“I’ve never been to an author’s salon,” Diane said, with a hint of awe.
“Maybe Emma will start one for all of us,” Reg added, seeming happy to contribute to the web they were all building. “Do you think she’ll come talk to my school about her books?”
The hope in her niece’s voice was finally enough to break through Brogan’s own inner musings. She didn’t want to let them down. In a town the size of Amberwick, causes for excitement were few and far between. Who was she to begrudge the only people in the pub on Friday night a fun conversation? But she suspected that’s all that would come from such flights of fancy. She didn’t want to take any part in fostering false hopes, but she didn’t see why she should have to be the one to tell them all that, from what she saw, Emma Volant didn’t seem up for being a spokesperson for anything.
£ £ £
The sun seemed to shine from everywhere. It burned through the glass enclosing her sunroom and shimmered across the glittering waves below. Warmth played across her newly bare shoulders as she stripped off her sweater to reveal a white tank top. She hadn’t packed many summer clothing items, noting that the temperatures in Amberwick rarely rose above seventy degrees even in August, but she hadn’t counted on the glass enclosure acting like her own personal greenhouse. What had the agent called the space?
“Conservatory,” she said softly, enjoying the unfamiliar word. It sounded so formal, so upper class. What would her father have said if she told him she had a conservatory overlooking the North Sea? What about her grandmother? Both of them would’ve been amused no doubt, but likely for different reasons.
She sat for several more minutes, thinking about her family and watching the waves fall mutely in the distance, until the rumbling of her own stomach shattered the silence. She’d have to address her most basic needs soon. The tranquility would carry her only so far now that she’d eaten the box of granola bars she’d brought with her and consumed the entire bowl of fruit the real estate agency had left on the kitchen counter as a housewarming present.
She made a muscle-twisting mix of a grimace and a smile at the memory of Brogan. How long had she been sitting in the cottage with that bowl of fruit? Hours most likely. And then Emma had scared the living daylights out of her, but she’d still responded first with humor, then with understanding as she’d watched the subsequent meltdown. Emma had been in that situation enough over the last few months to know most people responded with cheap platitudes or inappropriate questions when faced with those raw emotions, but Brogan had been patient and respectful, and she’d mercifully extracted them both from the awkwardness as quickly as possible. If only everyone in the world could be kind enough to stay out of her personal life and let her wallow in peace, maybe she wouldn’t be in a strange place on the verge of starvation right now.
Her stomach growled again, and she sighed heavily at the reminder she’d soon have no choice but to trade her pajama bottoms for real pants and interact with a real person— at least long enough to stock her cabinets.
Wandering back through the house to her open suitcase, she gave herself a little pep talk as she pulled on a pair of jeans and a light blue sweater. “You can do this. You can go outside and buy food and maybe even say hello to someone.”
Pulling on socks and a pair of sneakers, she added, “You used to like people. Despite how you’ve acted lately, ‘introvert’ does not mean the same thing as ‘hermit.’”
Well, at least she hadn’t been a hermit before her entire life had been splashed across the front page. Her stomach roiled again, only this time not from hunger. She pushed herself off the bed and put in the undue effort it took to place one foot in front of the other. She didn’t have a choice. She had to go out. Never mind that anyone she met would likely know about her shame and shortcomings, but maybe the English would be more polite than Americans. Once again, she thought of Brogan’s quiet sympathy and quick exit. Maybe those traits were national hallmarks of Brits. With that thought and a weak smile, she summoned the strength to step outside.
The air was crisp and cool with a subtle hint of salt. In the distance she could make out the sounds of waves and the call of seagulls. Instantly her own bad memories were replaced with someone else’s joy. Strolling down the crooked streets between rows of houses all connected to one another by stone and plaster, she could hear her grandmother’s voice echo across the years. “It looked as if the whole town was one long house down one side, with only archways for people and carriages to pass into courtyards or gardens out back.”
She’d been enthralled with the idea of such a communal approach to living then. Her own childhood subdivision of hastily constructed, boxy buildings, each one surrounded by a privacy fence, had felt woefully disjointed by comparison. She walked along one of the long row houses now, trying to picture them as they would’ve looked in the 1930s. Aside from the modern cars along the street, she doubted much would be different. The stone was the same, the window frames all painted in a simple whitewash, and on the other side of the street the sea would have still peeked out from the end of each offshoot and alleyway. Grandmother would likely still feel very much at home here. The thought and the immovability of her surroundings allowed some of the tension to slip from her muscles. Headlines, conflicts, even generations would come and fade from this place without so much as scarring the surface.
She felt lighter than she had in ages by the time she reached the end of the main street running through town, and she might have kept strolling all day if not for the fact that fresh air and movement also amplified her hunger. Looking back at the length of Amberwick, she’d passed a tea room, an Indian restaurant, a pub, a church, and several bed-and-breakfast type businesses, but no grocery store. Frowning, she glanced around her again, as if maybe she’d missed a turn, but with a solid row of houses to one side and the sea only a block to the other, there didn’t seem to be many options left.
The tension returned in an instant. What was she doing here? She wasn’t stepping into her grandmother’s stories. She was a modern woman in a foreign country with nothing to eat, no working cell phone, and no one to ask for help.
“What do you need, dear?” a soothing voice asked in the most liltingly familiar accent.
Her breath caught as she whirled to see her grandmother approaching. Only it wasn’t her grandmother as she’d last seen her. She was younger now, her silver hair longer, and her gait smoother as she easily covered the cobblestones up the side street, but her eyes were just as blue as Emma’s own.
“Grandmother?” a young girl asked, pulling on the woman’s long skirt. “Who’s that?”
Emma blinked as if trying to process the new addition. Had she lost her grip on the present? Was she having a mental break? Did the child represent her younger self? If so, why did she have red hair?
“Who?” Another child appeared to sprout from behind the grandmother— no, two of them, in a mirror image, both carrot-topped little boys, and their appearance was enough to shatter the spell. The woman who sounded so much like home was merely a stranger with a striking resemblance to someone she’d loved, and her brain had worked hard to fill in details that didn’t exist. The woman before her was fair and elegant. Her eyes bore the softness of love and laughter, but her skin was still too smooth and her body too fluid to have survived a depression a world war. Still, the similarities were enough for Emma to forget her earlier reticence and extend her hand. “Hi, I’m Emma, and I’m new here.”
“The writer. How lovely to meet you,” the woman said cheerfully and accepted her hand into both of her own. “I’m Margaret McKay.”
“I’m Ginny,” the little girl added, unprompted, but the boys were too busy running in circles around them all to make their own introductions.
Emma smiled at the girl. “And are those your brothers?”
She wrinkled up her nose and shook her head. Emma wondered if that was the truth or simply wishful thinking.
“Her cousins, Wendell and Seamus,” Mar
garet said, then with a smile added, “though I won’t be able to tell you which is which until they slow down enough for me to get a good look at their faces.”
“You’ve got your hands full.”
Margaret laughed, the melodic sound stirring an almost painful nostalgia in Emma. “You really are new around here, aren’t you? That explains the lost expression on your face when we walked up.”
Emma frowned. She’d nearly forgotten about that. “I do seem a bit out of the loop on several counts. Chiefly, where’s the grocery store?”
“The nearest proper grocer is in Newpeth,” the woman said calmly, as the children continued to spin laps around them, “but we’re on our way to the post office if you want to follow along.”
The offer didn’t seem like a reasonable response. She needed food, not stamps. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything to mail.”
Margaret tilted her head to the side, her eyebrows pulled close together with confusion before shooting up. “You’re an American, of course. No, the post office here is different.”
“My mum is the boss,” one of the boys shouted.
“My mum is the boss,” the other echoed.
“Both true,” Margaret said, as she nudged them along Northland street back in the direction Emma had come from. As she followed along, Ginny tugged on her hand. Emma glanced down at her, noticing a faint spread of light freckles when the child looked up at her, holding up two fingers as if the dexterity to do so took a lot of concentration. “I’m this many.”
“I’m three,” the boys shouted in unison, though how they’d even been aware of their cousin’s statement with their frolicking was beyond her.
“I’m going to be the big brother,” one of them shouted, shoving his twin and sprinting off down the sidewalk.
“No, I am.” The other chased after him.
Ginny sighed dramatically as she reached for her grandmother’s hand. “Arfur’s my bruvver.”
“He is,” Margaret said sweetly, then for Emma’s benefit added, “my daughter Nora is expecting again, and someone is feeling a little left out that she’s not getting a younger sibling when everyone else seems to have one.”
“I know how you feel,” Emma said conspiratorially. “I don’t have a little brother or sister either. Or any older ones for that matter.”
“An only child?” Margaret asked, coming to a stop outside a door with a red sign overhead marking it as a post office. “All my children and grandchildren would find that downright exotic.”
“All of them?” Emma asked, getting the sense the phrase might be a bit loaded.
“Eight of my own, and twelve grandchildren with at least two more on the way.”
Emma put a hand out to steady herself against the brown stone of the building, but Margaret only laughed as she scooped Ginny into her arms. “Don’t worry. We won’t expect you to learn everyone’s name right away, but if you see a shock of red hair about town, you’ve got a better-than-fifty-percent chance they’re a McKay.
As if to illustrate her point, she swung open the door to the post office to reveal two more redheads. One of them appeared to be about eight months pregnant, and the other happened to be Brogan McKay.”
Her smile was instant and broad. Emma couldn’t help but return it, until she realized the expression hadn’t been directed at her. Brogan’s green eyes were focused on her mother and the little girl she held.
“Hey, there’s two of the prettiest girls in town,” Brogan said as Margaret stepped to the side, fully revealing Emma behind her.
Brogan’s eyes widened, and her smile faltered but didn’t disappear completely. “Now that’s awkward. There are three women here.”
“Four,” the pregnant woman said. “I’m standing right here.”
“Oh Brogan.” Margaret chuckled and patted her cheek. “You have such a way with words and women. I take it you’ve met Miss Volant?”
Emma blushed at the memory of their meeting once more, but Brogan simply nodded. “Briefly.”
They stood in the silence for a few seconds too many before the twins came crashing through the door. “Mum!”
The pregnant woman braced herself for impact, and Emma gasped, but inches before the boys reached her, Brogan and Margaret each stuck out an arm and caught a twin apiece, hoisting them up off the ground.
“Hello there, Wendell,” Brogan said to the boy squirming to get away. At the sound of her voice, he immediately went limp and fell into fits of laughter. “I’m Seamus, Aunt Brogan.”
“No, I’m Seamus,” the boy in his grandmother’s grasp called.
“I’m Seamus!” the other twin shouted, as if saying the same thing louder might actually make it more true.
“Mummy!” the other one yelled.
The pregnant woman sighed exhaustedly, then glanced at Emma. “Three-year-olds. Everyone complains about the terrible twos, but honestly, they’re much worse now. If they’d behaved this way when they were two, I’d have never done this.” She pointed to her enlarged stomach.
“It’s a phase.” Margaret put a hand lightly on her daughter’s shoulder. “And they still have a lie-down, which is why I brought them here. I’ll watch the store while they sleep, and you can have a lie-down, too.”
“And you can get a break as well,” Brogan said to her mother, “because I came over to man the till for a couple hours.”
“I’m not an invalid,” the pregnant woman said, a hint of stubbornness in the set of her jaw. “I’m Nora, by the way.”
“I’m Emma.”
“I’m Ginny.” The little girl introduced herself again, unnecessarily.
“And I’m taking over.” Brogan asserted herself once more. “I’ve got three hours before I have to be back at the pub. I suggest you all get out of here and get some sleep instead of fussing about.”
Margaret didn’t seem to need much convincing, but Nora at least opened her mouth as if intending to argue before Seamus-or-Wendell broke loose from his grandmother and bolted out the door shouting, “I’m free.”
“Go,” Brogan said firmly, setting his brother loose, and this time Nora followed without an argument.
Margaret smiled at her daughter and held her granddaughter a little closer before saying, “Your Aunt Brogan’s a good girl, even when she pretends to be tough.”
Brogan rolled her eyes. “You can be both, Ginny. Good girl and tough girl aren’t opposites, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“And on that note, we’ll call our feminist class concluded for the day and go have a lie-down.” Margaret turned to leave and nearly bumped into Emma. “Miss Volant, I’m sorry. I almost forgot I’d brought you in here to shop.”
For the first time, Emma took a second to look past the people to the shelves lining the walls around them. Bread, crackers, canned soups and candy, there seemed to be a little bit of everything.
“Thank you,” she said with a little more relief than she’d meant to reveal. “This is exactly what I needed.”
Margaret smiled sympathetically. “Then I’ll leave you to it. And if there’s something missing, let Brogan know. She’s fully capable of taking care of anything you need.”
£ £ £
Brogan blushed at her mother’s parting words. Margaret McKay wasn’t a woman to deal in innuendo or double-entendres, but that didn’t stop Brogan from hearing them. A quick glance at Emma, who’d found something interesting on the tissues shelf, suggested she’d caught the added meaning of the statement as well, or maybe she’d noticed Brogan’s embarrassment. It wasn’t the first time Emma had seen that emotion on her. A surge of guilt washed over her again about the hasty exit she’d made when they’d met. She’d spent several days wondering if she should have or could have done more to comfort Emma that night, but had yet to settle on any real answer. Instead she blurted out, “Do you need something?”
Emma perused the shelves some more. “Actually, I need everything, really.”
“Oh?”
“That
sounded bad, didn’t it?” Emma tried to laugh off the comment, but the sound came out a little choked. “I mean my cupboards are completely bare. I have literally nothing.”
Hearing the desperation creeping back into Emma’s voice, Brogan’s protective instincts reared up in her. She fought off her first impulse to hug Emma, and instead handed her a shopping basket from beside the counter. “If you’ve got nothing, anything is a step in the right direction.”
Emma smiled weakly as she accepted the basket. “That’s one way to see it.”
“Let me give you the grand tour,” Brogan offered, then, pointing to the wall behind Emma, said, “As for the breads, we’ve got your white and brown and some croissants that were not at all baked fresh this morning.”
Turning a quarter way around the room, she continued. “There’s a whole wall of sweets and chocolate biscuits. The ones in the brown wrappers are my own personal favorite.”
Emma made a mental note, though she wasn’t much of a sweets-eater herself.
“And behind me we have canned soups of the cream or vegetable variety and, of course, teas.” She motioned for Emma to follow her through a doorway to an even smaller room with two walls of upright freezers and refrigerators. “In there we’ve got cheese, Cumberland sausages, milk, chicken goujons, and some frozen pizzas, while to the other side we’ve got some canned pasta sauces, mustard, ketchup, and a random assortment of beach and cleaning supplies.” She turned back to Emma and shrugged. “It’s not much.”
“It’s actually probably more than I need,” Emma said, then with a half-smile added, “I’m not much of a cook.”
“Then the post office is the perfect place for you.”
“The post office,” Emma repeated with a bit more amusement in her voice. “That means something different in America. If I told my friends I went there to get a pizza, they’d probably think me insane.”
“To be fair, some of the foodies in England might judge you the same way, but they wouldn’t assume you’d chosen postage stamps as a topping instead of pepperoni.”
Full English Page 3
