by Fiona Grace
Returning to the master bedroom, Lacey sank down onto the four-poster. It was the first time she’d really had a chance to reflect on the dizzying day, and she felt almost shell-shocked. This morning she’d been a married woman of fourteen years. Now she was single. She’d been a busy New York City career woman. Now she was in a cliffside cottage in England. How thrilling! How exciting! She’d never done anything so bold in all her life, and boy did it feel good!
The pipes let out a loud bang, and Lacey squealed. But a moment later she burst into laughter.
She lay back on the bed, staring up at the fabric canopy above her, listening to the sound of the high-tide waves crashing against the cliffs. The sound brought back a sudden, previously lost, childhood fantasy of living beside the ocean. How funny that she’d forgotten all about that dream. If she hadn’t returned to Wilfordshire, would it have remained buried in her mind, never to be retrieved? She wondered what other memories might come to her while she was here. Perhaps, after she woke up tomorrow, she’d explore the town a little, and see what clues it may hold.
CHAPTER THREE
Lacey was awoken by a strange noise.
She sat bolt upright, confused momentarily by the unfamiliar room, which was lit only by a thin stream of daylight coming in through a crack in the curtains. It took a second to recalibrate her brain and remember she wasn’t in her apartment in New York City anymore, but in a stone cottage on the cliffs of Wilfordshire, England.
The noise came again. It wasn’t the banging of water pipes this time, but something else entirely, something that sounded animal in origin.
Checking her cell phone with bleary eyes, Lacey saw that it was five a.m. local time. With a sigh, she heaved her weary body out of bed. The effects of jet lag were immediately apparent in the heaviness of her limbs as she padded over to the balcony doors on bare feet and pulled open the curtains. There was the cliff edge, and the sea stretching into the horizon until it met a clear, cloudless sky that was only just starting to turn blue. She could see no animal culprit on the front lawn, and when the noise came again, Lacey was able to orientate the sound to the back of the house.
Wrapping herself up in the robe she’d remembered to purchase at the last second from the airport, Lacey trotted down the creaking stairs to investigate. She went straight to the back of the house, into the kitchen where the large glass windows and French doors provided her with an unspoiled view of the back lawn. And there, Lacey discovered the origin of the noise.
There was an entire herd of sheep in the garden.
Lacey blinked. There must’ve been at least fifteen of them! Twenty. Maybe more!
She rubbed her eyes, but when she opened them again, all the fluffy creatures were still there, grazing on her grass. Then one raised its head.
Lacey locked gazes with the sheep in a stare-down, until, finally, the sheep tipped its head back and let out one long, loud, mournful bleat.
Lacey dissolved into giggles. She couldn’t think of a more perfect way to begin her new life AD. Suddenly, being here in Wilfordshire felt like less of a vacation and more of a statement of intent, a reclamation of her old self, or perhaps a whole new self, one she’d not yet met. Whatever the feeling was, it made bubbles burst in her stomach like someone had filled it up with champagne (or maybe that was jet lag—as far as her internal clock was concerned, she’d just given her body a generous sleeping-in). Either way, Lacey couldn’t wait to face the day.
Lacey was filled with a sudden enthusiasm for adventure. Yesterday she’d awoken to the usual sounds of New York City traffic; today the sound of incessant bleating. Yesterday she’d smelled fresh laundry and cleaning products. Today; dust and ocean. She’d taken the old familiarity of her life and blown it wide apart. As a newly single woman the world suddenly felt like her oyster. She wanted to explore! Discover! Learn! Suddenly, she was filled with an enthusiasm for life she hadn’t felt since… well, since before her father had left.
Lacey shook her head. She didn’t want to think of sad things. She was determined not to let anything bring down this newly found sense of joy. At least not today. Today she was going to grab hold of that feeling and not let go of it. Today she was free.
Trying to keep her mind off her grumbling stomach, Lacey attempted to shower in the big slipper bath. She used the odd hose-like attachment that was connected to the taps to spray herself down, like one might with a muddy dog. The water turned from warm to frigid at a moment’s notice, and the pipes went clang-clang-clang the whole time. But the immediate softness of the water compared to the harsh stuff she was used to in New York City was the equivalent of slathering an expensive moisturizing balm all over her body, and Lacey reveled in it, even when a sudden blast of cold made her teeth chatter.
Once all that airport grime and city pollution was off her skin—leaving it, quite literally, shiny—she dried and dressed in the outfit she’d purchased at the airport. There was a large mirror on the inner door of the Narnia wardrobe which Lacey used to assess her appearance. And it was not cute.
Lacey grimaced. She’d picked the clothes up from a beachwear store in the airport, reasoning casual wear was the most appropriate for her seaside vacation. But though beach casual had been her intention, this assemble was more thrift store casual. The beige slacks were a little too tight, the white muslin shirt swamped her frame, and the flimsy boat shoes were even less suited for the cobblestones than her work heels had been! She’d have to make investing in some decent clothes today’s highest priority.
Lacey’s stomach grumbled.
Second priority, she thought, tapping her stomach.
She headed downstairs, wet hair dripping down her back, and into the kitchen, seeing out the window that only a couple of stragglers from that morning’s gang of sheep were still in the garden. Checking the cupboards and fridge, Lacey found both were empty. It was still too early to head into town to get her freshly baked breakfast treats from the patisserie on the main street. She’d have to kill some time.
“Kill some time!” Lacey exclaimed aloud, her voice filled with joy.
When was the last time she’d had any time to kill? When had she ever even allowed herself the freedom to waste time? David was always so regimented with what little spare time they had. Gym. Brunch. Family commitments. Drinks. Every “free” moment had been scheduled. Lacey had a sudden epiphany; the very act of scheduling free time negated the freedom of it! By allowing David to plan and dictate what they did with their time, she’d effectively wrapped herself up in a straitjacket of social obligation. The moment of clarity struck her in an almost Buddhist-like moment of realization.
The Dalai Lama would be so proud of me, Lacey thought, clapping her hands with delight.
Just then, the sheep in the garden bleated. Lacey decided she was going to use her newly acquired freedom to play amateur sleuth and find out where that herd of sheep had come from.
She opened the French doors and headed out onto the patio. Fresh morning ocean spray misted her face as she strolled along the garden path, heading toward the two puff balls still eating her grass. When they heard her coming, they trotted away clumsily, with zero grace, and disappeared through a gap in the hedges.
Lacey went over and peered through the gap, seeing another garden beyond the thicket of shrubbery, filled with bright flowers. So she had a neighbor. In New York City, her neighbors had been aloof, other professional couples like her and David whose lives consisted of leaving their apartments before sunrise and returning after sunset. But this neighbor, by the looks of their beautifully honed garden, enjoyed the good life. And owned sheep! There wasn’t a single pet or animal in Lacey’s old apartment block—busy business types had no time for pets, nor the inclination to deal with their shedding hair or farmyard smells. How delightful to now be living so close to nature! Even the smell of sheep manure was a welcome contrast to her hyper-clean apartment block back in NYC.
As she straightened up again, Lacey noticed a weathered patch of gras
s, like a pathway trod by many feet. It led along the shrubbery toward the cliffside. There was a small gate there, practically consumed by the plants. She went over and opened it.
A series of steps had been cut into the cliffside, and they headed all the way down to the beach. It was like something from a fairytale, Lacey thought, delighted as she carefully began to make her way down them.
Ivan hadn’t even mentioned that she had a direct route down to the beach, that if she got the hankering for the feel of sand between her toes, she could get it within a matter of minutes. And to think back in New York, she’d been so smug about her two-minute walk to the subway.
Lacey made her way down the higgledy-piggledy steps until they stopped a couple of feet from the beach. Lacey leapt down. The sand was so soft, her knees absorbed the shock in spite of the complete lack of cushion provided by her cheap airport boat shoes.
Lacey took a deep breath, feeling totally wild and carefree. This part of the beach was deserted. Unblemished. It must be too far from the shops in town for people to venture, she thought. It was almost like her own private bit of beach.
Looking over in the direction of town, Lacey saw the pier jutting out into the ocean. She was struck immediately by a memory of playing fair games, and the loud arcade her father had allowed them to spend their 2ps in. There was a cinema on the pier as well, Lacey recalled, excited by the fragments of memory returning to her. It was a tiny eight-seater, barely changed since it had been built, with plush red velvet seats. Dad had taken her and Naomi to watch an obscure Japanese cartoon there. She wondered how many more memories her trip to Wilfordshire would produce. How many more blanks in her memory would be filled in by coming here?
The tide was out, so a lot of the pier’s structure was visible. Lacey could see some dog walkers and a couple of joggers. The town was starting to wake up. Maybe there’d be a coffee shop open now. She decided to take the long sea route to town and began to stroll along in that direction.
The cliff receded the closer she got to town, and soon there were roads and streets. The second she stepped onto the promenade, Lacey was hit by another sudden memory, of a market with tarpaulin stalls, selling clothes and jewelry and sticks of rock. A series of spray-painted numbers on the floor indicated their specific plots. Lacey felt a surge of excitement.
Turning off the beach, Lacey headed toward the main street—or high street as the British called it. She noted the Coach House on the corner where she’d first met Ivan, before turning along the bunting-clad street.
It was so different from being in New York. The pace was slower. There were no honking cars. No one shoved anyone else. And, to her surprise, some of the coffee places were indeed open.
She entered the first one she came to—no queue in sight—and got herself a black Americano and croissant. The coffee was perfectly roasted, rich and chocolaty, the croissant a crumbly mouthful of flaky pastry and buttery yumminess.
With her stomach satisfied at last, Lacey decided it was time to find herself some better clothes. She’d seen a nice boutique fashion store at the other end of the high street and had started walking that way when the smell of sugar assaulted her nostrils. She looked over to see a homemade fudge store had just opened its doors. Unable to resist, she went inside.
“Want to try a free sample?” the man in a stripy white and pink apron asked. He gestured to a silver tray filled with cubes in different shades of brown. “We’ve got dark chocolate, milk chocolate, white chocolate, caramel, toffee, coffee, fruit medley, and original.”
Lacey’s eyes bulged. “Can I try them all?” she asked.
“Of course!”
The man cut little cubes of each flavor and presented them to Lacey to try. She popped the first one in her mouth and her taste buds exploded.
“Amazing,” she said through her mouthful.
She moved onto the next. Somehow, it was even nicer than the last.
She tried one sample after another, and they seemed to get progressively more delicious as she went.
When Lacey swallowed her final mouthful, she barely gave herself time to take a breath before exclaiming, “I have got to send some of this to my nephew. Will it keep if I mail it to New York?”
The man grinned and produced a flat cardboard box lined with foil paper. “If you use our special delivery box, it will,” he said with a laugh. “It became such a common request, we had these designed especially. Slim enough to fit through the letter box, and lightweight enough to keep the postage costs down. You can also buy the stamps here.”
“How innovative,” Lacey said. “You’ve thought of everything.”
The man filled the box with a cube of each available flavor, secured the flat box with packing tape, and stuck the correct postage stamps onto it. After paying and thanking the man, Lacey took her little parcel, wrote Frankie’s name and address on the front, and posted it through the slit in the traditional red letter box across the street.
Once it had disappeared through the hole, Lacey remembered she was getting distracted from her actual task—to find some better clothes. She was about to head off in search of a boutique store when she was distracted by the window display in the store beside the post box. It depicted a scene of Wilfordshire beach, with the pier stretching into the sea, but the whole thing was made from pastel-colored macarons.
Lacey immediately regretted the croissant she’d eaten and all the fudge she’d sampled because the delicious sight made her salivate. She snapped a photo for the Bishop Girlz thread.
“Can I help?” a male voice came from somewhere beside her.
Lacey straightened up. Standing in the doorway stood the shop’s owner, a very handsome man in his mid-forties, with thick, dark brown hair and a well-defined jawline. He had sparkling green eyes, with laugh lines beside them that immediately told her he was someone who enjoyed life, and a tan that suggested he took frequent trips to warmer climates.
“I’m just window shopping,” Lacey said, her voice sounding as if someone was squeezing her vocal cords. “I like your display.”
The man smiled. “I made it myself. Why don’t you come in and try some of the cakes?”
“I’d love to, but I’ve already eaten,” Lacey explained. The croissant and coffee and fudge seemed to be swilling in her stomach, churning around and making her feel a bit nauseous. Lacey suddenly realized what was happening—it was that long-lost feeling of physical attraction giving her butterflies in her stomach. Her cheeks immediately flooded with warmth.
The man chuckled. “I can tell from your accent you’re American. So you might not know that here in England, we have this thing called elevenses. It comes after breakfast and before lunch.”
“I don’t believe you,” Lacey replied, feeling her lips twitching up at the sides. “Elevenses?”
The man pressed his hand to his heart. “I promise you, it’s not a marketing gimmick! It’s the perfect time for tea and cake, or tea and sandwiches, or tea and biscuits.” He gestured with his arms in through the open doorway, toward the glass display cabinet filled with creatively designed sweet treats in all their delicious-looking glory. “Or all of them.”
“As long as you have it with tea?” Lacey quipped.
“Exactly,” he replied, his green eyes twinkling with mischief. “You can even try before you buy.”
Lacey couldn’t resist anymore. Whether it was the addictive effects of sugar luring her in or, more likely, the magnetic pull of this gorgeous specimen of a man, Lacey went inside.
She watched eagerly, her mouth watering, as the man took a round cakey bun thing from the glass chill cabinet, filled it with butter, jam, and cream, and cut it neatly into quarters. The whole thing was done in a casually theatrical manner, like he was performing a dance routine. He placed the pieces onto a small china plate and held it out to Lacey balanced on his fingertips, finishing the thoroughly unself-conscious display with a flourishing, “Et voilà.”
Lacey felt warmth flooding into her cheeks. T
he whole performance had been distinctly flirty. Or was that just wishful thinking?
She reached up and took one of the quarters from the plate. The man did the same, tapping his piece against hers.
“Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers,” Lacey managed.
She popped it into her mouth. It was a taste sensation. Thick, sweet clotted cream. Strawberry jam so fresh the sharpness made her taste buds tingle. And the cake! Dense and buttery, somewhere between sweet and savory, and oh-so-comforting.
The flavors suddenly sparked a memory in Lacey’s mind. Her and Dad, Naomi, and Mom, all sitting around a white metal table in a bright cafe, tucking into cream- and jam-filled pastries. She was struck by a bolt of comforting nostalgia.
“I’ve been here before!” Lacey exclaimed before she’d even finished chewing.
“Oh?” came the man’s amused reply.
Lacey nodded enthusiastically. “I came to Wilfordshire as a child. This is a scone, isn’t it?”
The man’s eyebrows rose with genuine intrigue. “Yes. My father owned the patisserie before I did. I still use his special recipe to make the scones.”
Lacey glanced toward the window. Though there was now a built-in wooden seat with a baby blue cushion atop and a rustic matching wooden table, she could just about picture how it had looked thirty years earlier. Suddenly, she felt herself transported back to that moment. She could almost recall the breeze on the back of her neck, and the sticky feel of the jam on her fingers, the sweat in the creases on the backs of her knees… She could even remember the sound of laughter, of her parents’ laughter, and the carefree smiles on their faces. They had been so happy, hadn’t they? She was certain it had been genuine. Then why had it all fallen apart?
