The Artist and Me
Page 12
“It’ll be great.” Alison leaned across and kissed her husband on the cheek. “We can really start living again.”
Gabe pulled a face at Becky.
Becky jabbed her finger into her open mouth in an I’m-going-to-be-sick gesture.
But inside, Gabe was thrilled their parents were getting on so well. The stress of full-time, high-powered jobs had taken its toll on everyone over the last few years and this new, relaxed atmosphere, with no arguing and no stressing, would be much more conducive to studying.
“Is that it?” Becky asked, pointing to a thatched roof growing visible beyond a sloped meadow dotted with sheep.
“Yep, that’s our new home.” Alison rubbed her hands together and bounced on the seat. “Isn’t it fabulous?”
“The removal van has beaten us to it.” Reg pointed at the large blue van with Target Removals written in white down the side. “I’m surprised about that.”
Gabe leaned forward and gripped the back of Alison’s seat. “Well, you’re hardly Lewis Hamilton burning up the racetrack, Dad.”
“Hey, I’m a safe driver, that’s why it takes me a bit longer. Better late than never, that’s my motto. But on these narrow lanes, I’m amazed the removal van made it through at all. I’ve been worrying about that. Not only are they incredibly dangerous, these tiny roads, they’re also designed for tractors and four-wheel drives.”
The car wheels crunched onto the wide gravel driveway of Culver Cottage Café, the engine died and they came to a sudden, quiet halt next to the van.
Nobody spoke.
Not a word.
They were all completely silent as they stared out of the car windows at the idyllic white cottage that now belonged to them.
The thick-thatched roof wound around an enormous brick chimney pot and lifted lazily, like eyebrows, over the top two windows. A small attic window jutted to the left of the chimney, both panes wide open, a forgotten net curtain flapping in the salty breeze. Over a red front door, central to the main body of the cottage, wooden pillars supported a crooked thatched porch. The door was flanked with two delicate but large leaded bay windows, one of which had a blue sign reading Closed—Ar Gau, indicating that it was the front room used for serving tea, coffee, cakes and ice cream. To the left of the cottage, a one-story extension had been added. It was also painted white and had matching windows but the roof was red tiled as opposed to thatched and it had large French doors leading onto a circular side patio.
“Look at the garden.” Alison broke the awestruck silence. “It’s even more stunning than I remembered.”
Gabe turned to the curved front garden, complete with bubbling stream, picket fence and small orchard backing onto the meadow.
“The apples trees look fit to burst,” Alison said. “We’ll be selling apple pies, apple jam, apple crumble and apple tart before we know it.”
“Apples for breakfast, lunch and dinner… Great.” Reg laughed. “I can hardly wait.”
“Let me at that hammock,” Becky said, shoving open the car door and letting in the screech of a lone gull. “First one to claim it gets it all week.” Gravel scattered under her feet as she leaped out.
“Not so fast, young lady,” Reg called, opening his own door and rooting in his pocket for the new set of keys. “You need to direct things up to your bedroom before you go lounging around in the sunshine.”
Gabe watched his sister jut out her hip and make a feeble protest. Then he unfolded from the car, locked his fingers and stretched them high above his head to release his aching spine. He dropped his black wraparound shades over his eyes and peered up the hill. He could make out six dove-gray, stone cottages terraced under one long slate roof. They had steep back gardens leading down to the rambling ruined walls of the castle. Elle lived in the end one. The one with three bits of washing on the line, that was her home, that’s where she was, so close.
“I thought we’d discussed this already.” Becky gently rested her hand on his forearm.
He looked into her dark-brown eyes, the deep conker color identical to his own. “I just can’t remember what the reasons were,” he said with a frown. “Why I shouldn’t just head up there now.”
“You have to play it cool, remember? You can’t go rushing to her doorstep the minute we arrive.” Becky let out a weary sigh. “It makes you look too desperate, too needy. Girls don’t like that.”
Gabe was about to mention that he was desperate, he was needy, but he thought better of it. He could do without another long lecture from his sister about the workings of the female mind.
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About the Author
Hannah Kay is a nineteen year old college student at Mississippi State University. She enjoys reading countless books at a time, performing with choirs and writing anything from fanfiction to poetry.
Email: hannahkaywrites@gmail.com
Hannah loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.finch-books.com.