“Do we have time for a walk down to the lake?” Jake’s remarks had stirred something inside her. So many of her memories focused on the lake at the edge of the property.
Mr. Tremmond glanced at their feet. “We’re not exactly prepared for walking. The path will be muddy after all this rain. And if my shoes are inappropriate, your high heels are doubly so.” He paused. “Do you suppose….”
Emily knew exactly what he was thinking. She went into the hallway and pulled open the small cupboard under the stairs. “Maybe some things don’t change after all.” The rack containing countless pairs of wellington boots was still there. “Think we can find a couple of pairs to fit us?”
He laughed. “Very possibly. And before you ask, I am more than capable of a stroll down to the lake, as long as we maintain a gentle pace.”
Minutes later, they walked out the back door, heading through the garden, its shrubs and trees reduced to bare branches, through the meadow where Emily used to pick wildflowers and hide in the long grass, the stony path giving way in places to patches of mud.
Before the lake came into view, Emily saw the top of the oak tree, and her throat tightened. She found her thoughts awash with memories: summer picnics beneath its spreading branches; the rope swing that Jane put up when Emily was nine; and how could she forget that fateful day when she’d decided to climb it, even after Jane had warned her not to do so?
“If they’d ever found out, they would never have allowed me down here on my own again,” she murmured to herself.
“What was that?”
She sighed. “Talking to myself.” She pointed to the tree. “The summer when I was seven, I climbed that.”
Mr. Tremmond’s eyes widened. “Was that the year when you broke your finger?”
She nodded. “Okay, so it was only my little finger, but it was my own stupid fault. I made it halfway up the tree, then I got stuck.”
“So you fell. And you didn’t tell Jane and Clare how you came to fall?”
“God, no. I told them I’d tripped on a large stone on the path, and landed badly. If I’d told them the truth, I would have been forbidden to come here.” She pointed a little further along, to where a wooden jetty stretched out over the calm waters. “This was one of my favorite places. I used to lie down on there with a book, listening to the water lapping at the wooden stumps. It was probably the most peaceful place I’ve ever known.”
“I take it Jane believed your story.”
“Yes. Well….” Emily hesitated. “I think she did.” Emily had caught a couple of sideways glances that told her maybe Jane hadn’t completely believed her tale.
Imagine what she would have thought if she’d heard the whole story.
***
From where Emily clung to the trunk of the tree, the ground looked a long, long way down. Climbing from branch to branch had been easy at first, but now that she was up there, she was well and truly stuck. She wondered if this was how cats got stuck too. Then she wondered how long it would be before the aunts started to worry about her absence, and came looking for her.
That would be it. She would spend the rest of the summer—and probably every subsequent summer—grounded, unable to leave the garden due to the long chain attached to her ankle.
Aunt Jane always said Emily had a vivid imagination.
“What are you doing up there?”
Emily was so startled by the voice, she almost fell out of the tree. Almost. She peered down at a boy, taller than she was, judging by his long legs, older too, who stood at the foot of the tree, staring up at her, grinning.
There was no way Emily was going to tell him she was stuck. “Trying to see if I can see the church from here,” she lied.
The boy smirked. “Well, you definitely won’t see it, the way you’re looking. It’s behind you.”
Right then she wanted to hit his smug face. Then a thought struck her. “You shouldn’t be here. This is private.”
He gaped at her. “What is—this tree? You can’t have a private tree. They belong to everyone.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not the tree, stupid. This bit of the lake.” Aunt Jane was always telling her to be on the lookout for people fishing in the lake, because they shouldn’t be there. The boy didn’t seem to be there to fish: there was no rod in sight.
“Oh. Okay.”
She waited for him to leave, but to her horror, he began to climb the tree.
“What are you doing? Get down.”
He ignored her and kept on climbing, moving agilely from branch to branch, with an ease that made her mad. He had no right to be there, climbing so easily, not when she was stuck and likely to starve to death before help came. By the time she’d finished admonishing herself for being an idiot to climb up in the first place, he was on the other side of the tree trunk, grinning at her.
“You’re stuck, aren’t you?”
Emily stuck out her chin. “Am not. I can get down any time I want.”
To her exasperation, he sat on the thick branch, his legs dangling, one arm curled around the trunk. “Go on then—get down.”
She glared at him. “I don’t have to get down, just because you say so.” She would have put her hands on her hips like she’d seen Aunt Clare do when she was mad at Aunt Jane, but she was too fearful of letting go of the trunk.
The boy took a good look at his surroundings. “Okay. You can’t get down that way, because the branches overhang the lake, and if you slip, you’ll be in it. The side you’re on is all right, just a bit tricky.” He pointed below her. “That’s the best way, unless you want to try and get around the trunk to my side. I think that’s not such a good idea.” Then he began to climb down.
Emily watched his descent, inwardly fuming that he made it look so easy. When he landed on his feet with a soft whump at the base of the tree, he turned his face upward to stare at her. “Your turn.”
“I’m not ready to come down yet.” Emily stuck out her chin. “I might stay up here a little longer. You can leave now.”
To her surprise, the boy shook his head. “I’m not going until you’re on the ground. So, do you want my help?”
She shook her head. “I can do it by myself, thank you very much.” But as she started to make her first tentative moves, he startled her.
“Not that way. The branches are too far apart. You’d have to hold on tight while you stretched to find a place for your feet.” His voice softened. “Look, it just feels like you’re up really high. It’s not that far, honest. You can do it, just go carefully, the way I showed you.”
Emily pressed her lips together and ignored him. A few minutes later, however, she realized he’d been right. Her feet just about touched the branch below her, and she was clinging to the higher one by her fingertips.
Then her foot slipped, she lost her grip, and Emily dropped to the ground like a stone, landing awkwardly on her hand as she tried to catch herself.
“OW!”
The boy was at her side in an instant. “Hey, are you all right?”
She gawked at him, tears of pain sliding down her cheeks. “Do I… look… all right?” She held her hand against her chest, the third finger and pinky of her left hand feeling like they were on fire. She tried to wriggle them, to make sure they weren’t broken, but a fresh wave of pain took her breath away.
“Just sit for a minute,” the boy advised. “And keep your hand still.” Then he unbuckled his brown leather belt and slid it free from the loops of his shorts. “Hold your hand up, like this.” He showed her what he meant, his hand up toward his shoulder. “Keep still.” He made a loop of his belt and buckled it, carefully slipping it over her neck and guiding her injured hand through it. She winced, and he froze, waiting until she nodded for him to continue.
Emily sat on the ground, sniffling, her fingers throbbing. When her tears had finally dried up, she knew it was time to make a move.
“Try not to move those fingers,” the boy said with a scowl. “Because if you’ve broken it
and it doesn’t set right, you’ll have people thinking you’re an alien, you know, like on TV?”
Emily gaped at him, not having the slightest clue what he was on about. She went to pull off the belt, but he stopped her. “Leave it there. At least until you get to a doctor or the hospital.”
Hospital. Just the word filled her with foreboding.
Aunt Jane is going to kill me.
When the boy attempted to walk beside her, she shrugged off his hand. “I can do it,” she told him stubbornly.
Apparently, he’d had enough of her claims, because he took her at her word and stepped back. “Fine. Just take it easy going home. Don’t want you falling again, do we?”
She managed to stammer out, “Thanks,” before leaving him and heading back through the field. The throb in her fingers was less noticeable, especially when she did as instructed and kept her hand still. As she approached the gate that marked the bottom of the garden, Emily removed the belt and shoved it between the stones that made up the garden wall. There was no way she could go home with that. It would prompt far too many questions.
***
“Emily?”
She gave a start. “Sorry, I was miles away.”
Mr. Tremmond chuckled. “You were lost in some world of your own. I merely suggested that we should really head back to the house. It’s getting dark.”
“What time is it?” Then she realized there was barely enough light to see her wristwatch. One glance at the sky was enough to show why: heavy grey clouds had rolled in, and in the distance she heard a rumble of thunder. “I think that’s our cue to head for cover.”
Quickly they headed back along the path. As they reached the house, large drops of rain began to fall, and Emily hurriedly unlocked the car. “We just made it in time.” She peered through the windscreen at the brilliant flashes across the horizon, swiftly followed by another roll of thunder.
“At least it held off for the funeral.” Then Mr. Tremmond sighed. “We’ve left our shoes in the house.”
Emily assessed the rain that was presently bouncing off the bonnet of the car. “Look, I might as well go and fetch them. I’m going to get soaked when I get to Fran’s place anyway.” She pulled on the handle to open the door, but he stopped her.
“You’ll need the key. I locked up after us.”
Emily nodded, took the bunch of keys and dove from the car into the pouring rain. She ran up to the front door and stood under the eaves, trying to remember which key unlocked it. Finally, she was inside, her hair, dress and jacket dripping on the warm-colored stone tiles that covered the floor of the hallway. Instead of going to the cupboard where they’d left their shoes, she stood still and closed her eyes.
If I concentrate hard enough, maybe I can still hear their voices.
She knew it was madness. Logic told her it was impossible—hadn’t she left them both in the cemetery that morning? —but it didn’t stop her hoping, maybe for some fragment of memory to surface, to grant her the illusion just this once.
There were noises, but not the ones she craved. Thunder shook the windows, and the rain beat out its steady rhythm against the glass. Any voices would have been drowned out, lost in Nature’s concerto. She wanted to linger there a while longer, but she was conscious of Mr. Tremmond awaiting her in the car. Hurriedly she grabbed both pairs of shoes and headed for the front door. She paused at the threshold to take one last look. There was always the possibility that Phillip would win, and that she wouldn’t get to see the inside of this place again.
So many memories. As she stood there, she realized what was missing—the ticking of the grandfather clock. Its pendulum hung motionless, the little carved mice at rest.
Maybe if Phillip does get the house, he might let me have the clock. Then a thought occurred to her. If the circumstances were reversed, would she let him have something he wanted from the house?
It was a tough call. It didn’t help matters that there was a fair degree of animosity between them, but that shouldn’t be called into question: Jane was his mother, after all. In the end she concluded that it would depend entirely on what he wanted, how he asked for it—and her mood when he asked her.
Phillip had a proven track record of rubbing her up the wrong way.
She locked the door and made a dash for the car. When she fastened her seatbelt, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her shoulder length dark brown hair hung limply, almost plastered to her head. “I look like a drowned rat,” she muttered as she switched on the car engine.
“Seeing as the only person—apart from myself—likely to see you in such circumstances is Frances, I hardly think it matters.”
Seeing as she intended to slip into some toasty warm pajamas for the rest of the night, her feet tucked into her worn but comfy bunny slippers, Emily knew he was right. The lure of Fran’s fireplace with its fire piled high with logs, flames flickering and crackling, was strong.
A fire, wine, PJs and slippers, and a good catch-up chat—she’d need all of those to help lift some of the gloom off the day.
Chapter Six
Emily came into the house through the back door and locked it. Fran was in the kitchen, slicing up pizza.
“I’m being lazy tonight. Sorry, but I didn’t feel like cooking.” The kids were already in bed, and after saying hi, Vic had left for the Vale.
Emily smiled. “No apology necessary. I’ve been living on frozen pizza these last few months. Anything that was quick to make.”
“The wine’s in the fridge, and the glasses are in the cabinet to the left of it.”
Emily took that to be an instruction. She collected the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and two glasses, and followed Fran into the cozy living room. The fire was already blazing in the hearth, casting a warm glow around the room. “This looks wonderful.” She placed her precious cargo on the coffee table.
Fran chuckled. “I made sure Vic got a good fire going before he left. The man does have his uses.”
Emily arched her eyebrows. “Glad to hear it.” She kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the couch. “By the way, your little cottage out back is fantastic. I peeked inside. Your photos didn’t do it justice.”
“Yeah, I forgot you hadn’t seen it in the flesh, so to speak.” Fran handed her a plate. “Help yourself. There’s deep pan pepperoni and Hawaiian, plus garlic bread, cottage cheese and coleslaw.”
“Nice to see some things don’t change.” Whenever Fran had come to dinner at Jane’s and pizza had been on the menu, Jane had always made sure there was cottage cheese in the house. Fran insisted that the two had to go together.
Fran poured out two full glasses of wine while Emily helped herself to pizza. “And glad you like my little business venture. Not that I get many people wanting to stay at this time of the year, but it kept me fairly busy this summer.” Vic had come up with the idea of building a cottage in part of the large back garden, as a means of providing Fran with something to do, and some extra income. Although cottage was too grand a term. It was a single story, self-contained building, equipped with a tiny kitchen area, a living room with a large sofa, and a wet room complete with toilet and washbasin. An open wooden staircase led up to a mezzanine with enough room for a double bed, small table and chest of drawers.
What Emily liked best were the exposed oak beams that made up the roof timbers. The absence of holes made by woodworm revealed the building’s true age, but to the untrained eye, they could have been there for centuries. Certainly, from the outside, the building looked like a sympathetically restored cottage, from its clay tiled roof down to the heavy wooden front door.
“It looks like it belongs in the village,” Emily remarked. “And those beams! Nice touch.”
Fran beamed. “That’s because Jake is a bloody genius.”
“Jake? Not the Jake I met today?”
Fran nodded. “He’s a carpenter. He has his own business constructing oak barns and traditional timber framed buildings.”
“I see.�
� She wasn’t sure why it was difficult to equate the talented carpenter with the brusque man who’d invaded her space at the pub.
Fran tilted her head to one side. “What is it about him that’s got your knickers in a twist?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve gone all stiff.”
“We had words at the pub after you left, that’s all.”
“What kind of words?” Fran asked around a mouthful of pepperoni pizza.
“Something about him wanting to buy some land from Jane, and was I going to honor her wishes.” Just recalling his manner had her anger up to simmering point. “Did you ever hear Jane talk about selling land down by the lake?”
Fran shook her head.
That eased Emily’s mind. It was the response she’d hoped for. Then it hit her. Fran’s confirmation had taken the edge off the guilt she hadn’t even realized she’d been feeling. I only met him today, and already he has me on edge.
“What do you know about Jake?” She wasn’t even sure why she was asking.
“He moved here with his parents and one of his two brothers in 2002. I think I told you that earlier. Roy, his dad, bought the hardware shop in the village, and did carpentry on the side. Jake worked with his dad, but after five or so years, he set up his own business designing and building barns.”
“Were those his brothers I saw at the funeral?”
Fran nodded. “Simon—he’s the middle brother—is some kind of musician. He lives in London. Taylor is the youngest. Their mum died in 2007, and when Roy was first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 2015, Jake was working around the country. Word is that he wanted to move in with his dad, but Taylor volunteered instead. He’s a writer. They’re a close-knit family, I think.” Fran took a sip of wine. “Anyway, enough about the Matthews boys—tell me where you’re up to with the business.”
Emily finished her mouthful of pizza. “I thought we’d be done by now, but apparently not. Their lawyers are now saying a couple more weeks until everything is finalized, so we’re looking at mid-December.” She stared into the flames, sighing.
Pulled by a Dream Page 5
