Page 18 of Coming Home to Wishington Bay
Ned swung a glance at Carrie then back to me. ‘That’s rather the point.’
‘But …’
‘Who’s going to need you?’ Ned asked and I flinched. Automatically his hand went out and caught my wrist. ‘That came out wrong.’
I laughed it off. At least I tried to but I don’t think I convinced any of us. But acknowledging that was something else entirely.
‘Why don’t you try it?’ Carrie asked, taking my hand. ‘Let’s say for two weeks to start with?’
‘Two weeks?’ I squeaked. ‘Am I allowed to look at anything?’
‘Nope. You can get a paper in the village if you’re that bothered about general news but noFinancial Times!’
I gripped my phone a little tighter and felt my heart hammering. Was that normal? Should I really be having this bad a reaction to someone just asking me not to check my work? But what if there was a crisis? What if Gerald really needed my advice on something? What if one of my biggest clients suddenly—
‘Holly? Holly!’
The glass was cool against my damp palm as my thoughts stopped swimming, along with the room.
‘Take a sip.’ My brother’s concerned face came into focus. ‘I think this would be a good idea. Just for a couple of weeks. Give your mind and body a chance to relax a bit.’ There was nothing but caring in his tone now. Care and worry. With his first baby on the way, I felt terrible that I was adding to his plate. If trying what they asked would alleviate some of those worries, then it was the least I could do. It was only two weeks after all.
‘OK.’ I slid the phone across the table. ‘Two weeks.’
The look of relief on both of their faces told me I’d done the right thing, however many knots my stomach had tied itself into.
‘But I definitely need pudding now. I’ve had a terrible shock.’
Ned rolled his eyes but I saw some of the strain there had lessened. ‘There’s some sticky toffee kicking about in the kitchen. That do?’
‘Perfect.’
* * *
Hooking the wicker basket over my forearm, I pulled the door closed behind me and began walking up the lane that led from the house. The sun was beginning to burn through the early morning mist. I knew some of the shops were yet to open but Carrie had told me about a cute little café that I should try. As I was in need of supplies – and had gained some extra time this morning since I hadn’t looked at email, financial news or social media – I thought I’d take a stroll into town and try it out. I’d even brought a book with me. To be honest, that might have been pushing the whole relaxing thing as I couldn’t remember the last time I’d read something that wasn’t a financial report but seeing the worry on Ned and Carrie’s faces had spurred me into trying a little harder, for their sakes. After all, it was only for the summer.
As the lane flattened out, I looked around, taking in the beautiful houses that butted up against the main bulk of the village. Many of these were of the same era as Gigi’s with large gardens, all beautifully landscaped and cared for, some in formal linear beds full of box hedges, and sculpted topiaries and another – perhaps my favourite – a complete riot of colour with flowers and leaves, none of which I knew the names of, rammed into bustling cottage garden borders, clashing wildly and yet harmonising at the same time.
I stopped as the scent of roses wafted headily across my path. Turning, I saw the source. A huge, tumbling and climbing rose bush scrambling across a large archway, its soft white blooms emanating clouds of perfume to anyone who passed. Impulsively I took one flower gently in my hand, inhaled, and smiled to myself at the thought I’d be able to tell my brother that I’d literally stopped to smell the roses.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
I jumped. ‘Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean …’
An older, very elegant lady in a large, wide-brimmed straw hat strolled towards me across the garden, waving my protestations away, a broad smile on her face.
‘You must be Betty’s granddaughter.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
I nodded.
‘I thought so. She always loved that rose too. Never failed to stop and give it a sniff when it was in bloom.’
I felt a little shift inside of me as I thought of my beloved grandmother and the fact that I’d just unknowingly repeated an action she must have done hundreds of times, looking at the size of the rose bush.
‘I’m Eleanor,’ the woman said, holding out her hand.
‘Holly. It’s nice to meet you. You have a very beautiful garden.’
‘Thank you. We like it.’
