Snowflakes Over Moondance Cottage

by Rosie Green

  SNOWFLAKES OVER MOONDANCE COTTAGE

  A glorious festive treat of a read, full of family drama and sparking romance

  ROSIE GREEN

  Published by Rosie Green

  Copyright © Rosie Green 2019

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons (living or dead), locales or events is purely coincidental.

  Edited by: Cara Armstrong

  Cover design by: Berni Stevens

  To my dad

  SNOWFLAKES OVER MOONDANCE COTTAGE

  Also by Rosie Green

  SPRING AT THE LITTLE DUCK POND CAFÉ

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  SUMMER AT THE LITTLE DUCK POND CAFÉ

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  CHRISTMAS AT THE LITTLE DUCK POND CAFÉ

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  SNOWED IN AT THE LITTLE DUCK POND CAFÉ

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  A BAKERY AT THE LITTLE DUCK POND CAFÉ

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  CONFETTI AT THE LITTLE DUCK POND CAFÉ

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  The first four Little Duck Pond Café novellas are also available as

  A YEAR AT THE LITTLE DUCK POND CAFÉ

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  Coming soon

  A WINTER WEDDING AT THE LITTLE DUCK POND CAFÉ

  LEMON DRIZZLE MONDAYS (LITTLE DUCK POND CAFÉ)

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘I want to see the manager! This place is a complete and utter disgrace!’

  The voice demanding attention stops my conversation in its tracks.

  I glance over at the reception desk and see a tallish woman in elegant heels and a cream coat, belted at her neat waist. She’s wearing one of those chic Russian fur hats that I always think look outrageously expensive but will make your head sweat like a gorilla in a sauna.

  I’m sitting in one of the stylish high-backed leather chairs in a cosy nook of The Bookbinder Inn, a coffee on the low table in front of me. My business meeting with Andrea, the woman in charge of marketing here in the hotel, had been going so well. For a self-employed writer like me, a job like this – writing the boutique hotel’s new marketing material - is akin to gold dust. It helps that I know The Bookbinder Inn well, having lived here - in the little West Sussex village of Lower Luckworth - all my life.

  But the remonstrations of the woman at reception are so distracting, I’m in danger of losing my train of thought. The fact she’s even here is more alarming still. Sweat breaks out, prickling my underarms.

  I force my attention back to Andrea. ‘That sounds great. So we’re going to focus on your award-winning chef and your superb value-for-money weekend breaks, and - ’

  I’m interrupted by a fist banged on the counter. ‘You know what?’ slurs the painfully familiar voice. ‘You and your arsing hotel can take your one Michelin Star and shove it right up your over-priced jacksies. What a bunch of bloody idiots! Tu as le Q.I. d’une huitre! As we say in Paris.’

  I shrink lower in my seat and Andrea peers anxiously round the chair back. ‘Oh, dear. I wonder if Chloe needs some help with that guest.’

  Chloe, the receptionist, is listening and looking concerned, the epitome of calm politeness in the face of this vigorous ear-bashing she’s receiving.

  The guest is now slumped over the counter, as though she might slide off altogether if you gave her just a little push with one finger. I exchange a worried look with Andrea. ‘I think she’s drunk,’ I whisper, noting how the fake fur hat has slipped. It looks a bit like a fluffy Pomeranian dog is about to ski off her head.

  Andrea nods, rising to her feet. ‘I’ll get the manager myself. So sorry about this, Jess. I won’t be a moment.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I mutter, my blush deepening.

  I know it’s illogical, but I feel personally responsible for the interruption. Digging out my phone, I Google the French insult. (Words and their meaning have always fascinated me, whatever the language.)

  I blanche at the translation. Apparently, Chloe has the I.Q. of an oyster. It could have been worse, I suppose . . .

  The manager appears. He’s youngish with dark hair and glasses, and seems to have the perfect manner to handle an incident like this: deferential but firm.

  Andrea comes over and fills me in. The woman had apparently booked a room but forgotten to confirm the reservation. Now, the only rooms available are twice the price, and the poor manager is getting the brunt of her frustration.

  ‘You’re in charge of this place? But you’re only eleven, for God’s sake.’ She shakes her head. ‘Bloody hell, I feel old. I’m sure there’s a conspiracy to make me feel ancient.’ She attempts to prop up her head with her hand, but her elbow slips off the counter and she staggers slightly to one side, her cream handbag with the gold chain sliding off her shoulder onto the floor.

  Obviously keen to prevent a scene, the manager takes a step closer and murmurs something that seems to cheer her up. He glances around and with apparently just a raise of his eyebrow, summons a porter from thin air.

  The small posse heads for the lift, the manager standing back to allow the problem guest to go first.

  ‘She’s left her handbag,’ I murmur to Andrea. With an apologetic smile, I hurry over to pick it up and follow them to where they’re waiting for the lift.

  ‘So how old do you think I am?’ the woman is asking, sounding drunkenly coquettish now she’s getting what she wanted. The manager smiles and shakes his head, clearly having no desire to put his foot in it.

  ‘No, go on. Don’t be shy . . .’ She peers blearily at his name badge. ‘Thomas Hill, Manager. Go on, Thomas Hill, Manager. Guess my age.’

  The porter is remaining steadfastly poker-faced, staring ahead at the flashing floor numbers beside the lift.

  ‘I’d say you’re as old as you feel, Madam,’ remarks Thomas Hill, Manager, with the smoothness of Mr Whippy ice-cream.

  The woman snorts. ‘You sound just like my sister. She always says age is mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.’

&
nbsp; I freeze, a couple of steps behind them.

  ‘And what an utter load of bollocks that is! Of course it matters.’ She sighs despondently. ‘Do you like my engagement ring? I keep thinking it looks fake, the diamond is so huge.’

  ‘It’s very nice, Madam. Many congratulations on your engagement. When is the wedding?’

  I step forward, clearing my throat. ‘Actually, that’s just what I’d like to know.’

  She turns and peers blearily at me, as if she hasn’t a clue who I am. Then the penny drops. ‘Jess? What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Shouldn’t that be my line, Isla?’ I hand my sister her bag with a bland smile. ‘Why didn’t you let us know you were coming? Don’t they have mobile phone networks in Paris, then?’

  She looks away grumpily and mumbles something about needing a lie down.

  The lift pings and the doors open.

  Before she’s swept away by the manager, I grab her arm. ‘Look, I’m in a meeting at the moment. Tell me your room number and I’ll come up afterwards.’

  She sighs as if that’s a request way beyond her capabilities. Which, judging by her glazed expression, it probably is.

  The manager hands her the key and I glance at it.

  The Clerkenwell Suite.

  A suite?

  I smile wryly to myself. My sister always seems to land on her feet.

  Her patisserie business is doing so well, she and Jamie are apparently planning to open a second shop across the River Seine in the city’s Latin Quarter. (I know this from social media. I keep abreast of what she’s up to by checking her Facebook page from time to time, then I report back to Mum.)

  Judging by the gleaming, expensive cars they both drive over there, Isla could easily afford to pay for the suite herself. But she’s obviously managed to wangle the substantial upgrade at a reduced price.

  ‘I’ll see you soon,’ I tell her, and rush back to my meeting with Andrea.

  Afterwards, business concluded, I decide I could do with a breath of air before I face my sister. Gathering up my things, I shrug into my coat, ready to go out into the breezy October day. I catch my reflection in a mirror on the wall behind me and feel the usual jolt of surprise. I dress casually in jeans and T-shirts most of the time as I work from home and it always seems odd seeing myself dressed for a meeting in smart grey suit, white blouse and heels, with my normally loose brown hair caught back in a neat ponytail.

  My mind is whirling like a big wheel at the fair, thanks to Isla turning up without warning, and I’ve got an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s not like her to get drunk. Certainly not in the afternoon.

  Isla lives for her work and her fitness these days. (According to her posts on Facebook.) She takes selfies all the time, looking slim and perfectly groomed in running gear, setting off on her early morning jog around the streets of Paris (I like her pink lycra two-piece with the cute cropped top best). Blonde hair in a cute ponytail, she’ll smile and glug down bottled water as she takes the pic, and add some cute comment underneath. Fourteen-hour work day ahead? No problem!

  I feel exhausted just looking at her posts sometimes.

  The last time Mum and I saw Isla was last Christmas when she came back for a flying visit. She spent most of the thirty-six hours on her mobile phone, talking business, and we’ve had two phone conversations since then. Both times I called her and both times our conversations were cut short because she had a sudden emergency to deal with. Each time, she promised to call back after she’d handled the problem, and each time, she ‘forgot’.

  Why is she here now?

  I can’t imagine it’s because she’s missed us and fancied a heart-warming autumn reunion.

  I make for the revolving door leading onto the high street, recalling the time I got stuck in one when I was about eight. I froze, too scared to move, so I just kept going round and round in it until Dad rescued me. I’ve had a thing about revolving doors ever since.

  Someone has just gone out, so it’s still going round.

  I psyche myself up and go for it.

  The trouble is, I’m so focused on judging my leap-in correctly, I fail to notice the figure moving swiftly from my left, a little ahead of me. He steps in and, unable to halt my momentum, I stumble in after him.

  ‘Oops. Sorry.’ I stare up at my revolving door companion. It’s a tight squeeze in here, to say the least, and he’s a big man. Very tall and broad. His chest in the fitted denim shirt is inches from my nose and embarrassingly, we appear to be temporarily wedged, the door refusing to revolve at all.

  ‘This is cosy,’ he comments, his voice a deep rumble.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I’m staring at his lightly tanned neck which is at eye-level and breathing in his rather delicious man-scent. I laugh nervously. ‘I usually like to have dinner and a trip to the cinema first, before I get this up close and . . . um . . .’ Glancing up, I’m stunned by the startling blue of his eyes and I lose my train of thought completely.

  ‘Personal. Yes.’ He fills in the blank, with not even a hint of a smile at my stupid joke. He reaches over my head and then somehow, we’re moving, shuffling round together until the door spits us out onto Lower Luckworth High Street.

  We exchange a look of bemusement and then he’s gone, leaping behind the wheel of a white van parked outside the hotel.

  I watch him drive away, heat flooding my face.

  I usually like to have dinner and a trip to the cinema first?

  God, how embarrassing. I wish it was possible to un-say things. The person who invents that app will be a billionaire.

  Thinking of his stern, unsmiling face, the words ‘ruggedly handsome’ pop into my head. Those dark shadows under his eyes made him look as though he hadn’t slept properly in weeks, though.

  My heart is gambolling about like an untrained puppy told to sit. Probably the result of getting stuck in that damn revolving door. I feel all shook up, to quote Elvis.

  A few deep breaths then I’ll go back in to face Isla.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Up in Isla’s suite, I sit on the edge of the vast and stylish super-king bed in the Clerkenwell Suite, my head still whirling from the news that my sister is engaged.

  That is one substantial rock on her finger! It can probably be seen from space, second only in dazzling brightness to the Las Vegas Strip.

  I take a worried look at the bathroom door. She’s been in there for so long, I’m starting to wonder if she’s fallen asleep. Getting up, I go to the window and stare out over the bustling main street. It’s the perfect autumn scene – leaves of red and gold rustling along the pavement - but soon ‘the most wonderful time of the year’ will be upon us.

  I shudder. Christmas. A time of year I’ve come to dread . . .

  A crash from the en-suite makes me jump. ‘Isla? Are you all right?’ I cross the room and listen anxiously at the door.

  ‘Fell off the stupid loo.’

  ‘Did you fall asleep?’

  ‘No!’ comes the indignant reply. Then a second later: ‘I was just resting my eyes.’

  My mouth curves into a smile. As sisters, we might be chalk and cheese, and rub each other up the wrong way sometimes – we’ve had some good old slanging matches down the years, especially in our teens - but Isla can always make me laugh. And I admire her determination and drive to succeed, no matter what the odds. She didn’t do well at school and became a bit of a class rebel. It was only when she was twelve that dyslexia was diagnosed, and now, she’s like a dog with a bone when she sets her mind to something. It’s as if she’s determined to prove that being dyslexic is not going to hold her back.

  When Isla first left home two years ago to live in Paris with Jamie, I was distraught, and so was Mum. After everything that had happened – the tragedy that even now dominates our lives like a horror movie that never ends - I needed Isla near, and I know Mum did, too. For a few months, we’d all drawn closer, pulled together by our grief, but now Isla was breaking away from our little un
it. Moving on . . .

  Having discovered a talent for baking, she put her college studies to good use and opened a high-end bakery that specialised in up-market versions of British cake and pudding classics. The photos on her Facebook page show a tiny but perfectly-formed shop, with a cute pink and white striped awning, just a short walk from the Tuileries Garden.

  I felt proud of my sister as I observed her progress from afar.

  She’s built the business up from nothing with Jamie. He had the cash to invest in the venture, but I suspect it was mainly Isla working her socks off that turned it into the success it’s become.

  At first, after she left Lower Luckworth, Mum and I would make plans to visit her in Paris. But Isla’s work always seemed to get in the way and we’d end up having to postpone the trip. Now, we’ve stopped suggesting dates when we could visit. Instead, we’ve left it up to Isla to make room in her diary for us, although so far, that hasn’t happened. So, bizarre as it seems, in the whole two years they’ve been away, we still haven’t been over to visit her and Jamie, even though it’s just a hop across the Channel.

  I think of Mum, picturing her in the modern semi in Hazelcroft, where she’s lived with Martin for the past twelve years. How will she react to the news that Isla is engaged?

  My insides shift uneasily.

  It’s actually hard to gauge what Mum’s reactions will be these days.

  More and more, she seems lost in her own little world. I sometimes think the shock of what happened to Dad has affected Mum most of all – despite the fact they’d been separated for years.

  The en-suite door is flung open and Isla barrels out on a tide of alcohol. Making for the bed she flakes out on it with a groan.

  ‘Isla, don’t fall asleep on me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I give a frustrated sigh. ‘Because I want to know about the engagement. I would have thought you’d be gasping to tell me all about it.’

  She shrugs and mutters irritably, ‘We got engaged. Full stop. Now go away.’

  I study her, puzzled. In all of her twenty-six years on earth, Isla has never shied away from bragging about her life. Right from being small, she’s always had this urge to be one step ahead of me. The first to ride her bike, the first to get a swimming certificate, the first to snog a boy. I never really minded. She was two years older than me, so I figured she was bound to do things before I did.