better be going — I’ve got the tea on.”
Vicky smiled to herself, imagining the quiet house in north London, with its bright white net curtains and comfortable three-piece suite, the kitchen where her mother enjoyed her baking, the smart wooden front door.
“Bye then, Mum — I’ll speak to you again later in the week.”
“Goodbye, dear. Look after yourself.”
“And you.”
Vicky closed the call and put the phone down. She hadn’t mentioned Molly’s mysterious poet to her mother. Thinking about it, it seemed unlikely that Molly had ever told her mother about him — they hadn’t had that sort of relationship.
She hadn’t told Jayde, either — and certainly not Jeremy. She had kept the poem in the book, tucked in her suitcase among her own things.
The late afternoon sun was slanting in through the French windows, soft golden rays warming the room. A light breeze was ruffling the leaves of the apple tree, and somewhere a robin was singing.
The roses she had put in the fireplace were fully open now, their fragrance sweet and heady. Strange how a scent could take you back in time, stir up memories so vividly that closing her eyes she could almost be a child again, tired and happy after a long day at the beach.
A child again, sprawling out on the sofa with her head on her mother’s lap, her feet on her dad’s. Aunt Molly in the recliner, her dad chuckling at some comedy on the television.
But those days of innocent contentment were long gone. And the problem with having the cottage to herself was that there was nothing to distract her thoughts. There was nothing on the television that she wanted to watch, and she didn’t feel like reading.
Tom... She didn’t want to think about him. About that smile, that rich, deep voice, the smattering of dark, curling hair across his wide chest. But he was stuck in her head and she didn’t know how to get him out.
In his cricket whites, grass stains on one hip, reaching for that catch, lithe as a panther. That low, husky laugh, those dark eyes...
If she was honest, a small part of her had been hoping to find that he was separated from his wife, even divorced. Butthat hope had been thoroughly extinguished by the sight of them together after the match, with their little boy.
With an impatient sigh she shook her head, rose to her feet, and went into the kitchen to sit down at the table with her laptop. Maybe it was time to take advantage of this quiet time to get on with the book she had been planning to write.
At least it would give her something else to think about.
* * *
It really wasn’t working. Reading over the chapters she’d managed to write so far, she had to admit that it was falling flat. The characters weren’t coming to life, the backstory about battles and political intrigue was dragging it down.
Resting her chin in her cupped hand she stared at the screen, her mind blank. Elizabeth and Edward — their secret wedding, at her family home, with only her mother and two other ladies present. It should be a really romantic scene — easy to write. You’d have thought.
But even a short break to cook herself some supper didn’t help. By ten o’clock she was ready to give up. Saving her work — though it hardly seemed worth it — she closed down the laptop, washed up her supper things and climbed the stairs to the bedroom.
But she wasn’t ready to sleep yet. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she surveyed the room. She had finished sorting Molly’s things — there were two large bin bags to go to the dump, and a couple of suitcases she had found in the attic packed with the better items to go to the charity shop.
The only thing left was a couple of hatboxes on the top shelf of the wardrobe. She lifted the first box down and opened the lid.
Inside, carefully layered in tissue paper, was a hat. A cream straw hat with a wide bell-shaped brim and a scarlet ribbon around the crown. Very chic, very Audrey Hepburn.
“Oh, wow!”
She hurried over to the mirror to try it on. It was gorgeous. She turned her head from side to side to view it from different angles. She could just imagine Aunt Molly wearing it — maybe on afternoon walks in Paris between performances at the Moulin Rouge.
But unless Debbie and Bill got married it was unlikely that she’d get much opportunity to wear it herself, she acknowledged wryly. With a sigh she took it off and put it back in its box.
The second box was heavier and when she moved it, she heard things shifting inside. She carried it over to the bed, lifted the lid, and gasped in delight — inside was a treasure trove of photographs and magazine clippings.
