The Summer House of Happiness

by Daisy James

  ‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry,’ sighed Jasmine, her dark eyes scouring Gabbie’s face, distress and sympathy written clearly across her expression. ‘So, what are you going to do? You’ll walk into another job, I’m sure of it. Hey, why don’t you come with me and Marco to Antigua next month for the Caribbean 600 yacht race? We’ll have a ball!’

  Gabbie’s heart squeezed at Jasmine’s support and generosity. It was a kind offer, but even if she had wanted to join them, she couldn’t afford the flight and nor did she have enough funds to cover her half of the rent for any length of time. While she knew Jasmine wouldn’t even blink an eye at paying the full cost herself until she got back on her feet, she couldn’t allow her friend to do that. She had always paid her way and that wasn’t going to change.

  So what was she going to do?

  It wasn’t hard to come up with the answer. She would go home to Devon, a place she loved but which, after her mother’s death, held so many painful memories. Apart from the last couple of months, when she had been working flat-out on her summer fragrance, she had made it a priority to meet up with her father in London, because she knew how difficult it was for him to leave the garage and fly to France. She missed him tremendously, and some of the best times she’d had were when he had flown over to Nice and they’d spent the weekend together, sitting at a pavement café, sipping espressos and soaking up the sunshine, watching the beautiful people promenade and the sleek, shiny yachts glide across the sparkling water of the bay.

  She knew he too was still grieving for her beloved mother, but the last time she had seen him, at the beginning of summer, she’d noticed that the sunken shadows underneath his crinkly blue eyes had softened. Relief had rippled through her – after all, he was the only family she had left and she worried about him all the time; about how hard he worked, how much he fretted about his car-maintenance empire and the maelstrom of paperwork and red tape that went with running a small business. When she had mentioned his more relaxed demeanour, her father had told her he’d taken on a new mechanic to help him meet increased demand and to step up as his deputy while he was sunning himself on the French Riviera.

  It had been one of the most enjoyable, carefree weekends she had spent with him, chatting about her mum, reminiscing about the hours Gabbie had spent with her in the cream-painted summerhouse in the back garden, laughing at the myriad concoctions the two of them had come up with to relieve the strain of her cancer treatment, but some of which had just made Sofia feel more nauseous. Gabbie wished with all her heart that she’d had the benefit of her GIP training during that difficult time, when she had yearned to create a fragrance, an aroma, a scent, a lotion, anything that could alleviate her mother’s suffering, even for a short time.

  With some difficulty, she dragged her thoughts back to the present and smiled at Jasmine. ‘A trip to Antigua sounds wonderful, Jazz, but I’ve decided to go home. I miss Dad, and I know he misses me too but doesn’t want to stand in the way of me pursuing my dreams. I even miss the garage, would you believe, and maybe this is fate giving me a gentle nudge in that direction, telling me it’s time to face my demons head-on, instead of giving them headroom where they can relax and be pampered. If I do that then maybe I’ll be able to move on and find someone to share my life with, like you have with Marco.’

  ‘An excellent plan! I’m sorry about what happened with Jules Gasnier, Gabbie, but if it means you’re going to have the time and space to work through your grief at last, instead of hiding from it under the guise of a manic work schedule, then it’s the best thing that could have happened to you – and I know Jeff is going to be overjoyed to have you home. Hey, maybe Marco and I can call in when we come over for the Royal Regatta?’

  Gabbie laughed for the first time that day. Jasmine always had her mood-o-meter switched to positive and she knew her friend’s influence had a huge impact on her life. She and Marco had been there to celebrate every accolade she had achieved with her perfumes, every namecheck in the trade press and glossy magazines, not to mention the fact that Jasmine insisted on wearing nothing else but her creations! She would miss her friend’s talent for introducing a little ray of sunshine into the darkest of days, and resolved to ensure they stayed in touch, even if an ocean separated them. Friends like Jasmine, and Clara, her best friend at home, were just too precious to lose.

  ‘I’d love to see you and Marco in Devon – and so would Dad!’

  ‘Then it’s a date. Gabbie, you know what I’m always telling you, yes? When one door closes, another is ready to be flung open! I know you thought House of Gasnier was your dream job, but dreams can and do change, you know, and being back home will help you figure out what the next stage of your life has in store – professionally and romantically. Sofia would never have wanted you to shy away from finding someone who makes your heart sing – because that’s exactly what she found with Jeff.’

  Gabbie knew her friend was right. No matter how confused she felt at the sudden turn of events that had resulted in her resignation, nothing came close to the pain she still nurtured in her heart and carried with her every day, no matter where she chose to make her life. It was time she worked on coming to terms with her loss, just as her father was, and allowing someone into her heart again.

  Chapter Three

  The journey from Nice airport to her childhood home in Devon passed in a blur of frenetic activity. She had flung everything she couldn’t bear to part with into a suitcase, then told Jasmine she could keep what she wanted from whatever remained and take the rest to the homeless charity which the two of them, along with Marco, had raised money for in a canoe race the previous month during one of her rare days off.

  When she arrived at Gatwick she had stupidly glanced in the bathroom mirror and a jolt of shock reverberated around her body. The previous day she had faced the world – albeit courtesy of Jasmine – looking polished and elegant in a pair of Louboutins and a three-hundred-euro dress. Now look at her – she looked as if she’d been dragged through Customs on the back of a tractor! Her hair was no longer pinned in a sleek mahogany chignon but had ballooned into a candyfloss mess.

  However, Gabbie didn’t care what she looked like. Until she had relocated to France, sartorial perfection had been low on her list of priorities. She much preferred to sport a pair of comfortable old dungarees, more than likely enhanced with a splodge of oil from when she had helped her father change an exhaust or fit a new clutch. Sadly, jeans were frowned upon at House of Gasnier and she’d been towed around the boutiques in Grasse by Jasmine, who’d been intent on giving her a lesson in French couture. She hadn’t argued because her theory had always been that if she kept busy, even if it was shopping for dresses – something that had never hung in her wardrobe – there would be no time to contemplate the grenades life had strewn in her path.

  She had utilised her time during the flight back to the UK to formulate a believable explanation for her impromptu visit home. Her father had mentioned, only in passing, that the finances at the garage were squeezed, and the last thing she wanted to do was cause him any additional anxiety over the fact that she no longer had a source of income. Despite this complication, she was looking forward to being back.

  Yet, Oakley would never be the same ‘home’ as the one that still existed so vibrantly in her thoughts. How could it be when one of the most precious people in her world was no longer there?

  Shoving her anguish into the dark crevices of her mind, Gabbie smiled brightly at the monosyllabic taxi driver who picked her up at the station and settled down to enjoy the familiar ride through the Devonshire countryside. When, twenty minutes later, she caught her first glimpse of the white-painted signpost declaring Oakley’s award for Best Village in Bloom – something her mother had loved to be a part of – she almost unravelled. She squirmed at the thought of succumbing to tears in the taxi, but surely it was better than the alternative scenario – to feel nothing at all, to be cold and unmoved by life’s tragedies, wading through life like som
e kind of automaton?

  She paid the driver, watched him screech off to collect his next victim of the silent treatment, and inhaled a steadying breath, taking a few moments to cast her eyes around the place that had been her home for twenty-one years. No matter how hard she had tried to block out this image of bucolic beauty and replace it with an equally picturesque image of Grasse, she had never quite managed it.

  Her heart hummed with affection. The village had once been selected as the setting for a TV murder-mystery drama and the locals hadn’t stopped dropping the fact into dinner-party conversations ever since. It was no surprise it had been a star performer, with its thatched roofs, painted window boxes bursting with scarlet geraniums, and the welcoming allure of the village pub – The Pear Tree. However, for Gabbie, it was the people who made the place so special. Every single one of the residents had rallied round to support her and her father in their hour of need; in fact, they still did.

  An upsurge of emotion tightened her throat as her eyes were drawn to the church on the other side of the village green, but she just didn’t have the courage to linger on what had happened within its walls. She hitched her canvas bag higher up her shoulder, hooked her fingers around the handle of her wheelie suitcase, and fixed her gaze on the sign in front of her. Immediately the corners of her mouth perked upwards.

  Jeff Andrews Autos.

  For the first time, she noticed that the blue-and-silver paint had started to peel like sunburnt skin and a couple of the letters were missing. When had that happened? Further inspection revealed that the double doors, currently flung wide open in an expansive and welcoming gesture, could also do with a fresh coat of paint, and there was a tangle of weeds sprouting from the hanging baskets instead of the pale-pink fuchsias her mother had planted every year as part of the RHS Britain in Bloom competition.

  Gabbie cringed. Had Andrews Autos let the side down this year?

  She stepped onto the forecourt that had been her playground and classroom for as long as she could remember. The familiar tang of engine oil, mingled with a soupcon of rusty nail and the freshly ground coffee her father loved, invaded her nostrils and caused her lips to curl even higher. Some people loved the smell of roses, or perhaps the whiff of lavender or recently mown grass, but for her the aroma of old engine oil caused her memories to scoot back to her childhood, to the happy times when she had performed the role of mechanic’s mate in her father’s beloved garage.

  By the age of six she could name every make and model of vehicle, and at eleven could deliver a confident diagnosis of potential engine faults. She had been Jeff Andrews’ secret weapon when the car repairs were behind schedule because a part had taken ages to arrive from the manufacturer – for who could get annoyed with a cute eleven-year-old dressed in her own oily dungarees, her chestnut-brown ringlets tied back in a red handkerchief, and waving a spanner like a magic wand? She had never had the slightest interest in playing with dolls or wearing pretty dresses, preferring to climb trees or race the local boys down to the river where she could swing from the branches with the best of them.

  So engrossed was she in her memories that she had failed to notice the mechanic wiping his hands on an oily rag and surveying her from beneath the longest, darkest eyelashes she had ever seen on a guy. When their eyes met, she was surprised at the way sparks of electricity shot through her veins and rippled out to her fingertips.

  ‘Hi, there. Can I help you?’ asked the Adonis, striding out to greet her with a wide smile on his face, causing a pair of cute dimples to bracket his surprisingly full lips. He smirked when he caught her eyes lingering on his mouth and heat seeped into her cheeks.

  God! What was the matter with her? She swallowed quickly, astonished to find her throat was dry, mortified when her words came out of her mouth in a strangled squeak.

  ‘Oh, I… erm…’

  ‘You know, if you need the help of a garage mechanic, you really should bring the vehicle with you!’ Even the guy’s chuckle was music to her ears.

  ‘Yes, I…’

  Gabbie couldn’t remember the last time she had been tongue-tied in front of anyone, even someone as handsome as the man standing in front of her – who was clearly revelling in the effect he was having on her, which made her feel even more awkward. What was going on? It was as though her heart – and body – had taken on lives of their own, taunting her brain to pull them back into line like a pair of naughty schoolchildren.

  ‘And before we go any further, let me ask you this. Have you checked the fuel gauge? I know how inconvenient it is, but engines don’t run on fresh air, you know. You do have to top them up with petrol occasionally.’

  The man laughed as he tossed the oily rag onto the bonnet of the gorgeous, lipstick-red E-Type Jaguar he had been working on before she arrived. He turned back to face her, hands on his hips, confident in his environment and clearly taking her for a typical woman driver who had as much idea how the internal combustion engine worked as how to split the atom.

  ‘I’m not here for car repairs,’ Gabbie managed, casting a quick glance round the cathedral-like room where, apart from the Jaguar, there was a Volvo, a Fiat 500 and a Ford Transit van jacked up over the inspection pits.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s all that’s on offer here… for the moment.’

  The way he said the last three words sounded like liquid caramel flowing over chocolate ice cream and caused sparkles of desire to shoot through Gabbie’s abdomen and southwards. She watched him reach up to run his fingertips through the quiff at his forehead and scratch at the back of his neck. At last able to bring her errant emotions under control, she almost laughed out loud. Had she somehow inadvertently stumbled upon a rehearsal for a Diet Coke ad?

  Despite the fact that his navy-blue overalls had seen better days and were liberally dotted with splodges of oil, the uniform suited him perfectly. The sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows to reveal a smattering of golden hairs on his forearms and he clearly worked out because his biceps stretched the fabric covering his upper arms to bursting point. However, the image of photographic perfection was tempered by the distinct whiff of creosote which seemed to emanate from his direction, which, for other women, might have proved a mood dampener. Shame she wasn’t one of those women, because she felt the pull of physical attraction strengthen.

  Suddenly, conveniently, she remembered his name. Max Fitzgerald. But from the way her father had described his new deputy when they had met in London at the end of June, she had pictured him much older than in his early thirties – and a lot less like a Fifties’ matinée idol! Perhaps she should have quit her job at House of Gasnier sooner!

  ‘Hey! The wanderer returns! Welcome back!’ came an excited voice from the office whose window onto the forecourt had been blocked by a tottering pile of cardboard boxes. ‘I didn’t know you were coming home!’

  ‘Wil! Great to see you!’

  Gabbie enjoyed the confusion on Max’s face as she hugged the guy her father had taken on as a trainee when he’d failed every one of his GCSEs after his father’s death in a road-traffic accident ten years ago. He wasn’t the best mechanic in the world but their customers loved his cheeky grin and his insistence on accompanying their MOT invoices with a cupcake whipped up and decorated with his own fair hands. Unsurprisingly, the generous gesture had increased business and Wil could usually be heard extolling the virtues of coupling cars and cupcakes to anyone who queried the business model.

  ‘How’s your mum?’ Gabbie asked.

  ‘She’s doing fine. She’ll be so pleased to hear you’ve made it home for a visit – what’s it been? Three, four months? She’s just back from a girls’ trip to Majorca with Aunt Helen. Loved it – even threatening to take a Spanish conversation class at the high school next month, would you believe!’

  ‘Sounds like a great idea.’

  ‘It would be if she wasn’t insisting on dragging me along to do my maths and English exams again.’

  Wil pulled an expression of di
sgust, as if his whole world had ended, before realising that Max had been staring at them with amused curiosity for the entire conversation.

  ‘Ah, yes, sorry. Max, this is Gabriella Andrews – she’s a famous agriculturist.’

  Gabbie couldn’t prevent a burst of laughter from erupting at the look of surprise on Max’s face.

  ‘I think what Wil meant to say was aromatherapist. But I’m not famous, and I’m not an aromatherapist! In fact, I’m not even…’ She had been about to spill all the intricate details of her spontaneous resignation but managed to haul in her urge to divulge the story just in time.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Gabbie. Sorry I didn’t recognise you earlier. Jeff didn’t mention he was expecting you.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m, well…’

  For a fleeting moment, Gabbie had the sensation that Max knew exactly why she had arrived in Oakley unannounced. His eyes, the colour of espresso coffee, held hers for slightly longer than necessary, causing her to feel flustered and self-conscious. How did he do that?

  ‘It’s actually a surprise. Where is Dad?’

  ‘Ahh, it’s my favourite girl!’

  Gabbie’s father appeared on the forecourt, his arms outstretched, a grin splitting his cheeks. She rushed into his embrace, leaning her head on his chest as he stroked her hair, like she’d done a thousand times before, listening to his heart beating. As she pulled back to meet his eyes, she struggled to conceal her shock.

  It had only been eight weeks since she had seen him last and, while his hair was as luxuriously silver and bouffant as it had always been, his blue eyes just as bright and clear, what she hadn’t been prepared for was the expanded waistline and hint of a double chin. A kernel of concern sprouted in her chest as she also detected a rasp of breathlessness caused by the exertion of launching himself across the forecourt upon spotting her arrival.

  Max and Wil were watching their reunion with diverse reactions; Wil’s face was swathed in pleasure and excitement at her unexpected visit, while Max’s expression held curiosity and a soupcon of suspicion.