by Sharon Booth
She saw him glance in the rear-view mirror, where three sleeping faces would be reflected back at him. She didn't see that it would matter if they stopped for a short while, and it seemed he agreed, because he parked the car as close to the hillside as he could manage, with the trailer behind them, and turned off the engine.
She unfastened her seat belt and climbed out of the car, squeezing out of the door, which she couldn't fully open without bashing it into the hill. She edged round the car and crossed the road, going to stand on the grass verge and staring in awe at the view that lay, spread out before her.
After a moment, she felt him beside her, heard the rattle of his car keys. His breath brushed her neck as he murmured, 'Eden.'
She jumped in alarm. 'Wh — what did you say?'
'Eden,' he repeated. He nodded at the dale, his voice full of pride. 'My mam always said it were paradise here, a real Garden of Eden. Don't you agree?'
'Oh. Oh, yes.' She turned to him, smiling through her tears. 'It really is beautiful here. She was right. I mean, it takes your breath away. Look at it, Eliot.'
He followed her gaze, toward the magnificent landscape before them. Sheep were dotted on the hillside, and the River Skimmer glittered below them in the early evening sunlight like a silver ribbon threaded through a blanket of green. 'That's where it gets its name from, I reckon,' he said suddenly, nodding at the water.
She frowned. 'What does?'
'The river. Skimmer means to sparkle, to shine brightly. Comes from back when land round here was Viking territory. Lots of place names in the Dales are of Scandinavian origin. Happen a band of marauding Vikings stood in this very spot one day, looked down at that water all shining like it is now, and gave it its name right there and then.'
'Oh, what an amazing thought,' said Eden, smiling at him.
He smiled back. 'It's not as cosy as the Cotswolds, is it?'
'No.' Eden had to agree with that. 'And the Cotswolds are stunning, too, in a different way. You know what I don't understand?'
'Tell me.'
'The sheep. I mean, they roam all over the hills and fields round here, but they seem to know where they belong. How do they do that?'
'Hefting.'
'Pardon?'
He smiled softly. 'It's a process of getting to know where they live. Making themselves at home, like. Bit by bit, they settle in, get used to the place. They're part of the landscape, and the landscape is part of them. Hefting.'
'I see,' she murmured. 'Sort of like, home is where the heart is.'
'Happen that's true enough.'
He fell quiet, and she blinked away tears, thinking how soon she would be back in Upper Bourbury, knowing she would be leaving her own heart behind in this beautiful place, with him. She tried to drink in the view, to fix it in her mind's eye, so that she would be able to recall it when she needed it, like Wordsworth with his daffodils. The pain was as powerful as the image was exquisite. Beside her, she felt Eliot's presence, as much a fixture of the landscape as the earth beneath her feet.
The sunshine caressed her back in sympathy and the evening breeze kissed her neck and ruffled her hair with affectionate fingers, as she stood, saying a silent goodbye. She turned away eventually, knowing it was time to leave.
****
The children were all in bed early that night. The show had thoroughly exhausted them. Eliot and Honey did the usual chores in silence. There was an air of sadness over her, somehow, which puzzled him. They'd had a lovely day at the show, and she'd been popular with the locals. She really seemed to fit in, and she obviously loved the place. Perhaps that was the problem.
He looked at her, as she wiped down the surfaces in the kitchen. Was she dreading going home? Was it possible that, against all odds, she'd actually fallen for Skimmerdale? Dare he begin to hope that there was even more to it than that?
He headed into the living room, carrying the mugs of hot chocolate he'd prepared while she'd done the dishes. He mustn't jump to conclusions. He remembered one of the girls saying, at the open day, that Honey liked him. He'd laughed it off, put it down to his daughter being silly and fanciful. But then the other night — that kiss. He'd tried to tell himself she'd just felt sorry for him. After all, he'd just poured all that stuff out about him and Jemima. He didn't know why. He couldn't imagine why she'd be interested. Yet, she'd seemed so understanding, so sympathetic. Maybe that was it. She had a soft heart, and she'd wanted to comfort him, and it had gone too far. Or maybe ...
He sat down on the sofa, remembering her expression as she'd looked down upon the river from high up on Mikkel Rigg. There had been something in her eyes that reminded him of the way she'd looked at him that night. A sort of yearning, of wonder. Was it possible she felt the same way he did? Or was it all wishful thinking? And what good could come of it, anyway?
As she sat beside him on the sofa, he remembered the other night when they'd kissed, and loosened his shirt collar, feeling rather hot.
'It was a lovely day, wasn't it?' she said, smiling at him.
'What? Oh, aye. Grand. And you won two prizes. Well done.'
'I know! Can't believe it!'
'Reckon your dad will be amazed, an' all.'
Her smile faded, and she nodded. 'I suppose.'
He wondered why things were the way they were between her father and herself. 'You ought to make it up with him, you know,' he said gently.
'Pardon?'
'You and your dad. This feud you've got going on.' He shook his head sadly. 'It's not worth it. Look at Jemima and her dad. He were devastated when she died. Cried like a baby at her funeral. All that time wasted. Of course, he blamed me and wasted no time telling me it were all my fault, but truth is, he could have called her any time he liked. One little phone call. Now it's too late. Don't let that happen to you and your dad, Honey. Whatever's gone on, I reckon it can be fixed. Can't imagine how I'd feel if my girls wouldn't speak to me.'
Honey took a sip of her drink. 'I wouldn't worry about that. It will never happen.'
He wasn't so sure. When they were older, there were things he would have to tell them, things they deserved to know. How would they feel about him then, he wondered? And George. How would he react? He knew he could lose his own children if he didn't get it right. He didn't even want to think about the future.
'Does he see them?'
'Eh?' He stared at her, surprised. 'Does who see them? See who?'
'Does Jemima's dad see the children? Seeing as he was grieving for her at the funeral, does he bother with her offspring?'
He sighed. Another sore point. 'No. Never bothered.'
'Seems to me he deserves everything he gets, then,' she said.
He'd often thought the same and was gratified to hear she shared his opinion of her own relative. 'Not fair on the kids, though,' he said.
'No.' She put her mug back on the coffee table. 'I suppose it isn't. Good job they've got you, eh?'
'Oh, aye. Struck gold there,' he said, with a rueful smile.
'I know.' She wasn't smiling.
'It's hard for me to trust people,' he said suddenly. 'After — after everything that happened. I'm sorry if I came across as a bit grumpy. Takes me a while to relax around people these days.'
'It's okay.'
'No, it's not. I haven't always been nice to you.'
'I haven't always been nice to you, either.'
'Well, that's true.' He tried to smile, to ease the tension, but she merely stared down at her lap. 'Thing is ...'
'Yes?'
'I haven't told you it all. About me and Jemima, I mean.'
'Oh?'
'There was someone else.' He was surprised that it didn't hurt to say it as much as he'd thought it would.
She was staring at him, shocked. He definitely had her full attention.
'Not me,' he said hastily. 'Her. She had an affair.'
'Did you — did you know him?'
He pursed his lips for a moment, then tugged nervously at his shirt collar. '
Doesn't really matter, does it? Point is, it happened. And it's made me wary. I don't always give people the benefit of the doubt. You see?'
She simply looked at him. He didn't think she could possibly see. He had no idea what he was trying to tell her. He wondered if he was going slightly mad. Her bottom lip was trembling.
Eliot swallowed. 'Are you — are you all right, Honey? Only, you seem a bit sad.'
She stared up at him, her eyes suddenly full of tears. 'I'll be leaving soon. Summer's nearly over.'
He was all too aware of that fact. 'I know.'
'I'll miss … this,' she said.
'It's a lovely place. I'm glad you settled. Didn't think you would at first.'
God no, she'd seemed to hate it. Funny how much she'd changed. Fleetsthorpe had really weaved its magic spell on her. She was a different woman. 'It is. I may never see it again.' Her voice caught, and he felt a sudden panic as he realised it worked both ways. If she went away, would that be it? Would he never see her again?
He took her hand. 'You can come back whenever you want,' he said, meaning it. He fought the urge to tell her not to go. It was stupid. Of course she would go. She belonged in a different world, just as Jemima had.
'It won't be enough,' she whispered.
What did she mean? He looked down at her hand, so soft and small in his own. 'If it's any consolation, I'm dreading the day you leave.' Why the hell had he said that?
'Are you?' She looked at him.
Seeing the hope in her eyes, he realised they were dancing around each other, each afraid to put into words what they were feeling. He recognised the same longing in her face that he felt in his heart. Just for once, should he cast his fears aside? How would it feel to stop worrying about the future, stop dwelling on the past? The desire to hold her again was overwhelming him — the sudden longing to make them both happy. They deserved a chance, didn't they? No one knew what lay in store for them. Now and then someone had to be brave, take a risk. Maybe now was that time. His turn.
He reached out, softly cupping her face in his hands. 'Honey,' he murmured, his lips moving against her ear, her soft hair brushing his skin. She smelled divine, and he breathed in the scent, reminded suddenly of his hay meadows in early summer, when they were full of the most beautiful wildflowers.
She turned her face towards him, and as her lips found his, he stopped caring about the past or the future. All that mattered was now. This was their moment.
Tenderly scooping her into his arms, he stood and carried her up the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
From somewhere far away, the phone was ringing. Eliot didn't want to answer it — he didn't want to move at all. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so contented, so relaxed.
Beside him, Honey stirred, and he reached out a hand to stroke her face. She looked peaceful. She looked beautiful. He felt a sudden fluttering of desire and had to fight the urge to kiss her. It wasn't late, but it had been a long day. Let her sleep.
Realising the phone was still ringing, he reluctantly got out of bed. If it was her father wanting an update, he would have to be extremely economical with the facts. Though, who else would ring so late? He pulled on his dressing gown, left the bedroom as quietly as he could, and headed downstairs.
'Hello?'
'Oh, er, is that Eliot?' It was a woman's voice.
Registering the cut glass tones, he felt a sudden anxiety. 'Speaking. Who is this?'
'This is Freya. Freya Carmichael. I need to speak to Honey, please.'
It wasn't a request. Unlike Cain's pleading voice, this was a command. The woman was obviously used to getting what she wanted. It was, after all, how she'd persuaded him to take Honey on, in the first place.
Honey appeared at the top of the stairs, rubbing her eyes. 'Who is it?' Her hair was messy, and she was wearing his shirt. She must have grabbed it from the end of the bed. It reached to midway down her thighs, revealing her long, slender legs, and Eliot felt the thrill of desire mixed with a lurch of fear. She was stunning, but she was dangerous.
Your mother, he mouthed.
She shook her head, looking horrified.
'Are you there?' Freya's voice was impatient. 'Can you put Honey on please? Immediately.'
'She wants to talk to you,' he said, hand over receiver.
She shook her head again, eyes wide, and he stared up at her, confused. What was it with her and her parents? Why couldn't she have a conversation with them?
'I'm sorry,' he said, lifting the receiver once more. 'She's busy at the moment. She'll probably call you back later.'
He was about to replace the phone, when her voice shrieked into his ear. 'Oh, no, you don't! Tell Honey that if she doesn't come to the phone immediately, I'll be having words with Cain about the Rolls Royce.'
Eliot looked up at a very pale looking Honey. 'She says if you don't talk to her, she'll tell your dad about the Rolls Royce.'
The effect on Honey was startling. She practically leapt down the stairs.
Eliot handed her the receiver, wondering what was going on, and what the hell he'd got himself into.
****
Eden grabbed the receiver with a shaking hand, while Eliot ran his fingers through his curls, his face concerned. 'Hello?'
'Well, it's about time,' said Honey.
Eden covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Eliot. 'It's all right, I can take it from here.'
After a moment's hesitation, he shrugged and wandered into the kitchen.
'Hello? Hello? Eden?'
'I'm here. What are you calling for? Are you crazy?'
Honey giggled. 'Maybe I am. You'll never guess where I am.'
'Don't tell me. Gretna Green. Crispin has committed bigamy, and you're all loved up in some Scottish hotel room.' She felt a sudden chill. Hell, what if that had really happened? She wouldn't put anything past Honey.
'Don't be stupid. Better than that. I'm in Skimmerdale.'
'You're — you're where?' Eden felt faint. 'You're kidding me, right?'
'No.' Honey laughed again. 'Can you think of a better way of taking the piss out of my parents than this? They insisted I come here, so here I am.'
'But why?'
'Oh, it's a long story. Anyway, can you come and meet me?'
'Meet you? Where? When?'
'I'm at some place called Hope Cottage. It's on the outskirts of Beckthwaite. It's a holiday cottage and I was awfully lucky because I got a cancellation. Cheap as chips! Anyway, I want you to come round and bring me some mineral water. I clean forgot to get some and I'm thirsty.'
'Are you for real?' Eden wondered if she was caught in some nightmare. Maybe she'd fallen asleep and would wake up any moment, to find herself wrapped in Eliot's arms, all safe and warm in his bed.
'Still, not sparkling,' Honey continued, as if Eden hadn't spoken.
Eden gripped the receiver. 'What are you playing at? What was wrong with Dorset?'
'Oh, that didn't work out. I'll explain when you get here.'
So, it hadn't worked out with Crispin? Well, that was something at least. But Honey was playing a dangerous game, particularly with James Fuller so close. God, as if things weren't complicated enough.
'Well?'
'Well, what?'
Honey tutted. 'Are you coming round with my mineral water?'
'Can't you drink tea for now? I'll see you tomorrow.'
'No. I want to see you now! Unless you'd like me to come to you?'
Eden could have cheerfully throttled her. 'All right, all right. I'll come. I should be there in about half an hour.'
'Lovely. See you then. Admit it, I've livened up your dreary day, haven't I?'
Eden replaced the receiver. If Honey only knew. She'd had the least dreary day of her life. In fact, it had been wonderful. Though, she had a feeling it was all going to be downhill from now on.
****
'For fuck's sake, can you be a bit more careful with my car! Is that how you've been driving all the time yo
u've had her?'
Eden couldn't believe Honey had the nerve to criticise her. All right, she'd pulled up outside the cottage with a squeal of brakes, but who could blame her? Her life was a total mess, and now the woman who had caused most of the chaos was standing there in nothing but a T-shirt and a pair of heels, for God's sake, having a go at her bloody driving. Unbelievable!
'What the hell are you doing here?' She grabbed Honey's arm and pulled her indoors. 'You're supposed to be in Dorset, with the feckless Crispin Cavendish. What do you think you're playing at?'
'Don't mind me,' a man's voice drawled.
Eden let go of Honey's arm and straightened up. 'Tell me you're joking.' She looked round, realising she was in a small living room, so tiny there was nothing in it but a wood burning stove, a television on the wall, and a couple of squashy sofas.
On one of the sofas, Crispin was sprawled with his hands linked behind his head, surveying her with obvious annoyance.
She shook her head and stared at Honey beseechingly. 'Why? Have you got something against me?'
'Of course not. Don't be so sensitive.' Honey threw herself on the opposite sofa to Crispin and beamed up at her. 'You've got to admit, Eden, it's one in the eye for the parents. They wanted me here. Here I am. What a hoot!'
'What was wrong with your sister's house, Crispin?' demanded Eden, sitting beside Honey, and wishing the woman would cover herself up. One wrong move and she'd be well and truly revealed in all her glory.
'Honey felt a little … stifled.'
'Stifled?'
'It was the pits,' said Honey candidly. Crispin looked offended, but Honey ignored him. 'Tiny little place. No room to swing a cat.'
Eden gaped at her. 'Have you seen the size of this room? It's hardly Buck House, is it?'
'But here I can go outside. Oh, Eden, you have no idea how awful it was to be cooped up indoors all the time. Crispin was terrified I'd be spotted, and he made me stay inside the whole time and not answer the door or go near the windows.'
She made it sound as if she'd been the victim of a kidnapping, rather than the instigator of the whole fiasco.
