A Winter's Dream

by Sophie Claire

  Contents

  About the author

  Also by Sophie Claire

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Sophie Claire writes emotional stories set in England and in sunny Provence, where she spent her summers as a child. She has a French mother and a Scottish father, but was born in Africa and grew up in Manchester, England, where she still lives with her husband and two sons.

  Previously, she worked in marketing and proofreading academic papers, but writing is what she always considered her ‘real job’ and now she’s delighted to spend her days dreaming up heartwarming contemporary romance stories set in beautiful places.

  You can find out more at www.sophieclaire.co.uk and on Twitter @sclairewriter.

  Also by Sophie Claire

  The Christmas Holiday

  A Forget-Me-Not Summer

  A WINTER’S DREAM

  Sophie Claire

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Sophie Claire 2020

  The right of Sophie Claire to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Cover Illustration © Giordano Poloni / agencyrush.com 2020

  Cover Design by Natalie Chen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  eBook ISBN 978 1 529 39284 5

  Paperback ISBN 978 1 529 39283 8

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hodder.co.uk

  To Jane Dodds, who inspired this story.

  Chapter One

  Wednesday, 26 November

  Liberty was ready for this.

  Every year she wondered who delivered them, who sent them, and why. Well, this time she would find out.

  The cottage was quiet. Outside, the night was a dark blanket tucked around the woods, and she pictured the wildlife curled up asleep. Although she usually left the porch light on, today she hadn’t. Deliberately.

  Liberty shivered and pulled her quilt tighter around her, wishing she could read a book to keep busy, but she didn’t want the light to betray her. So she sat in the dark, waiting. Her eyelids were heavy. If it weren’t for the mystery person who visited once a year on this day and always before dawn, she would still be in bed. She picked a loose thread off the leg of her blue pyjamas. Perhaps they weren’t coming this year, she thought, as the minutes stretched on. Perhaps she’d wasted her time getting up ridiculously early. The clock in the hall ticked a lullaby rhythm and she leaned her head against the window frame …

  She’d almost nodded off when the throaty purr of an engine made her eyes snap open. She sat up and spotted headlights coming towards her. Whoever it was cut their engine, the crafty devil. No wonder Charlie, her ever alert Labrador, hadn’t heard them in past years. He barked if he sensed a squirrel a hundred yards away, but right now he remained asleep in the kitchen.

  Wide awake, Liberty watched as the small van dipped its lights and rolled silently towards the cottage. She strained to see the driver, but they were only a dark silhouette. She couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. They got out, bouquet in hand, and approached the cottage. Her heart jumped in anticipation of the beautiful gift – and of finally clearing up the mystery.

  Liberty opened the window. ‘Thank you for the flowers!’ she called cheerily. ‘I just wondered who –’

  The figure jumped, dropped the bouquet and ran.

  ‘– sent them,’ Liberty finished under her breath. Okay, that wasn’t the reaction she’d expected.

  She hesitated. She couldn’t very well chase after them – could she? She looked down at her pyjamas and dressing-gown. She wasn’t exactly dressed for it, and she didn’t know who that person was.

  But the sound of their van starting helped her come to a swift decision. If she did nothing, they’d get away and she’d never know who was behind this. She couldn’t let that happen. She was so close to getting an answer, she refused to give up now.

  She raced to the front door, adrenalin pumping. The noise woke Charlie, who barked and came galloping into the hall. By the time she got outside, the van was already skidding away. Cursing, she grabbed her keys. Charlie followed, and it was easier to let him jump into the car too. She thanked her lucky stars that her beaten-up old Citroën 2CV started first time, and excitement mingled with nerves. She’d never done anything like this before.

  ‘Who is it, Charlie?’ she asked, as she yanked the gear stick into first and drove after the van. ‘And why on earth did they run away?’

  She wasn’t sure why it made her so angry. Perhaps because she’d been close to seeing their face. ‘I just want to know who’s sending me the damn flowers! Is that too much to ask?’

  Charlie blinked nervously as she careered round the bend. She knew the country lanes like the back of her hand, but she didn’t normally drive so fast. In fact, since her friend Carys’s accident six months ago she was more careful than ever. The van swung out onto the main road and shot away, but Liberty was catching up. She put her foot down, trying to keep up. The road was deserted, thankfully.

  ‘It’s a florist’s van,’ she mused, squinting to read the name, ‘but it’s definitely not Natasha, is it?’

  Charlie whined.

  ‘It’s okay, Charlie. Don’t worry.’ She gave him a quick pat, then returned her attention to the road ahead. She gripped the steering wheel, determined not to let the van out of her sight. The mystery person was driving at lunatic speed. Liberty’s heart was going nineteen to the dozen and she tried not to think about the risks of skidding or her brakes failing and the car spinning out of control. In all those American television programmes she’d watched as a girl, car chases had seemed exciting, but in fact speed made her queasy with fear.

  Finally, they reached town and the van pulled up behind a flower shop. The driver – a woman – shot Liberty a glance before scooting inside the building. Liberty screeched to a halt, then jumped out and ran after her, shouting, ‘Stop! Wait!’

  Charlie bounded with her, barking his support. When the woman tried to shut the door, Liberty stuck her foot out to block it. Pain shot through her as th
e woman tried again to push it closed.

  ‘Okay, I’m scared now,’ said the woman. ‘Why did you follow me all this way?’

  Liberty fought to get her breath back. Seriously, if she didn’t have a black toenail after this she’d be very surprised. Still, she kept her foot firmly wedged in place. She was determined to get answers to the questions she’d been storing up for years. ‘Why did you drive like a maniac? I hope you don’t break the speed limit like that every day.’

  Guilt shaded the woman’s blue eyes. ‘Of course not. I was trying to get away because you’re not supposed to know who sent your flowers.’

  Charlie was still barking at her side. Liberty shushed him, then turned back to the woman. ‘Why not?’

  She remained tight-lipped.

  Liberty went on, ‘I just want to know who they’re from. It’s my birthday today and they’ve been coming every year since I was eighteen, but there’s never a card or a name, and you wouldn’t believe how many hours I’ve spent trying to work out who they’re from, but I still have no clue and – and anything you can tell me, no matter how small, well, I’d like to know. I’d really like to know.’ She paused to catch her breath, then added, ‘Please?’

  The woman bit her lip, and pushed a hand through her fringe. ‘Fine,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘Come in. But not the dog.’

  Liberty hesitated. She didn’t have Charlie’s lead with her to tie him up, but she was afraid that if she went back to the car the florist might change her mind and close the door. ‘Sit,’ she told him. He obeyed. Improvising, she yanked the belt out of her dressing-gown and used it to attach him to the drainpipe. It wasn’t ideal, but he was a well-behaved dog – most of the time. ‘Now stay there, okay? Good boy.’

  Inside, she looked around. They were in a back room, sparse, with a bench littered with leaves and the ends of stalks. Another doorway led to the main shop and Liberty could see shelves stacked with silver buckets of flowers. It was bigger and more spacious than her friend Natasha’s flower shop in Willowbrook. The air was cold, but the clouds of colourful flower heads were a warming sight. They were gorgeous. But, then, she should have guessed they would be. The flowers she received each year were always stunning: neon-coloured gerberas, her favourite flowers, interspersed with spikes of greenery and exotic blooms she couldn’t name but which looked as if they’d been plucked from a tropical jungle. Artful and elegant, they always made her heart lift.

  She pulled off her slipper and rubbed her foot. ‘They don’t show how much that hurts in the movies.’

  ‘Perhaps because they’re not wearing slippers in them,’ said the woman, as her gaze swept over Liberty’s dressing-gown and fleece pyjamas. She had long hair, white-grey at the roots fading into ice blue at the tips. It looked stunning. ‘Sorry, but you scared me. And with your dog …’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Liberty, and put her slipper back on. ‘This shop is gorgeous. Do you deliver my flowers every year?’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘Well, first, thank you. They’re always beautiful.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ The florist’s gaze didn’t quite meet hers.

  ‘Please tell me who they’re from.’

  The woman’s mouth pinched. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘There’s never a card. Is that deliberate?’

  She nodded. ‘They’re to remain strictly anonymous. Those were the instructions I was given.’

  Instructions? It all sounded so carefully planned. Calculated, even. ‘Why?’

  The woman shrugged. Liberty decided to try a different tack. ‘Can you remember when you were given those instructions? Did someone come in personally?’

  She threw Liberty a sidelong look, which suggested she shouldn’t reveal this information. ‘I inherited the order with the shop when I moved here ten years ago.’

  So the person behind this had set it all up twelve years ago when she’d turned eighteen. ‘So, wait – they’ve paid in advance? Or do you send them a bill each year?’

  ‘That’s confidential. Listen, I’ve already told you more than I should. You’re not supposed to know who the sender is, okay?’

  Sighing, Liberty couldn’t hide her disappointment. ‘I just really wanted to know.’

  The woman’s expression softened. ‘I must admit, it is strange, and I’ve never known another order like it – except one-offs for Valentine’s Day. But perhaps the mystery is supposed to be part of the gift. It is quite exciting, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose,’ Liberty conceded.

  ‘They’re expensive flowers, I’ll say that much. Whoever ordered them doesn’t skimp.’

  ‘And gerberas are my favourite,’ Liberty agreed. ‘They must have known that because you always include them.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you any more.’ The florist glanced at her watch. ‘Listen, I’ve got a list of deliveries to make, so if you don’t mind …’

  ‘There’s just one more thing,’ Liberty said quickly. ‘How long did they ask for this order to keep coming? I mean, it’s been twelve years already, and I’m thirty today. Is that – is that the end of it?’

  The woman pressed her lips together. ‘No, it’s not. But that’s all I’m going to say.’

  Liberty felt a rush of relief she hadn’t been expecting. ‘Right. Well, er, thanks. And I’m sorry if I scared you.’

  Liberty pushed open the door to leave, relieved that Charlie was still patiently waiting where she’d left him.

  ‘Enjoy your birthday,’ the florist called after her.

  Liberty drove home slowly and sensibly, mulling over the crumbs of information she’d gleaned from the florist. But she had more questions than she’d received answers to. What if she moved house? Would the flowers still reach her? And what if something happened to the sender? Was it just one person?

  She turned off the main road and wound her way through the woods until she pulled up outside the cottage. The bouquet was on the porch where the florist had abandoned it. Liberty took the flowers inside and arranged them in a vase, then noticed the time. She was running late and her morning routine was completely out of the window, which was unsettling because Liberty loved her routine: she hadn’t walked the dog or had breakfast or even showered, and there wasn’t time to do all three. She compromised with a short walk (Charlie seemed so disappointed and confused when they turned back) and a super-quick shower (thank goodness for dry shampoo), then hurriedly made tea and toast with peanut butter and jam. No way was she missing out on that: she’d be growling at customers if she didn’t have breakfast.

  While she ate, she tried not to think about the day’s significance. Thirty was a milestone. It made her feel … She couldn’t put her finger on it. Unsettled? Adrift?

  This time last year her best friend and housemate, Carys, had been waiting for her in the kitchen with a sparkling silver envelope. ‘Happy birthday, Lib!’ She’d looked so excited that Liberty had guessed the envelope contained a special gift.

  Even so, her jaw had dropped when she saw two train tickets for Paris. ‘I thought we’d have a long weekend. We can go sightseeing and do some Christmas shopping, if you like.’

  ‘That is such a lovely gift,’ she gasped. ‘Thank you, Car.’ Tears of joy had made Carys’s smiling face blur, and Liberty had hugged her. Then she remembered. ‘But I don’t have a passport!’

  Carys handed her an application form and winked. ‘So get one.’ She’d thought of everything.

  But Carys wasn’t there now. She’d been in a coma since the car accident six months ago when an idiot who’d been driving way over the speed limit had hit her car head-on.

  Liberty had known her birthday would be difficult without Carys, she’d prepared for it, but the house was quiet, and there was no gift waiting for her on the kitchen table.

  She shook off the thought and began to make a list of who could have sent the flowers, just as she’d done dozens of times before. ‘It can’t be a secret admirer because I’ve been single over
a year now,’ she said out loud, ‘which has been plenty of time to make a move. Unless they’re too shy …’

  Charlie glanced up, then carried on eating his own breakfast.

  ‘And it can’t be Carys.’ Her best friend had always sworn it wasn’t her and now it simply wasn’t possible. ‘Which leaves … just about anyone else I’ve ever met, and an infinite number of reasons why.’ She put her pen down, frustrated. For Heaven’s sake, who could it be?

  She carried her cup and plate to the sink. And why were they doing this? Did the sender think she needed cheering up? Did they pity her? She scrubbed her plate harder than was necessary. Oh, God, she hated the thought that someone felt sorry for her. No, it couldn’t be that. ‘Oh, dammit! Why won’t they just say who they are, and put me out of my misery?’

  She slotted the plate into the drainer and looked out of the window at the back garden. She’d really hoped this would be the day when the sender finally revealed themselves. It was a big birthday, after all. She’d hoped they’d come forward, maybe deliver the bouquet personally this time.

  And she’d hoped it would be a man.

  A secret admirer, someone who’d known her a long time but kept their distance for some mysterious reason, yet now couldn’t hold back any longer and simply had to admit the feelings he’d been harbouring for her. Someone handsome, kind.

  Oh, Liberty. She’d been foolish to imagine an admirer waiting in the wings. It had been bound to end in disappointment.

  Charlie trotted over to her. She reached down to fuss him and steal a quick cuddle. The Labrador nuzzled close, as if sensing her disappointment. A glance at her watch told her she had to leave for work so she got up. As she passed the bouquet, she touched the petals of a golden gerbera. They were as soft as the green velvet dress she was wearing.

  ‘But they are beautiful,’ she said softly, ‘so thank you, whoever you are.’

  Perhaps you could simply enjoy them, her mum had once suggested, years ago when Liberty was fretting over who the sender could be. She closed her eyes and tried to do that now, savouring the feeling of having been singled out, trying to appreciate the thought behind the gift and the attention that had been paid to selecting her favourite flowers. Someone cares about me, she thought, and warmth filled her. This is what I need to hold on to. This feeling of being … cherished. Someone’s focus. It doesn’t matter who sent them in the end. I’m lucky to receive them.