The polite thing, and what would make Mia happy, would be to say yes. But being a parent meant setting boundaries and sticking to them. In this case he needed to provide a boundary between Mia and Josie. For Mia’s heart’s own good.
‘I think not, Mia. Sorry, sweetie, but I’m sure Josie’s busy doing other things.’
‘But I want her to.’ Mia’s bottom lip pushed out as she tipped her head to look up at Josie. ‘Make him say yes, Josie, pleeease?’
‘Sorry, lovely, no can do.’ Josie took Mia’s hand and ran her thumb over the soft, still-dimpled, skin. ‘You have to do what your daddy says. He knows best.’
Callan didn’t miss the flatness to her tone, but neither did he miss the lightening of her eyes, the forward slump of shoulder that, if he didn’t know better, he’d swear was relief.
That made two of them.
Gone was the Callan who’d let Abigail soften the stiff upper lip that his emotionless family had instilled in him. Who’d allowed himself to embrace a new community, to become part of it.
Allowing others in, letting them close, no longer seemed like a good idea. It no longer felt safe.
It was better to keep people at arm’s length. To keep things professional, detached. Because the moment you cared was the second you opened yourself up to the possibility of pain.
And he had no plans to go through the kind of agony Abigail’s death had brought – even a tenth of it – ever again.
Chapter 4
Bye, bed with the back-poking spring.
Bye, curtains that don’t quite close.
Josie shut the door to the room she’d rented at the pub and began wheeling her suitcase down the hall, its wheels hitting the old wooden flooring’s grooves in a rhythmic thump-thump.
Bye, shower that I have to share with Mr Leaves His Hair in the Bathroom Plughole.
She lifted the case and started down the stairs that led to the bar, her stomach squirming with anticipation. The cottage, with its cushion-covered overstuffed sofa and large fireplace, had looked cute and cosy in the photos she’d seen online. She just hoped there was a stock of firewood, as she could feel the cold seeping in from outside, chilling her bones.
‘Josie! Get that little bum of yours over here!’ The publican’s voice boomed, causing those nursing beers and sipping on warming red wine to turn their heads in her direction.
So much for making a quiet, unassuming exit.
‘Brendon, hi.’ She found a smile and rolled her case in his direction. ‘Good to see you’ve shunned society’s illusion of politeness.’
Brendon lightly snorted as he shook his head. ‘No time for that palaver. Besides, I was stating the truth, and it wasn’t like I was passing judgement on your body. I saw you scuttling out of here and I was worried you were going to leave us without saying a proper goodbye.’ Grey eyebrows lifted high on a corrugated forehead. ‘Would you like a wine before you go?’
Josie waved her hand, declining the wine glass Brendon held up. ‘I’m only moving up the road, and it’s not like I won’t be back again. Besides, I’ve seen your pours. I’ll end up staggering home. Or having someone push me along, with my passed-out form on top of the suitcase.’
Brendon set the bottle down. ‘Well, you won’t be a stranger, will you?’
Josie shook her head. ‘Of course not. I promise.’
‘That’s what I like to hear. When you do come by, bring that boss of yours with you, and your landlady, too. I’ve not seen either of them in here for far too long. Tell Margo she’s missed and tell Callan that Old Smithy is getting a bit big for his boots. Thinks he’s the champion of the darts world. Needs taking down a peg or two, he does.’ Brendon clucked his tongue, then took a sip of his ever-present pint. A smattering of froth decorated his moustache, which he wiped away with the back of his hand.
‘I heard Callan was good at darts, though I don’t know if I’ll be able to get him down. Besides, it’d be weird if I asked, wouldn’t it? Being his employee and all.’
Brendon’s thick lips curved up in a smile. ‘Not weird. Not even a bit. When you live in a village as small as this you end up being more to people than you ever intend. Friends. Enemies. Lovers …’ Brendon lifted his brows suggestively.
Heat hit Josie’s cheeks. The idea of her and Callan being anything more than colleagues was … ‘Brendon, that is so wrong. He’s just lost his wife not that long ago. And more importantly, I’m not interested.’ She tightened her grip on the suitcase’s handle and glanced towards the window. The sun was dropping towards the horizon, the shadows growing longer, the clouds thicker, heavier.
‘Whatever you say, my dear. Time will tell. Speaking of time. Rain’s on the way. My gammy hip’s telling me so. Best you go before it buckets down. Here …’ Brendon passed an unopened bottle of merlot to Josie. ‘A village-warming gift. Welcome to Sunnycombe.’
‘Oh, no, you don’t have to …’ Josie went to wave the kindness away.
The bottle was pressed into her open hand. ‘I do have to. It’s tradition. How I welcome all new residents.’
Josie accepted the bottle with a nod, tucked it into the crook of her arm and tried to ignore the guilt that sat heavy in her heart. Everyone believed she was here for the long term, trusted her to be there for them. Callan’s shop needed her. Margo no doubt relied on the rental money. Even Brendon believed she had a place here, one that would see their old darts champion return.
Two days she’d been there, and somehow Sunnycombe had pulled her in, embraced her, made her one of their own.
And part of her – the abandoned child who had hoped for her mother’s return, who dreamed of a day when the closeness she’d once shared with her father would resume – wanted to embrace them back.
She shook the ridiculous thought off. She didn’t want to embrace anyone or to be part of anything greater than herself. She was just tired and in need of a good non-poking-spring-in-back night’s sleep. ‘Right, well, thank you for having me. I’ll probably see you later in the week.’
‘Don’t forget to bring Callan. Or Margo. Both would be good.’ Brendon gave her an encouraging nod. ‘And don’t take no for an answer.’
Josie nodded and managed to lift her lips in the smallest of smiles. It was the least she could do considering how kind Brendon had been since the moment she’d set foot in The Squeaky Wheel.
The light in the pub dimmed as the clouds lowered. Grey, menacing, and threatening to see her a sopping mess if she didn’t get home quick.
Home.
She stepped outside and shivered. Not so much because she was leaving the roaring fire and warm atmosphere behind, but because the idea of ‘home’ left her cold. Frozen to the bone.
Residence. There was a word she could get on board with. A place where she would reside until it was time to move on.
An icy gust of wind whistled past her. She stepped up her pace, tucked her chin down and buried the lower part of her face into her sunshine-yellow scarf. Why hadn’t she put her pompom hat on before leaving? Why had she tucked it in the bottom of her suitcase? At this rate her ears would fall off before she arrived at the cottage. Although the bonus of that would be not hearing Brendon’s nutty insinuations that she and Callan ought to become an item.
Nutty? More like completely insane.
Her eyes darted to the left and right as she walked. The fronts of the honey-coloured buildings that flanked either side of the street were in darkness, though the flats above glowed as lamps and lights were switched on. Beyond the buildings, she could make out the hillsides that stood sentry on either side of the village, their tops shrouded in cloud.
She followed the road around, leaving the shops behind, and breathed a sigh of relief as she spied Margo’s cottage with its thatched roof and twin chimneys poking out almost jauntily from either end, up ahead.
A quiver of anticipation stirred within as she pushed open the front gate, went to the front door and fished about in her pocket for the keys Margo had dropped in whe
n picking up the fruitcake. The lock turned with ease and she crossed the threshold.
Josie set her suitcase to the side of the door and sent a silent ‘thank you’ to Margo as she spotted the fire cracking softly in the hearth. Judging by the ashes it had been going for some time, which meant Margo had made an effort to keep the fire burning.
A tendril of sadness curled around Josie’s heart as she moved to the fire, dropped into a squat and reached her hands towards the fire. Her fingers tingled as warmth melted away the numbness.
What must it feel like to have been brought up by someone who was so caring? So thoughtful? Who put others’ needs ahead of their own? Who didn’t ignore you, forget you were there or leave you altogether?
She shoved the pity away. It was pointless to dwell on such things.
She couldn’t change her parentage. Couldn’t go back in time and change her mother’s mind or her father’s reaction. His grief had turned, briefly, to anger. Harsh and sharp. His anger quickly morphing into never-ending mourning, sprinkled with a melancholic hope that his wife would return. Meanwhile, Josie’s hope, along with any dreams of happily ever after, had skulked off as the days, then weeks, months, then years had passed without so much as a call, email or postcard.
Josie stood as three knocks filled the air. She made her way to the door, stopping when it opened and a bright red beret-style woollen hat poked its head through, followed by a soft ‘yoo-hoo’.
‘Margo. Come in. It’s horrid out there.’ She ushered her in and shut the door against the frigid air. ‘It was so kind of you to start the fire. It was nice to come ho—’ Josie stopped herself, remembering the vow she’d made to never think of anywhere as home. To never let herself settle. ‘It was nice to arrive to find the place not freezing. It was such a lovely welcome.’
Margo threaded her arm through Josie’s without asking permission and walked her towards the door that led to the kitchen. ‘Wasn’t me, my dear. It was Callan’s idea.’
‘Callan’s?’ Josie forced herself not to lean into Margo. To let her nurturing nature infuse her soul. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because he’s got a good heart on him. A bit battered these days, but it’s still in there.’ Margo released her and turned her attention to the kitchen bench. ‘Tea?’
‘Please. Or there’s wine if you’d like?’ Josie took a seat at the kitchen table and straightened her tired legs into a deep stretch.
‘From Brendon?’ Margo’s cheeks pinked up as she pulled two mugs down from the cupboard to the right of the sink, then placed tea bags that were kept in a duck-egg-blue tin jar next to the kettle along with identical jars labelled ‘coffee’ and ‘sugar’. ‘He’s a good man. It’s a nice tradition.’
Good man? Josie suspected Margo thought Brendon was a little more than good, if the heightened colour in her cheeks and the way her gaze was focused on the mugs and refusing to meet Josie’s, was anything to go by.
‘He is nice. Asked me to bring you along to the pub next time I go.’
‘Did he now? I suppose it’s been a while since I popped in.’ Margo’s gaze didn’t waver as she poured steaming water into the mugs. ‘And save the wine for a special occasion. Like inviting Callan over as a thank-you for lighting the fire.’
Josie bit back a grin. She knew a diversion tactic when she saw one.
‘Good idea, Margo. I’ll keep it in mind. Maybe I should invite you and Brendon around at the same time?’
‘Oh, I’m sure he’s too busy.’ Margo placed the mug in front of her. ‘Sugar?’
‘No, thank you.’ Josie decided to drop the subject. It wasn’t her place to get involved. She pushed out the chair opposite and Margo sank into it with a contented sigh.
‘I do love this place. I’d forgotten how warm and cosy it gets on a wintry night. My husband and I spent hours snuggled up on that sofa talking about our hopes and dreams. It got a bit cramped once the kids joined us, but I wouldn’t trade in those moments for all the cricks in the neck in the world.’ She wrapped her fingers around the mug and lifted it to her lips.
Fingers that still wore her wedding rings, Josie noted.
‘You still miss him?’
‘I do. Every day. I don’t know that I ever won’t. He was a great, towering, bear of a man with the sweetest, softest heart. Even after the cancer that saw him leave us took hold, his spark never left him, his humour, his smile. It was all there to the end.’
Margo’s eyes had misted over. Putting aside her promise to keep her distance from others, Josie slid off her chair, made her way round to Margo and wrapped her in a hug. Their hearts pressed together in a moment of solidarity.
Two people who had experienced loss, who knew no words could change the past or the way it had transformed them.
Margo released her with a shuddering laugh. ‘Look at me welling up after all these years. You must think me a silly old duck.’
Josie slipped back into her chair. ‘Not silly. Not old either. Most certainly not a duck. It’s not easy being left behind.’ She sank her teeth into her cheek and silently reprimanded herself for saying too much. ‘At least I imagine it’s not easy being left behind.’ She managed a half-smile and hoped Margo wouldn’t ask questions. Wouldn’t push.
She glanced up from her tea to see a speculative look in Margo’s eyes. Not suspicious. Not enquiring. Almost worried. Definitely kind.
‘It wasn’t easy at the start.’ Margo pushed the chair back, stood, then picked up her mug and walked to the bench. ‘The furthest thing from easy, to be honest. Me and the kids, alone, without the humour John brought. The easygoingness that was so needed on the days when the kids were driving me up the wall with their teenage monosyllabic grunts and almost daily dramas.’ She tipped the remaining tea down the sink, then turned around and leaned against the bench, her arms folded over her chest. ‘But we muddled along. Found a new rhythm. Developed more patience, more understanding for and of each other. The sadness never left. But it abated. Now it feels more like a sense of peace in here.’ She tapped her heart. ‘I was lucky to be part of his life while I was. I think he felt he same way about me.’
And yet Margo wouldn’t allow herself to entertain her affection for another. Did peace not bring closure? Was Margo happy alone? Or was she not willing to risk that kind of pain a second time round with someone else? If it were the latter, Josie understood all too well.
Relationships, connections, were dangerous things. Why stand in the storm and risk being struck by lightning, when you could take cover and be out of harm’s way?
‘I’m sure John felt the same about you, Margo. Anyone would. I’ve known you all of five minutes and I already know I like you.’
So much for not getting close to anyone – but even Josie couldn’t deny that Margo made her feel cared for. Something she’d not felt in a long time, and it was hard to resist.
Hard? More like impossible.
‘Thank you, my dear.’ Margo blew her a kiss then walked into the lounge and looked around. ‘You know what this place needs?’
Josie came to stand beside her and tried to see what Margo was seeing. ‘No idea. It’s perfect as far as I’m concerned.’
‘It needs a Christmas tree. One with all the trimmings. Decorations. Lights. Presents underneath.’
Josie was glad Margo was standing beside her so she couldn’t see her cringe.
‘What? You hate the idea?’
A wave of embarrassment dashed over Josie’s face. Hot, tight and uncomfortable. ‘You could tell?’
‘I’ve two kids, remember? I don’t need to hear your feelings, I can sense them.’ Margo smiled kindly. ‘So what’s so wrong with a Christmas tree?’
Josie shrugged in an attempt to look casual. ‘I’m just not a Christmas person. I prefer every other day of the year, if I’m honest.’
Margo’s speculative look was back. ‘Fair enough. Although, I hate to tell you this, but you’ve moved to the Cotswolds’ most Christmassy village. Possibly England’s mo
st Christmassy village.’
‘Fairy lights? Decorations? I’ve seen similar.’ Josie moved to the fireplace and threw another log on, not wanting the fire Callan had so carefully set and tended to burn out. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’
She turned to face Margo as tinkling laughter filled the room, as bright as the fire was hot. ‘Oh, sweets, this is just the beginning. There’s an event on every week leading up to the big day. We do Christmas a little differently from other places, you’ll see.’
Margo didn’t elaborate as she laughed her way to the front door.
‘Sleep well, Josie. And welcome. I think Sunnycombe is going to enjoy having you here.’
With a wave Margo was gone, the room gloomier without her presence. Like it missed her.
Josie shook her head. She was being silly. A house could no more miss a person than a mother could miss the daughter she abandoned.
She went to her suitcase, unzipped it, and pulled out the one part of her childhood she couldn’t bear to part with, despite knowing better.
A flaxen-haired angel doll. Its arms stretched out in a welcoming manner, and once-glittery wings spread wide. The last Christmas gift she’d ever received from her mother.
She’d tossed the card it came with in a flash of anger years ago, but she’d never forgotten the words that accompanied the gift: To watch over you.
And so the angel had, while snuggled in her arms through tears, through rages, through emotional paralysis. The last remnant of a happy, contented childhood.
Josie stroked the angel’s now matted hair, sat it on the table next to the front door then made her way to the sofa. She slipped down its arm and let the buttery tan leather envelop her as she pulled down the pink faux-fur throw folded over the sofa’s back and tucked it over her legs.
So Sunnycombe was Christmas crazy?
She closed her eyes and shook her head. Only she could find herself living in a place that stood for everything she disliked, everything she didn’t want to think about, didn’t want to remember.
It was like the universe was plotting, forcing her to face that which she ran from.
The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams Page 4
