The Summer House of Happiness

by Daisy James

  ‘Boys! Doesn’t she look amazing? Something good must be happening in all that sunshine they get in the South of France. Ah, Gabbie, it’s so good to see you, baby, but why didn’t you call? I would have driven over to collect you from the train station!’

  ‘Just wanted to surprise you, Dad,’ she said lightly as she snaked her arm around his waist and noticed again the few extra pounds he’d gained since their last meet-up. ‘I could murder a cup of decent coffee.’

  Gabbie raised her nose in the air and sniffed, but, for the first time ever, the aroma she had expected to be floating from the direction of the kitchen was absent.

  ‘Come on!’ Jeff laughed, his joy at the unexpected arrival of his daughter clear for anyone to see. ‘Let’s put the kettle on.’

  ‘I want you to fill me in on all the village gossip – leave nothing out!’

  Gabbie steered him towards the door that led from the garage forecourt into the kitchen of the house next door, which had been her home until she’d left for Grasse two years ago, not only to pursue her dream career, but to put as much distance between her and the place where her heart had been broken as she could.

  She had expected to be enveloped with a familiar blanket of comfort when she entered the kitchen, but other, more pressing, emotions invaded her body. Her first reaction was shock at the chaos that met her eyes. Everywhere she looked there were discarded cardboard boxes, brown-paper packages for the garage, used milk cartons, old newspapers. There was even a motorbike carburettor on the table, next to a plate of leftover crusts – which her father never ate – not to mention the pile of dirty dishes in the sink.

  It took her a few moments to locate the kettle and, as she filled it, her back to her father to conceal her shock, she noticed a pile of paperwork on the draining board. She inhaled a couple of steadying breaths, trying to formulate the right words to ask her father what was going on. Her mother, like Gabbie herself, had loved orderliness and her attitude to cleanliness had bordered on the obsessive at times, not to mention the fact that she insisted on the necessity, even in a car-maintenance business, of having a pleasant aroma at all times.

  What stopped Gabbie from blurting out her alarm at the state of the room was that, when she turned back round to face her father, she noticed an unexpected tinge of grey in his skin and decided to shelve her concerns until later. She watched as he slumped down heavily into a chair at the scarred pine table and heave a long, tired sigh, shoving the breakfast detritus away so he could prop his elbow on the table and rest his chin in the palm of his hand.

  ‘Dad, I can’t find the coffee. Don’t you usually keep it in this cupboard?’

  ‘Probably ran out. There’s a box of teabags over there in that carrier bag, I think.’

  Gabbie located the bag and the tea, failed to find the teapot and so put two chipped mugs down on the table, dislodging an old pizza box that had been balanced on top of a parcel waiting to go to the post office.

  ‘Dad? Are you okay?’

  ‘Never better, sweetheart. Oh, I’m a little tired, and perhaps it’s a bit more difficult to get under the engines these days, but now I have Max I can start to concentrate on some of the other things I may have let… well, let slide.’

  Her father shot a quick glance around the kitchen, once so pristine and tidy but now looking as though a paper bomb had exploded.

  ‘So, anyway, enough about me. To what do I owe the pleasure of an impromptu visit from my globe-trotting daughter? Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to have you home…’ Jeff reached across to squeeze her hand. ‘…But I wasn’t expecting to see you until I flew out to France in October.’

  ‘I just wanted…’

  On the plane, Gabbie had rehearsed what she was going to say to her father when he asked this question. She knew he would be upset about her quitting what he thought was her dream job without having a plan in place for what she was going to do next. She’d intended to tell him the truth because she had no idea how long she would be staying in Oakley, how long it would take her to work out where she was going, or to find a new position. However, seeing the extent to which his grip on housekeeping and administration had deteriorated, and the way he was grasping his mug as though it held the elixir of life, she suddenly didn’t want to burden him with her problems.

  ‘…I was due a couple of weeks off from House of Gasnier and wanted to spend the time with you.’

  ‘Ah, that’s music to an old man’s ears!’

  Oh, God! Gabbie felt tears prickling at her lashes. Why was he saying that? Sixty wasn’t that old! Something was definitely going on and she was relieved that fate had seen fit to step in and send her home.

  ‘Dad, is everything okay? What are you not telling me?’

  Suddenly an explosion of pain erupted in her chest, shooting its arrows of fire down her veins like red-hot pokers. Of course – his pale complexion, his weight gain, his tiredness… no, no, no, please God, no, she couldn’t bear it. Surely life couldn’t be that cruel?

  ‘Dad?’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh, no, darling, sorry, no, it’s nothing like that!’ Jeff grabbed Gabbie’s hand between his rough, calloused palms and forced a smile onto his lips. ‘It’s just a few problems with the business that need a bit of attention, that’s all. We’ve got loads of work on, but the bank has started hassling me about turnover and whatnot. Nothing for you to worry about. Now, how about I take your suitcase upstairs and you can get settled in before I treat you to dinner at The Pear Tree?’

  ‘Dad, I can help you with the business stuff, you know that.’

  ‘No, I won’t hear of it. You work really hard in that laboratory of yours and this is your holiday. Why don’t you link up with Clara while you’re here? I know she’ll be excited about seeing you. How long is it since you two had a real girly get-together?’

  Gabbie was so relieved her father hadn’t divulged some dreadful, life-limiting illness that she felt lightheaded. A flash of pleasure erupted, mingled with a tiny grain of guilt, when she thought of her best friend, Clara, whom she hadn’t seen for four long months. She hoped Clara would forgive her for her lack of texts and emails over the last few weeks when things had been manic at House of Gasnier. She couldn’t wait to see her, to hear about what was happening in her life, and to confide in someone about what was going on in hers and ask for her always-sensible advice.

  She allowed herself a brief smile as she kissed her father’s bristly cheek on her way upstairs to freshen up. He might be one of the best mechanics in the whole county of Devon, but dealing with the garage’s accounts and finances had never been her father’s forte and he had happily left all the admin to her mother, who had handled both with ease and precision. So, if there was one thing she could do while she was home, it was sort out the paperwork – and maybe persuade him to ditch the extra pounds he had added to his frame, which, she suspected, were probably the cause of his tiredness.

  There was no way she could contemplate losing him too.

  Chapter Four

  When Gabbie woke the next day, the birds were still busy chirping the overture of their morning chorus. Shafts of ivory light streaked through a gap in the pretty rosebud curtains to dance on the sheepskin rug at the side of her bed. She remembered the day she and her mum had chosen the material and then made the curtains using the ancient black-and-gold Singer sewing machine that had belonged to her grandmother. She smiled at her recollections of that day of creativity, at the hems that had always been lopsided, at the way the whole room screamed childhood memories, every one filled to bursting with her mother’s laughter.

  She swung her feet to the floor, her toes luxuriating in the woolly rug. She picked up the silver-framed photograph on her bedside table and ran her fingertips over her mother’s features, so like her own. People often remarked on their similarities – but not so much since Sofia had passed away. That, of course, was down to Gabbie’s decision to move not just to a different town, or even the next county, but to another country
entirely, where no one knew her history so couldn’t comment on the fact that she had inherited her mother’s Italian genes in the colour of her hair and eyes, or the determined tilt of her chin, or her penchant for tidiness and order. She was simply Gabriella Andrews, would-be perfume princess, lover of seafood and the occasional bellini.

  At the time, it had been a relief to escape the sympathetic glances, the offers of casseroles and cheese quiches, the heartfelt words of condolence from friends and neighbours who were themselves grieving. But Jasmine’s observations had been spot-on; her move to the South of France, a mere three months after her mother had passed away, had meant she hadn’t taken the time to process her sorrow because, as she sat there, staring at her mother’s image, she could still feel the heavy block of concrete, cold and hard, lodged somewhere between her throat and her chest, making it difficult to breathe.

  With a sigh, she shoved her meandering memories to one side and jumped in the shower. Yet even there she felt her mother’s presence. For as long as she could remember, they had both harboured an unshakeable obsession with toiletries, from the mundane to the exotic. Soaps, bubble bath, hand wash, shower gel, shampoos, conditioners, facial scrubs, candles… you name it, they had collected them. Her mother had adored the fancy French soaps, like the one she held in her hand that smelled of gardenias, but Gabbie had always preferred the more natural aromas such as coconut, strawberry, pineapple, lemon.

  She towel-dried her hair and selected a pair of cream-linen trousers – a birthday gift from Jasmine – and a hand-knitted pink cardigan. She was about to gallop down the stairs to grab her first coffee of the day when she paused on the threshold and glanced down at her outfit. What was she doing? It wasn’t as if Jules Gasnier was going to arrive on the Andrews Autos forecourt and bawl her out for her lapse of taste. She returned to her wardrobe and pulled on a pair of jeans, her enthusiasm for the day ahead increasing in line with the comfort of her attire, not to mention the possibility of spending some time with Max… and Wil, of course.

  There was a lot of work to be done, and now she was home she intended to make herself useful. On their walk back from dinner at The Pear Tree the previous night, with her arm linked through her father’s as he boasted about his latest archery win, Gabbie had made a plan – and when she stepped into the kitchen, she was pleased she had made it the first item on her to-do list. However, she intended to move swiftly into the garage, which looked as though a metal firework had gone off. She had no idea how anyone could work surrounded by such chaos.

  She wondered what Max thought about the clutter but quickly quashed his reappearance in her thoughts. Why couldn’t she get him out of her mind? Why had his dark, come-to-bed eyes, with those long, luscious lashes she would give her eye teeth for, invaded her dreams last night?

  Locating the Jamaican coffee her father had always sworn he couldn’t start a day’s work without behind a pile of unopened Pirelli calendars from the previous year, she fixed herself a morning brew. After a few fortifying sips, she was ready to tackle the washing-up. She pulled on a pair of Marigolds, filled a bowl with hot, soapy water, found a threadbare scrubbing brush and set to work. By the time her father appeared at eight-thirty to throw open the garage doors, the kitchen was almost recognisable as the room that had wrapped her in a blanket of comfort and love as she grew up.

  ‘I’m sure I had a bottle of Coke in the fridge?’

  ‘I’ve made a fresh cafetière of your favourite coffee. Help yourself. And there’s scrambled eggs and granary toast in the oven.’

  ‘Wow! You didn’t have to do that, Gabbie.’

  ‘The Coke thing? Is that a new twist on what you and Mum always used to tell me was the most important meal of the day?’

  Jeff had the grace to blush. ‘Sorry, darling. It’s just such a hassle cooking for one. All I need in a morning is a quick injection of caffeine and I’m ready to go.’

  Gabbie rolled her eyes but enjoyed the delight on her father’s face as he settled down to devour his breakfast with gusto and drain the cafetière.

  ‘The kitchen looks amazing! Thank you for clearing up – I was actually going to get round to it today. So, now you’ve completed the household chores, you definitely deserve to take some time out for yourself. Give Clara a call. I know she’ll be pleased to hear you’re back.’

  ‘I think I’ll give it a couple of days,’ Gabbie hedged, suddenly unsure about subjecting herself to Clara’s famously razor-sharp enquiries that always got to the crux of anything that festered beneath the surface. There were no secrets when Clara was around and while she was keen to share what had happened in Grasse, she also wanted to be able to present her friend with a well-researched strategy for what she was going to do next – and she didn’t have one.

  ‘Okay. Right, sitting here won’t get Gordon Fielding’s MOT sorted out. I’m going into town this afternoon – do you want to come along?’

  ‘No, thanks. I thought I’d sort out the garden.’

  ‘I told you, you don’t have to do any of that stuff – you’re on holiday. Relax, read, do whatever you do when you have downtime in France. Perhaps you could… No, never mind. Catch you later, sweetheart. Love you.’

  ‘Love you too, Dad.’

  Gabbie hugged her father, breathing in the lemony body wash he used in the shower that still clung to his skin at the end of the day despite the onslaught of exhaust fumes. As he opened the door between the kitchen and the garage, she noticed there was a discernible spring in his step, as though his hearty breakfast had delivered a surge of energy with which to tackle the day ahead.

  As she finished the washing-up and returned the crockery to its rightful place, she knew what he had been about to suggest and why he had pulled back from pursuing it when he’d seen the fear in her eyes.

  Even now, two years on, it was the one place she could never go, the place she had to avoid at all costs in order to keep her sanity intact – and she certainly had no intention of going there the morning after she had arrived.

  In fact, she could see the pitch of the summerhouse roof beneath the cherry tree from where she stood, elbow-deep in suds, so she studiously averted her eyes to focus on the garden, and the grass that was so overgrown she wouldn’t have been surprised to find Doctor Livingstone lurking about in there. After she had mowed the lawn, she would take a stroll to the village shop to see Martha and ask for her suggestions for a healthy supper.

  She slotted her feet into an old pair of flower-bedecked wellies and spent the next few hours communing with nature, taking care to keep her back firmly towards the summerhouse. When her neck and shoulders began to object to the unfamiliar physical exertion, she made a plate of salad sandwiches, but when she checked her watch she realised her father would have left for town already. She fingered the phone in her pocket, battling the urge to call Jean-Pierre or Fleurette for an update on life at House of Gasnier, but she knew that whatever they said would upset her, so she tossed it on the kitchen table and sauntered into the garage.

  That morning there were three vehicles in the workshop, two jacked up for easy access to the chassis and the third, the lipstick-red E-Type Jag Max had been working on the previous day, parked in the far corner. On closer inspection, the iconic car might have seen better days as far as the paintwork was concerned, but the leather seats had been replaced and the chrome metalwork shone under the overhead lights.

  A radio tinkled a cheerful tune in the background, providing the cadence for the day, and Gabbie inhaled a lungful of that special scent that caused her senses to sparkle. If she had confessed her love of Castrol GTX to her colleagues back in Grasse they would have looked at her askance. But that’s what some aromas did to people – sent their memories zooming back to happier times, whether it was freshly mown grass, warm buttered toast, newly laundered sheets, or the waft of wax furniture polish.

  ‘Don’t just stand there! Pass me the wrench! And this time, don’t drop it on my hand!’

  Gabbie bristled. While
she had no objection to being a mechanic’s mate, and would welcome the diversion if she were honest, she did object to being ordered around, even if Max had acquired the badge of her father’s new right-hand man.

  ‘Wil! Did you hear me?’

  Max slid out from under the Jag, his face covered in random splatters of dirt and oil, the top of his overalls rolled down to reveal his taut abs and impressive biceps beneath a tight black T-shirt. Despite her irritation, Gabbie couldn’t prevent a gasp of appreciation from escaping her lips. Wow! She felt like she was an extra in a remake of Grease!

  ‘Oh, sorry. I thought you were Wil. He promised he was going to get the first-aid box, but it looks like he’s decided to disappear instead. I really don’t know how your dad managed to run this place with Wil in tow. He’s a complete liability!’

  Max pushed himself up to standing and inspected his arm where a two-inch-long gash oozed blood. He lowered his lips and sucked the blood away, a gesture that caused an uncomfortable feeling in Gabbie’s lower abdomen.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Wil thought he’d imitate his favourite cocktail waiter while he waited for his next set of instructions. Circus clown, more like. Anyway, the wrench slipped out of his hand and I have this trophy to show for it.’

  ‘Whose is the Jag?’

  Max raised his eyebrows and those tiny dimples appeared again. ‘Like it?’

  ‘I love it.’

  ‘Really? I thought you’d prefer some little French number, like a Citroen 2CV or maybe an Alpha Romeo for driving at speed along the Corniche.’

  ‘Well, that just shows how little you know about me, doesn’t it?’ Gabbie retorted, for some reason annoyed by the continual unfavourable assumptions Max seemed to make about her. ‘Have you forgotten I’m the daughter of a car obsessive? I grew up listening to bedtime stories from car-maintenance manuals and hearing about the workings of the internal combustion engine. As with people, when it comes to cars, it’s not what’s on the outside that matters, but what’s underneath the bonnet.’