CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HARRIET
‘Mum. Dad. Wait!’ Ellie shouted, coming out of the house as Harriet was about to get into Frank’s car, waving her mobile in the air.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve just got a commission to do a feature on a new hotel opening in Bath. They want me there on Thursday for a day or two. Means I won’t get down to you in time for your friend’s exhibition opening.’
‘But you were going to write a piece about it,’ Harriet said, smothering her dismay. The thought ‘And I was going to tell to you about the legacy and … things’ ran through her mind. And what about the latest letter from Trevor Bagshawe, asking her and her daughter to make an appointment to see him ASAP now that the legal stuff was sorted and ready for signatures. That in part was what this ‘family holiday’ break she’d persuaded Ellie to come on was all about really. Of course she hadn’t told her the real reason behind it, but time was rapidly running out to tell Ellie the truth. And yet more lies had been added into the deceit of decades. Now it was all falling apart.
‘I know, sorry about that. The thing is, I don’t have a commission for that whereas this I do and I need the money. I’ll get there before it finishes though and still write a piece about the exhibition, like I promised and try to find a home for it,’ Ellie said. ‘I’m sure your friend will understand.’
Knowing there was nothing she could do, Harriet sighed. ‘Okay. We’ll see you when we see you.’ And she got in the car.
Frank glanced at her. ‘Best-laid plans and all that.’
‘Hmmm,’ Harriet said, before muttering a swear word under her breath.
‘You still want a lift to the station?’
‘Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I? Ellie thinks I’m coming with you on a business trip and then we’re going on down to Dartmouth together. She didn’t know I was going there on my own first to finish preparing things.’
‘Just thought you might like to stay and talk to Ellie here.’
Harriet shook her head vehemently. ‘Definitely not. I want to do it in situ, so to speak.’ Superstitiously she felt telling Ellie about the legacy and everything had to be done in Dartmouth. In Amy’s house. Everything would be all right if she talked to Ellie there. The spirit of Amy would soothe the hurt that Ellie was sure to feel over the deceit. Ridiculous? Maybe, but that’s how she felt and how she intended to do it. She simply had to be in Dartmouth, in the house itself, when she told Ellie everything.
Letting herself into the house later that day after the taxi ride from Totnes station, Harriet heaved a sigh. It felt good to be back. Living here for a year wasn’t going to be the hardship she’d feared, although there was still the little problem of Ellie’s reaction to everything. Trying to second-guess just how she would react was an utter waste of time. She could only pray that Ellie would realise that everything, everything they’d done in the past had been done out of love and the desire to protect her.
Making herself a cup of tea, she took it through to the sitting room and drank it standing in front of the large French doors, watching the activity on the river. A bank of large rhododendron bushes and a holly tree were blocking the view somewhat and she made a note to get Frank to trim them back over the weekend.
With the house cleaned and polished from top to bottom, apart from the locked studio, which she was deliberately ignoring as having too much of Amy’s personal stuff in there to cope with yet, the garden would be her project for summer. Maybe Ellie would like her thirtieth birthday party here? It was a superb setting with its river views and the twin castles visible at the mouth of the estuary. Amy had held some wonderful parties here in the past with the garden transformed into a fairy-tale place with garden lights and candles everywhere, soft music playing in the background.
Amy’s friends were an eclectic bunch and it had always amazed Harriet how they all fitted seamlessly into the party spirit. Anywhere else they would surely have been at loggerheads with each other. The last party she’d attended here had been different, of course. It was the evening her life, as she’d known it, had started to unravel.
Harriet remembered she was wearing a summer dress with bunches of cherries all over it the evening of the party. Definitely not high fashion, but a dress she’d always felt comfortable wearing. Oscar, in his trademark attire of jeans and a white shirt buckled at the waist with his wide leather belt, honey-coloured cashmere sweater slung over his shoulders, faded blue deck shoes on his feet, had looked what he was; a sexy, successful man.
A last-minute hitch with a babysitter for Ellie had meant she and Oscar had arrived half an hour after the party had begun. Amy had immediately swept them out into the garden, saying there was somebody whom ‘you must absolutely meet. I know you’ll be great friends’.
Sabine, glass of wine in her hand, and standing under the wisteria-covered pergola talking to an unknown woman, waved them over the moment she saw them. ‘Tatty, Oscar, meet Vanessa.’
Oscar, once the introductions had been made, said he needed a word with Dave and left the three women to chat. At the time she’d been surprised by how quickly he’d left the three of them. It wasn’t until later that Harriet realised just how hasty his retreat had been. How desperate he’d been to put distance between himself and Vanessa.
Listening to Sabine and Vanessa progress from small talk to genuine getting-to-know-each-other questions, Harriet sensed how much they liked each other with an instant rapport springing up between them. Usually she and Beeny were on the same wavelength as far as friends went, but strangely this time she didn’t feel a scrap of empathy with this self-contained women and her air of quiet competence. As friendly as she appeared to be. But Beeny liked her, so she tried.
‘How long have you been in town?’ she’d asked.
‘Me? A month. Tom came down on his own eight weeks ago. Bit of an emergency replacement for his predecessor who had to retire early due to illness. No idea how long we’ll be here. Might be a permanent position,’ Vanessa shrugged. ‘Might not. Secretly, I hope we stay. I love it here.’
‘Bit of a trouble-shooter is he, your husband?’ Beeny said. ‘Is he here tonight?’
‘Trouble-shooting is as good an expression as any for what he does 24/7,’ Vanessa said, laughing. ‘And no, he’s not here yet.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll introduce you when he gets here.’
But she never did introduce Harriet to her husband. An hour or so later, when music was floating over the garden from the CDs Amy had put on encouraging people to dance, Harriet went in search of Oscar, determined to get him to dance, something he always professed to hate. Finding him and Vanessa dancing intimately together in a dark corner of the garden tore her world apart.
By the time Tom Harford arrived, Harriet had invented an emergency call home from an anxious babysitter, made her apologies to Amy and left.
It was a month before she and Tom Harford came face to face. The day he came to talk to her about his wife and her husband’s affair. That was the day the dress with the cherries went in the bin. She couldn’t bear the thought of wearing it again. It would be forever associated with the evening at Amy’s in her mind.
Harriet shook herself. No point in going over old ground. Best to chalk it up to experience and forget it. Thirty years on, life was good, she and Sabine were best friends again, she was about to move back to Dartmouth and once the three of them had had the planned talk, it would be a good summer.
Up early the next morning, she walked around the garden working out a master plan for getting it back into shape. The shrubs would all benefit from a good pruning, as could the roses around the small summer house in the corner. The wisteria over the pergola appeared to have died. Good. The pergola could stay but she’d buy a different vine to clamber up and over it.
Two hours later, she was busy tackling an overgrown border and pulling forget-me-nots out by the bucketload when the large ship’s brass bell Amy had hung outside the front door years ago shatt
ered the silence.
‘Can’t hear a normal doorbell when I’m in the garden,’ Amy had said when the bell had first appeared. ‘Be hard to miss this though. Loud enough to wake the dead in St Petrox churchyard.’ Amy had grinned wickedly, no doubt anticipating the complaints that were sure to come from her more alive neighbours.
Down the years it certainly hadn’t lost any of its exuberant tone, Harriet thought as she made her way up the garden path.
A youngish man dressed in a suit and looking mildly embarrassed at the noise he’d created was standing on the drive looking around.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m looking for Miss James.’
Harriet shook her head. ‘Sorry. No-one here of that name.’
‘Are you sure? This is definitely the address I was given by the office.’
Harriet looked at him. ‘This is my house so, yes, I’m reasonably sure no-one of that name lives here. Your office must have given you the wrong information.’
Something stopped her as she went to return to the garden and she looked again at the young man who’d made no attempt to leave. Better check out his credentials at least. He didn’t look like he was casing the place, but then who knew what would be burglars looked like?
‘Who are you anyway?’
‘Nick Walters. Literary agent.’ He took a card out of his pocket and handed it to her.
Harriet glanced at it before asking, ‘This Miss James you’re looking for is an author then?’
Nick nodded. ‘One of our most popular ones. And this is definitely the address I was told.’
Harriet looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Well, there’s definitely no-one here of that name, but – would you like a cup of coffee?’
For some reason she had a niggling feeling she needed to talk to this man. ‘Maybe we can work out why you were given this address.
‘Thanks,’ Nick said and followed her into the house.
Once the coffee was on, Harriet said, ‘My daughter and I have recently inherited this house from an Amy Widdicombe who lived here for, oh, forty years I suppose. So I really don’t see where your Miss James comes in.’
‘This is the address all Cassandra James’s letters and contracts have been sent to since the agency has acted for her.’
‘Have you ever met her?’
‘Yes. She always attended our yearly author parties. Normally we—’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Harriet interrupted. ‘Did you say Cassandra James?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘There’s shelves full of books by that author in the study.’ Harriet took the study key off its hook before saying, ‘Follow me. This is the one room in the house I haven’t touched yet, but maybe I should have paid more attention to it.’
Nick looked at the shelf of Cassandra James books, the folders on the desk, the piles of books on the floor, before pointing to a photograph and saying, ‘Is that your Amy?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, I have to tell you, Amy Widdicombe and Cassandra James are one and the same woman.’ He moved across to the desk. ‘May I switch the computer on?’
‘Feel free,’ Harriet said. Amy a successful novelist? Well, she certainly hadn’t seen that one coming although maybe if she’d cleared the studio she would have discovered it for herself. At least the mystery of where all Amy’s money had come from was solved.
‘How many books had she written?’ Harriet asked.
‘Forty-five. Most of them were translated into various languages too.’ He clicked on an icon. ‘Look, here’s the folder with the forty-sixth unfinished one.’
‘So what happens now?’ Harriet said.
‘I’ll notify the office and then … then I honestly don’t know what happens. It’s the first time I’ve ever had an author die on me,’ Nick said.
‘Trevor Bagshawe, the solicitor here in town, has been dealing with Amy’s estate. If you contact him I’m sure he’ll know what has to happen next,’ Harriet said. ‘I wonder if he knew Amy’s secret?’
Perhaps that was what he intended to talk to Ellie about at her appointment when Harriet had told her the truth about the house and her inheritance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
JOHNNIE
Johnnie automatically went through the routine of getting the yacht safely out of harbour and setting the course for home. Despite his best efforts though, he couldn’t silence the thoughts swirling around his brain.
How the hell was he, a single man with no experience of children, going to deal with having a baby in his life? A baby that even as he hoisted Annie’s main sail, was letting her presence be known with a series of high-pitched cries.
He knew he was being chauvinistic – again – by simply leaving Rachel to deal with the child, but right now he couldn’t face it himself. He needed time to try to begin to come to terms with the events of the last twelve hours. No wonder Martha had been evasive in her letter and on the phone when she’d urged him to visit ASAP. Would he have gone had she told him there was a child involved?
Yes, of course he would. He wasn’t one of those men who shirked their responsibility. He would have readily paid Josette maintenance from day one if only she’d told him. Provided for the child to the best of his ability. He’d never have stood by and seen them struggling financially, but having complete responsibility thrust on him in this way was a shock and would take some accepting.
Jumping down into the cockpit, he realised the cries had stopped. A quick glance inside the saloon and he saw Rachel patiently spoon-feeding Carla from one of the jars Josette had provided.
‘Where do you want her to sleep tonight?’ Rachel asked, seeing him standing there.
‘Anywhere. Does it matter?’
‘Of course it matters. Has to be somewhere she can’t roll out of for a start.’ Rachel sighed. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort something for her.’
It was another hour before Rachel joined him on deck and handed him a glass of wine. ‘I’m sure you need this as much as I do.’
‘Thanks. It’s quiet down there.’
Rachel nodded. ‘She’s asleep. I made up a bed for her on the floor of the small cabin in the end with the cushions from the aft bunk. At least she can’t fall out and I’ve padded the sides with more cushions so even if she rolls over she shouldn’t hurt herself.’
‘Want to take the tiller over while I get some food?’ Johnnie asked.
‘Thought you’d never ask,’ Rachel said.
Before he started on the food, Johnnie went forward to take a look at Carla. The little girl was sleeping peacefully on her back, one arm across her chest with the pink rabbit she’d been holding the first time he’d set eyes on her clutched tightly to her and the thumb of her other hand firmly in her mouth.
Johnnie felt his heart contract as he looked at her. Poor little mite. None of this was her fault. Gently he knelt down and kissed her cheek.
‘Worry not, little one. I promise to look after you.’ Standing up, he was surprised to find his eyes suspiciously moist and he wiped them dry with the back of his hand before returning to the tiny galley.
Waiting for the water to boil before adding pasta and heating the Bolognese sauce, Johnnie thought about the future for him and Carla. Would it just be the two of them for the next few years with the occasional visit from Josette? He’d believed her when she’d told him she’d no intention of walking out Carla’s life totally, that she was trying to do the best thing for her. How would she react though if he met someone and they became Carla’s step-mum? Mentally he shook himself as he drained the pasta water down the sink. Realistically, what woman was going to look at him with the baggage he’d acquired in the last few hours?
Sitting together in the cockpit eating the steaming plates of spaghetti Bolognese, Rachel looked at him before saying, ‘Tell me to mind my own business if you like, but I’m a good listener if you want to talk about things.’
‘I’m sorry you’ve got caught up in all this,’ Johnnie said. �
��I’d never have suggested you crew for me if I’d known this was going to happen.’
Rachel shrugged. ‘I’m glad I’m here to help.’
There was silence for several minutes while they both concentrated on their food before Johnnie, feeling Rachel was owed an explanation said, ‘I fell apart when Annie died.’ He was quiet for several seconds remembering those days. The awful feeling of loss. Knowing that life would never be the same again. He drank his wine before he continued.
‘It was Sabine who saved me from myself. Dragged me, screaming, away from the abyss of turning into a sad and lonely foul-mouthed old man.’
‘How did she do that?’
‘Locked me in her house and threw away the key.’ Johnnie laughed. ‘No, she didn’t go quite that far but almost. She insisted I moved in with her, cancelled all my delivery work and generally gave me a hard time. Oh, she also had me convert her attic for free while she was at it. Keeping me busy and out of harm’s way, she called it.’
‘Sisterly love has no bounds,’ Rachel said.
‘I seriously owe her,’ Johnnie said. ‘Anyway, it took nearly two years before she decided it was safe enough for normal service to be resumed. I started off with some local deliveries – Dartmouth round to Plymouth, or up the coast to Lymington, across to the Channel Islands, stuff like that – and then we brought Annie over to Roscoff for Martha’s birthday. Josette, Carla’s mother, was at the party.’
He was silent for several seconds remembering the first time he’d met Josette. How she’d reminded him of a young Annie. How surprised he’d been by the first stirrings of fancying a woman for years.
‘We really hit it off that evening and she gave me her number to ring her the next time I was over.’ He picked up the wine bottle from the floor of the cockpit and poured them both more wine before continuing.
‘That first time she came for dinner on board and I walked her home at midnight. Annie’s ghost was still on board then.’ He smiled. ‘Josette’s apartment held no such memories for me.’
The Little Kiosk By The Sea Page 11
