The Summer of Second Chances

by Maddie Please

  ‘OK, but I did promise I’d let him know when I saw you. Bryn will be really cross with me if you disappear again.’

  ‘I’m going to go straight back there.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘It’s half past three. I’m going to try and ring Bryn at five o’clock. If you haven’t turned up I’ll kill you. Well I won’t actually kill you but you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do.’

  She walked to the car with me and hugged me.

  ‘I think you’re pretty important to Bryn,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen him quite so upset about anything.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Don’t hurt him, will you?’

  I shook my head; I couldn’t seem to speak. Hurt him? I wouldn’t do that for the world.

  ‘Take care,’ she said, ‘and let me know what’s happening.’

  CHAPTER 23

  Chrysanthemum – cheerfulness and truth

  As I drove towards Holly Cottage I saw Greg’s white van pass me in the other direction. He and two other men were crammed into the front seat, smoking and laughing, and I don’t think they can have realised it was me. I was rather pleased to see them go. I didn’t want to have yet more complicated and potentially embarrassing conversations. My phone rang and I pulled into a lay-by to answer it, almost wishing I still smoked too so that I could open the window, have a leisurely cigarette and calm down.

  ‘Miss Calder?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘This is Paul Smith from A.J. Smith Jewellers in Stokeley, I’ve been trying to contact you about your jewellery and the clock you brought in.’

  I thought for a moment and then the penny dropped.

  ‘Yes. It’s rubbish, is that what you’re going to tell me?’

  ‘Not at all. I mean, as a rule the value of contemporary jewellery is little more than scrap value. Unless there is an exceptional provenance. Connections with royalty, famous historical personages. Even so there may be a few hundred pounds that can be realised if that’s what you wish? But there is a jewellery and objets auction coming up in a couple of weeks at Bonhams in Exeter which might be of interest. Could you spare a few minutes to come in to speak with me about it?’

  ‘Yes, of course. When were you thinking of?’

  ‘Now would be simply perfect, madam.’

  I knew he was known as young Mr Smith, but really he spoke like a country gent from the 1950s. I imagined him tall and very spare, in a tweed suit with a checked Tattersall shirt, a spaniel fidgeting at his side waiting for an evening walk.

  I turned the car round, drove into the town and parked. It was late afternoon and mild for November. The school buses from Exeter had just arrived in the main square and school children were meandering towards me, bashing each other with their backpacks and calling abuse across the street.

  I made my way to the jewellers, reassuring myself with the thought that no matter how bad things had been, no matter how bad things might get, at least I didn’t ever have to go to school again. Then I remembered about the seasonal vacancies in Superfine. Damn, I bet they would have all been filled by now. I should call in and find out.

  As I passed the café where I had first noticed the loss of my ring, I looked in through the window. Through the steamed-up glass I could see Gin was still there, wiping a table with her usual ineffective style. Although to be accurate it looked as though she was just encouraging the scraps from the tables onto the floor. I wondered if somewhere in a dusty, crumb-filled corner my ring was becoming part of a tumbleweed of fluff. Perhaps I should go in and ask if she had found my ring, but at the last minute I decided not to. I don’t know why; it would have been as though I was dragging something from my past into my future and I didn’t like the feeling. I started to walk away.

  At that moment my attention was drawn to the door of the café as the bell pinged and an elderly couple stepped out onto the pavement.

  The man spoke, his voice strangely familiar. ‘You stay here, dear, while I get the car, it’s far too cold for you to be out in this awful wind.’

  ‘Oh, Simon, really, it’s fine…’ The woman laughed indulgently as he strode away down the street.

  My head swivelled round in astonishment to look at her.

  ‘Susan?’

  Susan turned and our eyes met.

  ‘Ah, Charlotte. How are you? Thank you for your letter and the flowers. I hope the money will help?’ She didn’t seem half as bothered as I was. In fact she seemed almost to be preening herself.

  I looked down the road, rather incredulous.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course it will, I’m very grateful. That was Doctor Hawkins, wasn’t it?’

  She pulled on her leather gloves. ‘Simon? Hmm, yes it was.’

  My mind was in a spin. The woman in front of me looked like the younger, healthier sister of the woman I had known. Susan had put on some much needed weight and was dressed in a smart, dark red coat with a fur collar, a vivid silk scarf at her neck. Her eyes were bright and she looked odd. What was it? No, she didn’t look odd, she looked happy.

  I stood in front of her, unable to think what to say. Susan saved me the bother.

  ‘We’ve become such good friends,’ she said. ‘He’s been looking after me. Since that day when you took me to see him.’

  Ah yes, the house visit. Good grief!

  A dark car pulled up and Susan moved towards it. Dr Hawkins got out of the car and stepped smartly round to open the door for her.

  ‘Little Lottie! Well, what a coincidence!’ he said. He grabbed my arm and gave me a smacking kiss on one cheek. ‘How lovely to see you. How are you?’

  ‘Fine. Fine thanks.’

  ‘In you get, Susie, the heated seat is on,’ he said.

  Susan got into the car and favoured me with an almost mischievous smile as she fastened her seat belt and Dr Hawkins shut her door.

  ‘A wonderful lady,’ he said. ‘I’m so glad you brought her in that day. Means the world to me. I must be off. Lovely to see you.’

  As he skipped around to the other side of the car, Susan lowered her window.

  ‘Well, all the best, Charlotte,’ she said.

  She gave me a little wave; it was like confronting Dame Helen Mirren in the high street. I watched open mouthed as they drove away. Flipping heck.

  After a moment I carried on to the jeweller’s shop where an assistant was starting to take the glittering trinkets out of the window display and packing them into a plastic box.

  Young Mr Smith was waiting for me, and his face lit up when I introduced myself.

  ‘Come into my office,’ he said. ‘I’ve made tea.’

  He was nothing like I had expected. He was about sixty-five, short, very stout and had a faint tinge of blue about his mouth that spoke of heart problems. He poured tea, investigated the biscuit tin with some enthusiasm and then got to the point.

  ‘As I said, the jewellery you brought in might realise a reasonable sum, but it would be largely scrap value, except the necklace which has some pretty stones in it. There’s a quite nice Ceylonese sapphire in this ring. No, it’s this clock that interests me,’ he said. He had it on the desk next to him and he touched it with a gentle hand as he spoke. ‘It’s very exciting.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Could I ask where you got it?’

  ‘My grandmother left it to me. She died when I was a baby. But she wasn’t wealthy. I mean, she didn’t have a house full of treasure.’

  ‘No connection with France at all?’

  I thought about it. ‘My grandfather went to Italy during the war, but nothing apart from that.’

  ‘And his parents? Not known to go to France?’

  ‘My great grandfather fancied himself an artist. He might have gone to France I suppose. My mother had a couple of paintings he had picked up on his travels. Montmartre, a ghastly sentimental one of a girl with some ducks, you know the sort of thing. They weren’t very good though.’

  ‘Yes,’ young Mr Smith puffed, ‘tha
t might explain it.’

  ‘Explain what?’

  ‘This clock is French. Hadn’t you noticed it’s by Cartier?’

  ‘Yes, but I thought it was a fake.’

  He shook his head and picked up my grandmother’s clock. It looked small and delicate in his pudgy hands.

  ‘Art Deco, white enamel, onyx base. 1924 or 1925? It’s filthy, of course, it needs a good clean. I hate to ask, but was this left to you in a written will? I mean, you have proof that it is in fact yours?’

  ‘Yes, my sister received a painting and I had the clock.’

  He turned back to look at the clock and smiled at it rather fondly. ‘But it’s lovely. Just lovely. It’s a fine example; I think it should be sent to Bonhams in Exeter. I’d like them to take a look at it.’

  ‘I had it on the mantelpiece for years, and since I moved here I’ve kept it in my sitting room. It’s a good job I brought it in to you. I’ve just had a flood and the ceiling came down.’

  He gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Yes, that is a happy coincidence.’ He coughed and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. He wiped his mouth. ‘Not happy that your ceiling came down, obviously, but that this little tinker wasn’t damaged. It may be worth a fair sum.’

  I bit my lip. I felt like laughing. ‘What do you mean by a fair sum?’

  ‘Well nothing’s ever certain and of course the piece needs some investigation and some judicial cleaning. But certainly in excess of forty. Fifty with a fair wind behind it. Particularly if the Internet gets wind of it. Which of course they will.’

  ‘Fifty pounds? Well that’s nice. But I can’t believe Bonhams would be interested in that.’

  Young Mr Smith interrupted me. Patting my hand.

  ‘No, Miss Calder, my dear lady. Fifty thousand.’

  CHAPTER 24

  Holly and ivy – domestic bliss and faithfulness

  I took a quick look around the cottage. There was an almost full skip by the back door filled with the remains of the ceiling and a large number of water-soaked wood beams. Indoors, there was a great deal of mess and muddle and several dehumidifiers were on.

  It was obvious I couldn’t stay there. I would have to go back to Sophie’s house later on. Then maybe I would go and stay with my aunt? Or Jenny? But first I had to see Bryn. I couldn’t put it off any longer. I didn’t want to.

  I walked to the end of the garden. The trees were shedding their golden leaves all over the lawn and there was a smell of a bonfire somewhere. It had been an unusually warm and beautiful autumn afternoon, and now the sun was setting behind the distant hills and the sky was fading to palest lavender.

  I took in a deep breath and closed my eyes. I would leave this place soon and not return but I would never forget it. I would miss it and I would miss the person I had become here. I could move on now. Do something.

  Maybe I would keep up this way of life. Perhaps now I had money I would buy a tiny place in the middle of nowhere and become a hermit, wearing organic clothes I had woven myself on a loom, and sell my car and walk with a wooden cart to the local shop once a week and become best friends with the woman who worked there.

  Or maybe I would return to my old ways.

  Perhaps when I went to stay with my sister I would be seduced by the climate and the lifestyle in Houston. I might take up with one of the young men at Trent’s golf club. I could just imagine them; hideous plaid trousers, wide white smiles, mahogany tans. Perhaps it would be easy to live in a gated community behind high fences and manicured lawns and never again think of Holly Cottage. Maybe I would forget about the crystal clear air here and the sweeping views of the gentle hills.

  But Bryn? Would I forget him? Could I ever forget him? Would some hard-headed businessman in oil and gas who needed a decorative companion at golf club dinners but who left me to my own thoughts suit me better after all? I didn’t need to do this to myself, I’d realised that. I didn’t need to be unhappy in order to prove my independence. There was a difference between being alone and being lonely.

  My heart seemed to hurt at the prospect, my stomach flipped and I felt nauseous. Would I forget Bryn, could I?

  No, not while I lived. Not while I breathed and thought and remembered.

  Not while there were inglenook fireplaces, English gardens, the taste of red wine on a dark evening. Not while there was candlelight.

  Not while I could still think and feel and know.

  I opened the gate to Bryn’s garden. He had carried me through and into his house just a few days ago – I wasn’t sure exactly how many. When had I fallen in love with him? Was it just the other day? Was it the day he found me floundering on the floor covered in paint? Was it that magical day, September 14, when I had woken up in his bed knowing what all the fuss was about? That date was one I would remember all my life.

  I went in under the trees, kicking up the drifting leaves in front of me. All the lush foliage had gone now, the flowers had faded and died. The garden was settling down to sleep through the winter. Just the evergreens, the holly and the ivy bringing little sparks of colour to the hedges. I found a conker on the grass, still in the half case of its prickly shell. I pulled it out, smoothing my fingers over the glossy surface. Its secret beauty made me want to cry. Why was I so emotional these days? What had happened to the person I had been, who had tried to be so sensible? Instead the real me was back, clumsy and impetuous and silly. I might still be idealistic and I might have realised what the phrase ‘mind-blowing sex’ meant, but I was also somehow stronger. I didn’t want to be alone, but the prospect didn’t frighten me. I could look after myself.

  The evening air was mild and still. The garden was quiet; dusk was beginning to thicken around me. Above me one star winked in the sky, dark wisps of cloud lingered in the last light of the sunset.

  Then I saw him. The hot tub lights were on. And Bryn was in it, his back to me, his arms spread along the edge, his head bowed. The water jets were turned off; he was just sitting in the still water.

  I hesitated wondering what to do. Should I retreat, pretend I hadn’t seen him?

  I took a deep breath. No, I bloody well would not. If I was leaving, if I was not to see him again, then I would take this chance to see him alone one last time.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  He didn’t turn around at first. His back stiffened, he dropped his arms and was very still for a moment. I walked around so that I could see him.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘I wanted to see you.’

  We looked at each other, I felt immeasurably sad to think that I was losing this wonderful man.

  ‘Jess said she’d seen you. I’m so sorry, Lottie,’ he said. ‘Sorry I wasn’t straight with you about the cottage. It was the wrong thing to do. I panicked.’

  ‘It’s OK. I think I understand.’

  ‘Greg’s been here. He’s been great. They’ll have the cottage sorted in no time.’

  ‘Yes, I saw him leaving as I got here.’

  ‘Just a few days to dry the place out.’

  ‘I saw the dehumidifiers or whatever they are called.’

  I walked towards him and rested my hands on the edge of the hot tub. I was so close I could have reached out and touched him. I knew how he would feel, the smooth warmth of his skin, the hardness of the muscles underneath. I knew the scent of him now, the taste, the sound of his laugh, that little place at the base of his spine. September 14. A day that nagged at the back of my mind. I couldn’t bear it.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know. Are you OK, Lottie?’ He was watching me, his beautiful eyes filled with sadness.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  No, I’m not OK. Bryn, I’ll never be the same again. I’m lost. No one will ever say my name like you. No one will make me feel the way you do.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  I looked down and kicked at the grass growing up around the edge of the hot tub.

  ‘I don’t really know. I
’m going to see Jenny in Houston soon, she’s let me know she’s getting married. She gave me a plane ticket when she left. I can go any time and stay as long as I like. I expect she’ll want me to be a bridesmaid again.’ I gave a small, choking laugh.

  ‘That might be fun. Would you like that?’ His voice was very gentle.

  ‘I’ve no idea. I shouldn’t think so. What does it matter? What are you going to do?’

  He turned in the water towards me. The tub was flooded with dark blue light. I could see the outline of his body under the water.

  ‘I’ll keep going,’ he said. ‘What else can I do?’

  I was going to cry. My eyes filled with tears and everything blurred. I wanted to die, for this terrible pain to go away.

  Everything was very tranquil, the garden was quiet, and the only sound was the water moving.

  ‘Oh Bryn.’ I turned my head away from him. ‘I just had to come back. I had to see you. To say goodbye I suppose.’

  ‘There’s only one thing worse than seeing you so unhappy, Lottie, and that’s knowing it was my fault.’

  Then in one swift movement he reached out towards me and grabbed my arms. And pulled me into the water with him.

  Gasping, spluttering and shocked I found myself on his lap and he was kissing me as though he never wanted to stop. I started to complain and then I started laughing and so did he. And then, then of course he kissed me again.

  ‘Lottie, Lottie, don’t go,’ he said. ‘Please don’t go.’

  ‘I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go anywhere.’ I was breathless.

  September 14.

  ‘Stay here. Stay with me. We can have so much fun together. I know this isn’t the most romantic way of doing it but please stay, please, Lottie. I love you so much, I can’t bear to lose you.’

  I pulled back in his arms and looked at him. I could feel a smile spreading across my face.

  ‘You love me?’

  ‘Of course I love you. Didn’t you guess?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yes, I suppose I did, but I didn’t want to believe it. In case—’