The Book Lovers

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘Oh, no!’ she said. ‘I couldn’t go back.’

  ‘And what do Mr and Mrs Logan think of your new home in Suffolk?’

  ‘They’ve not seen it yet,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose they will.’

  Leo frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Callie shrugged. ‘They’re not really interested, you know?’

  ‘No,’ Leo said, ‘I don’t.’

  Callie gave a sad little smile. ‘They’ve got their own lives and I’ve got mine. We really don’t see a lot of each other.’

  ‘You’re not close?’

  ‘Never were,’ Callie said. ‘I think I was a surprise baby. I don’t think they really planned to have children at all and, when I came along, they didn’t know what to do with me.’

  Leo looked at her, a dumbfounded expression on his face. ‘That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘Don’t let it make you sad!’ Callie cried. ‘It’s not – really. It’s just the way it is. I’ve never known any different and it’s made me wonderfully independent which is just what I needed when my marriage was falling apart.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said, ‘about your marriage too.’

  She nodded. ‘At least I was able to make the right decision in leaving, knowing that I’m perfectly all right on my own and that I don’t actually need to rely on anyone else like my parents.’

  ‘But that’s a crazy way to live,’ Leo said. ‘I can’t imagine not being close to my parents. When Dad was alive, I felt like he was just as much of a good mate as a father.’

  Callie gazed into the flames of the fire, watching them dancing and spiralling ever higher.

  ‘You’ve been lucky to have that,’ she said. ‘You know, I didn’t realise anything was unusual for ages. We moved house a lot when I was young and it was difficult to make friends and it wasn’t until I went to university and saw my friends there ringing their parents or going back home at the weekends that I started to realise that my own set up was a bit odd. Then there’s all the messages on social media sites – you know the ones that say something like “Repost this if your parents are your best friends”. And I look at all the messages underneath and the photos friends would post of themselves with their parents, and I know there might actually be something wrong with the way mine behave. But what can you do? You can’t choose your family, can you? And they care about me in their own way.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Leo asked.

  Callie laughed. ‘No, not really. Mum’s already said she’s not traipsing all the way to Suffolk to see me. It’s too far, really.’

  Leo looked baffled by this. ‘Callie – our Uncle Ed got on a plane from South Africa so he could be at my brother’s graduation.’

  ‘Really?’ she said. ‘Well, that’s nice. Maybe he’ll come and visit me when he’s next in Suffolk.’

  ‘I’m sure he’d be on the first flight to the UK if you invited him.’

  They smiled at each other and she watched as Leo poured green soup from a plastic container into a little pan which he placed on a hook suspended over the fire which had died down a little now and was perfect for cooking over.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked when he decanted it into bowls a few minutes later and presented it to her.

  ‘Try it first,’ he said.

  ‘It’s good,’ she said after taking her first spoonful. ‘It tastes really fresh and–’ she paused, trying to come up with the right words to describe the unique taste. ‘Green!’ she said at last.

  ‘It tastes green?’ Leo said.

  ‘It’s the greenest thing I’ve ever tasted.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Go on then – tell me what I’ve just eaten,’ she said.

  ‘Nettle soup.’

  ‘Nettle!’ she cried.

  ‘You said you liked it,’ Leo said. ‘Now don’t go changing your mind just because you know what it is.’

  ‘I’m not going to change my mind,’ Callie said. ‘I’m just surprised. I didn’t know you could eat nettles.’

  ‘Well, it’s bulked out with potato and onion and other goodies otherwise it would just be a thin green gruel.’

  ‘And I’m thankful that you didn’t present me with that version,’ Callie said, her eyes sparkling in merriment.

  ‘Nettles are very good for you – full of iron and vitamins and, of course, they’re free,’ he said. ‘And it’s a wonderful kind of gardener’s revenge to be able to chop them down and eat them, don’t you think? Only it’s best to pick them when they’re young, and always wear gloves.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Callie said.

  ‘I always make gallons of it in the spring and then freeze it and couldn’t resist sharing it with you tonight even though it’s out of season and one should always strive to eat in harmony with the seasons.’

  Callie nodded. ‘I’ll try and remember that.’

  ‘So, that was your starter,’ he said, taking her empty bowl away from her.

  ‘You mean there’s more?’

  ‘Of course. I didn’t bring you all this way for a measly bowl of soup,’ he said, placing some oil in a frying pan. Callie watched as Leo began chopping mushrooms on a mini chopping board from out of the hamper before flinging them into the pan to sizzle. He then brought out a box containing three eggs which he cracked into a bowl, seasoning it, and adding a piece of hard cheese.

  ‘Just how many ingredients did you bring tonight?’ Callie asked, fascinated by the parade of food which was coming out of the hamper.

  ‘Just enough,’ he said, pouring the eggy mix into the pan. ‘Wild mushroom omelette,’ he said, ‘with free-range eggs and garnished with wild marjoram.’

  ‘Wow!’ Callie said.

  ‘I hope you like mushrooms,’ he said. ‘My last girlfriend didn’t think much of all this foraging. I’d bring her home some of nature’s very best and she’d look at it as if I was trying to poison her. Mind you, there was that incident with the dodgy mushrooms, but you’re bound to make mistakes every now and then and she was only sick the once.’

  Callie gulped and looked down at the omelette he was serving up for her with some misgiving.

  ‘And then there were all the flowers I picked for her,’ he said as he passed Callie a knife and fork. “These are wild, aren’t they? You didn’t buy them,” she’d say.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Callie said. ‘I always think wild flowers are the most beautiful.’

  ‘Me too!’ he said. ‘You see – you understand these things. Apart from the rabbit, that is.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said, taking a bit of her omelette.

  ‘Well, you are a city girl,’ he said with a teasing smile.

  ‘Not anymore,’ she said, lifting one of her wellie-clad feet up.

  ‘Yep – forget designer shoes from now on.’

  ‘You know, I never really understood the whole women-and-shoes thing anyway,’ she said.

  ‘Then you should blend right in here.’

  Callie was thrilled to hear that.

  ‘How’s your omelette?’ he asked.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Very good.’

  ‘Not too green?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s good and shroomy. I just hope they’re the right kind of shrooms,’ she said.

  ‘Cheeky!’ he said.

  They ate in silence for a while, listening to the sound of the evening wind in the trees and the distant sound of crows cawing and pheasants crying.

  ‘I thought they said that the countryside was quiet,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, that’s a myth.’

  ‘I was hanging some washing out on the line the other day and I heard the most unearthly sound imaginable. It was like somebody was being murdered.’

  ‘What was it?’ Leo asked.

  ‘I think it was a pig squealing.’

  Leo nodded. ‘That’ll be Bill Symonds. He keeps a few up at the farm near you. His bacon’s the best in Suffolk.’

  ‘Is everything abo
ut food with you?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ he said, stuffing the last of his omelette into his mouth. ‘Yum!’

  Callie laughed. He seemed to make her laugh with the greatest of ease, she noted.

  He took her empty plate from her.

  ‘What’s next?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought we could have a glass of wine before pudding,’ he said. ‘Took the liberty of bringing a bottle of my best cowslip.’

  ‘Cowslip wine?’ Callie said. Now, she’d heard everything.

  Leo reached for the bottle and opened it, pouring the pale yellow wine into two glasses.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Callie said, looking at the way it glowed against the light from the fire. She took a sip. ‘Oh!’

  ‘Good?’

  ‘It’s marvellous. It’s like drinking sunshine.’

  ‘I thought you might like it,’ he said. ‘Women tend to like the light florals.’

  Callie’s right eyebrow rose. ‘You’ve plied a lot of women with cowslip wine, have you?’

  Leo laughed. ‘I’m just making an observation,’ he said.

  Callie smiled. She could well believe that she wasn’t the first woman to be brought into the woods by Leo Wildman with his bottles of cowslip wine.

  ‘Well, it’s very good,’ she said, ‘and it’s really lovely to see this place.’

  ‘It’s my favourite place in the whole world,’ he said.

  ‘It does have a magical feel about it,’ Callie admitted, peering up into the autumn foliage of the beeches which were fast losing their colour in the approaching darkness.

  ‘I’ve hiked in the foothills of the Himalayas and walked through South American rainforests,’ Leo said, ‘but nothing compares to an English wood on an autumn evening when the air is just beginning to crisp at the edges and the scent of wood smoke lingers in the air.’

  Callie looked at him, impressed. ‘That’s very poetic,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ he said, running a hand through his dark hair. ‘I’m just saying it how it is.’

  ‘Do you read poetry?’ she asked him.

  ‘God no!’ he said. ‘I don’t read very much at all. Only a bit of non-fiction occasionally.’

  Callie was surprisingly disappointed by this admission.

  ‘Rick loves books, though,’ Leo went on. ‘He’s writing one right now. A guide to English woodlands. I’m helping him a bit with the practical side of things, but not with the writing.’

  ‘I can’t imagine a world without writing,’ Callie said, taking another sip of her cowslip wine.

  ‘But doesn’t sitting indoors all day drive you mad?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I guess I’m an indoor kind of person, but I am going to make an effort to get out more now I’m living here.’

  ‘And maybe I can help in that department,’ he said, his dark eyes glittering in the light of the fire. He was, she thought, the most handsome man she’d ever seen. ‘More wine?’

  She nodded and he leaned across to refill her glass. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘pudding.’

  It was no surprise that, tucked away in a small cooler bag inside the hamper, were two terracotta pots.

  ‘Blackberry fool,’ he said, passing her a pot and a spoon.

  Callie beamed. ‘Lovely!’

  ‘Home-made but not too sweet,’ he said.

  ‘I have never been so spoilt,’ she said, tasting the delicious, creamy concoction. ‘My husband – my soon to be ex-husband – never cooked.’

  ‘What never?’

  ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘He liked me to cook for him or to go out somewhere hideously expensive.’

  ‘And you didn’t like that?’

  ‘I didn’t ever mind cooking for him,’ she said, ‘but restaurants can be pretty tiresome after a while, particularly when you’ve got nothing to say to the person sitting opposite you.’

  Leo shook his head. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Callie shrugged. ‘It’s all in the past now.’

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  They finished their blackberry fools and sat quietly, watching the mesmeric flames of the fire. Callie was definitely having a moment, and the writer in her wanted to reach into the dainty handbag she’d brought with her for her notebook and pen and scribble some thoughts down: about how beautiful the fire was and how cosy it felt to be in the heart of an English wood after the sun had set and the crows had roosted for the night. She wanted to capture the sights, sounds and smells of it all. And the tastes too. The tastes which Leo Wildman had conjured up for her.

  ‘You look thoughtful,’ he said, bringing her out of herself.

  ‘I was just thinking how magical this has all been,’ she said.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it.’

  ‘I have. I really have.’

  They sat for a while longer, watching the fire and listening to the distant hoots of an owl out hunting for the evening.

  ‘I should get you home,’ Leo said at last, tidying everything away and making sure the fire was out.

  ‘I was getting anxious that you might be about to take me further into the woods to watch badgers or something,’ Callie confessed.

  ‘That could be arranged,’ he said.

  Callie laughed, instantly believing him.

  The walk back to the Land Rover was an adventure for Callie who had never been outside without the aid of street lighting before. Leo held a torch in his right hand and the thin beam of light was all they had to guide them along the twisting woodland path.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked as they hopped over a fallen tree trunk.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Callie said, taking care not to tear her dress on the rough bark as she buttoned up her jacket to keep warm. There were very few men, Callie thought, who could get away with bringing a woman into the woods at night when she was wearing her best dress and had been expecting to be wined and dined in style. Mind you, she had been wined and dined, and in the loveliest, most unique of styles too.

  Callie smiled in the darkness as she thought about the nettle soup and the cowslip wine, and the way Leo had looked at her, his eyes glittering in the firelight. It had been an evening that she would never forget.

  When they arrived back at Newton St Clare, Leo killed the engine and made to get out of the car.

  ‘It’s okay – I think I can make it to my front door all right.’

  ‘You sure, city girl? It’s pretty dark.’

  ‘I think I’m beginning to get used to the lack of street lighting now.’

  ‘Yes, but you also had rather a lot of that cowslip wine,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Are you saying I’m tipsy?’ she asked, her voice laced with mock annoyance. Actually, come to think of it, she was feeling wonderfully light and mellow.

  ‘Certainly not,’ he said, ‘but it’s my job as your host to make sure you make it home safely.’

  ‘Well, okay then,’ Callie said and Leo hopped out and ran round to her side of the car, opening the door.

  ‘I’ve still got your wellies on!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘So you have,’ he said. ‘Let me help.’

  Before she could stop him, Leo’s hands had clasped her boots, easing them off, his dark hair tickling her knees below the hemline of her dress.

  ‘Socks next,’ he said, gently pulling each one off.

  ‘Oooh, that’s cold now!’ Callie said as he took the second sock off.

  ‘Ah!’ Leo said, looking up into her face. ‘That’s because this came off with it.’ He held up a translucent stocking and Callie could feel herself blushing as he placed it in her hand.

  ‘I’d better put my own boots on myself,’ she said, suddenly feeling very sober.

  Leo stood back as Callie thrust one stockinged foot and one unstockinged foot into her high-heeled boots. He then proffered a hand towards her which she took because the ground suddenly looked a long way down from her seat in the Land Rover.

  ‘Must be the cowslip wine,’ she said.
/>   ‘What’s that?’ Leo asked.

  ‘Erm, I’m feeling a little sleepy.’

  He opened the garden gate.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said and she could just make out his features in the dim glow from the light she’d left on in the living room. ‘I’ve had a really great evening, Callie.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t what I was expecting but I loved it!’

  Their faces hovered closely together in the semi-darkness.

  ‘Can I see you again?’ he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

  Callie nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d like that.’ As they stood there a moment longer, Callie realised that she was holding her breath, wondering, anticipating what would happen next.

  ‘Goodnight, Callie,’ Leo said at last, reaching a hand towards her and squeezing her delicate fingers in his great wood-roughened ones.

  She laughed nervously at the unexpected touch.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said, watching as he walked down her garden path, closing the gate behind him and driving off into the inky darkness of the Suffolk countryside.

  Chapter 11

  There was something very special about a bookshop on a rainy afternoon, Sam always thought. It became a very special sort of a world: a safe and cosy place where you could hide away without feeling the least bit guilty.

  Alas, rain wasn’t always good for business because people seemed to be hurrying to get home and the majority of customers who did come into the shop when it was raining were usually just trying to find somewhere to shelter. Sam didn’t mind this too much because it was the accidental browser who often became the regular customer. A serendipitous rainfall would often help people discover the magic of Nightingale’s.

  It was on just such a rainy afternoon at the beginning of October when there were several rather wet-around-the-edges customers that the shop phone rang. Grandpa Joe was in his favourite place in the back room chortling his way through a Tintin hardback and Polly had gone into Bryony’s shop across the road to help her rearrange her window display.

  ‘Nightingale’s,’ Sam said as he picked up the phone. As soon as he heard the silence on the other end of the line, instinct told him to hang up, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he waited for the habitual sigh that followed the silence.