A Winter's Dream

by Sophie Claire

  He shook his head sadly. ‘Not a chance, I’m afraid. Even going out into the garden is too much for her at the moment.’

  Her heart went out to the woman. The thought of being trapped indoors was terrible. It must be a worry for him, too. She glanced at him. He was clearly deeply caring. A nice guy.

  ‘Do you look after your mum alone or do you have help?’ she asked casually.

  ‘It’s just me and Mum. My sister lives in New Zealand.’

  ‘Right.’ No mention of a wife, but he might have a girlfriend. She folded up the fabrics. ‘Is there anything else you need?’

  He reached into his pocket and produced a cotton reel. ‘Yes. Some of this blue thread, please. She asked me to buy the biggest reel you have.’

  Liberty picked one from the rack and keyed everything into the till.

  ‘Mum enjoys the emails you send out with pictures of all the new fabrics that have just arrived. She used to love shopping for fabric. Now she does it online, but she says it’s not the same as touching the fabrics and seeing them for real.’

  ‘Where does she live? Is she local?’

  He told her the name of the village. It was only ten minutes away. Liberty thought of her stuck at home, so talented yet unable to share her passion with anyone. Perhaps she could help.

  No. Don’t get involved, Lib—

  She stopped herself. This month’s challenge was supposed to be about doing new things and shaking up her routine. ‘Do you think your mum would like to have company for an hour or so? I could bring her samples of our new stock if she’d like, and perhaps stay an hour to sew with her, too.’

  His eyes lit up, turning a brighter shade of blue, and Liberty felt a burst of pleasure. ‘She’d love that. I try to be in most evenings, but sometimes I have to work late, and I worry about her being on her own.’

  She jotted down her phone number and handed it to him. ‘I’m free tomorrow night. Why don’t I pop round after supper? Is eight o’clock convenient?’

  ‘I’m sure it will be, but I’ll check and confirm with you.’

  Liberty smiled and enjoyed the rapid tapping of her heart. Would it count as a tick in her book? Yes. Visiting a stranger wasn’t something she did ordinarily, even if quilting was. And, yes, she was happy to admit she had an ulterior motive, because this stranger had a very handsome son.

  Chapter Five

  Alex zipped up his leather jacket and sneezed. He reached for his boots, keen to get out of the cottage and away from the dog, which was intent on following him everywhere and didn’t take the hint that he was allergic. He slipped his foot into one boot, but while he fastened it, the dog snatched up the other and scooted away with it.

  ‘Hey!’ He went after him, racing through the kitchen and into the lounge. The dog stood by the fire. The boot was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Where have you put it?’

  Alex began to search. It couldn’t be far. He looked behind the sofa and the door, in all the corners, he moved chairs and bent down so he was at dog height.

  Eventually he crouched in front of the dog. ‘I give up. Show me where it is.’

  The dog gazed back at him long enough that he was certain he was wasting his time. Then Charlie turned and trotted into the kitchen. He looked back, as if to check Alex was still following. He was. The dog led him to his bed and there it was, next to a ragged monkey and a hair-covered blanket. Alex picked up his boot with two fingers. ‘Is this your idea of fun? Or are you trying to show me who’s boss? Either way, you don’t need to worry. I’m not planning on staying any longer than I have to.’

  Outside, he put on his helmet and mentally scrolled through his options, working out where to go next with the search for his half-sister.

  The census information wasn’t available for the last hundred years, so that was no use. Church records, maybe, as Liberty had suggested. But that depended on the baby having been christened.

  He unlocked his bike and swung his leg over. He might as well try. He’d visit all the churches in the area and ask to examine their parish records. Without the mother’s surname his task was difficult, but he had an approximate date of birth, which was a start. He could look for the name Ricard around that time, and search for mothers whose first names began with M. There couldn’t be that many births recorded in each individual parish, could there? He gunned the engine of his bike, determined to give it a go. It was a long shot, but it wasn’t as if he had many other options, was it?

  Stepping out of the church into the wintry air, Alex tucked his helmet under one arm and pushed a hand through his hair, disappointed that the parish records hadn’t yielded anything. It was the fourth place he’d visited today without success. The light was fading fast and the village green was deserted, apart from a pair of men in high-visibility jackets who were winding lights around a large tree. Alex rolled his shoulder, trying to dispel the ache. It seemed worse in damp weather, and England was renowned for that, wasn’t it? Unfortunately, the pillowy clouds showed no sign of lifting. He sighed. Perhaps he should call it a day, he decided. Head back and face Liberty.

  But when he got there, the cottage was empty. The cup and plate on the draining board suggested Liberty had been in and gone out again.

  He had a quiet evening by himself. He made himself a snack, then retreated to his room (upstairs, thankfully, was free of dog hairs so he had a respite from sneezing), and tapped away on his laptop. He heard Liberty come home, heard her go out with the dog, and when she got back she went to bed too. By eleven the house was quiet, lights out for the night. The soft hoot of an owl rang through the air.

  Alex was determined not to disturb the peace, but tonight the pain in his shoulder was worse than ever. He tried lying on his left, then his right, then his back, but the ache grew deeper, eating into him, until he could bear it no longer. He got up and paced the room, rolling his shoulder forwards, back, trying to relax the muscles. He lay down again.

  But it was no good. So he got dressed, grabbed his keys, and tiptoed down to his bike.

  He pushed it until he reached the main road, then climbed on and started the engine. He accelerated hard, head down, savouring the force, the power, the freedom of being alone, just him and his bike.

  But following a straight road was nothing like steering round a racetrack. It didn’t demand his total focus, there was no challenge, and the speed was nothing like he was used to. He turned off onto a side road, hoping to mix things up a bit.

  What the hell would he do without racing? How would he fill his days? The years stretched ahead of him, as endless and intimidating as an ocean. He’d always known his career wouldn’t last for ever, but he hadn’t given much thought to what he’d do when he hung up his helmet. He supposed he’d hoped to have a long career, like his father. He approached a junction and slowed to a stop. He realised it was the end of the road and turning left or right were the only options.

  Just like his career, he thought bitterly, as he swung the bike round and headed back towards the cottage in the woods. He was being forced to do a U-turn, and he didn’t like it one bit.

  He dismounted at the last turning and pushed his bike back the last two hundred metres. It was dark on the tiny lane. The trees arched over it, covering it so even the moonlight couldn’t penetrate the tunnel of darkness. A sharp rustle made him swing his headlight to the right, certain something must be there, but the bushes revealed nothing. And as he swung it back all he could see were networks of roots protruding from the ground, like skeletal limbs ready to trip him up.

  He let himself into the cottage so quietly even the dog didn’t stir. He padded warily up the stairs, eyeing her door. When it remained shut, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Thursday, 4 December

  Alex came downstairs, to be greeted by the overenthusiastic Labrador that was frantically wagging its tail and trying to lick his hand. ‘Don’t lick me!’ Alex warned, and pulled it away.

  ‘Aie!’ He cursed. He’d only walked into the doorway
again.

  Rubbing his head, he ducked under it – then frowned as he spotted Liberty outside in the garden. Her fiery hair was a burst of colour against the dull brown of the trees. He peered closer. What was she doing? She’d draped a quilt over a tree branch and appeared to be photographing it. She adjusted it so it hung at an angle and shot it again. Then she moved in and snapped some close-ups of the orange and red leaves in the pattern. He guessed that she’d made the quilt, but why was she photographing it in the woods?

  He stepped away from the window. He didn’t need to know. Whatever she was doing was her business.

  He was having breakfast when she came inside, carrying the quilt over one arm. Her eyes narrowed warily when she spotted him and she murmured, ‘Good morning.’ He returned the greeting, watching as she locked the back door and folded the quilt. He noticed she was careful to avoid eye contact.

  ‘You want some help with that?’ he asked, as she stretched the two corners apart.

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Liberty, about the other night …’ He ran a hand through his hair. She finished folding the quilt and pressed it against her chest. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you with my bike. I shouldn’t have gone out so late.’

  She looked surprised by his apology but it was a relief to get it off his chest.

  ‘You were right,’ he went on. ‘It was inconsiderate of me. I didn’t think of the noise. I’m not used to living in the middle of nowhere like this. It’s such a small and …’ he looked at the doorway where he’d banged his head again ‘… quiet place.’

  A whole array of emotions flashed through her brown eyes before her expression finally settled on apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, too. You woke me up, and I was tired and snappy. I just saw red. Your bike’s so noisy.’

  He laughed softly. ‘Yes. And Willowbrook is very quiet.’

  Her chin lifted. ‘You don’t need to keep saying that.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He was only digging himself deeper. ‘You like it here?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I do. It’s my home.’ She paused. ‘Where is home for you?’

  His toast sprang up, but he ignored it. ‘I move around. Wherever the next race is.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘You know – all the big tracks.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about motorcycle racing. It’s not something that interests me in the slightest.’

  He was a little thrown by her withering tone. Yet it was refreshing, too. Most people were too interested in his career. ‘Australia, Malaysia, Dubai … There are tracks all around the world. I stay in city apartments mostly, places where no one cares if you go out on a motorbike late at night. Or if they do, you never find out.’

  She kept her gaze level with his. Her eyes were remarkably expressive. Everything she felt was there to see: her wariness of him, a whisper of disapproval, curiosity too. They were enchanting, and he had to force himself to refocus when he realised she’d asked him a question.

  ‘What about where you grew up in Provence? Isn’t that quiet? Luc’s family live on a vineyard.’

  ‘We moved to Paris when I was twelve. I haven’t been back since.’

  ‘You don’t have a place of your own in France?’

  ‘In Paris, yes, but it’s just another flat.’ No different from the ones he rented.

  Her eyebrows lifted. ‘I don’t think I could live like that, without a place to call home.’

  ‘I love it. The travelling, moving from continent to continent, preparing for each new race …’ He’d only been away from it a week but he already missed the build-up, the preparation, working with the engineers to fine-tune the bike and his race plan. ‘I love the constant change,’ he said longingly, and gazed out of the window at the grey trees and the carpet of dead leaves beneath them. ‘Each race takes me to a new location and it’s a chance to start again, to win.’

  At least, that was what he had loved. He gripped his coffee cup. Was this how his life would be from now on? Stuck in a backwater, yearning for all that he’d lost? He touched his wrist and the doctor’s words rang in his head: It would be easier if you’d accept this, rather than fighting it. For your sake.

  That was easier said than done. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was balanced over an abyss, looking down.

  Chapter Six

  Liberty glanced at the toaster. ‘Your toast will have gone cold. Want another slice?’

  It might sound like polite concern, but really it was a diversion tactic while she absorbed what he’d just said. I’m not used to living in the middle of nowhere … It’s such a small, quiet place. She was still bristling at the disdain with which he’d spoken. Granted, the woods weren’t at their best in early December when half the trees had lost their leaves and the ground was muddy. But, even so, she’d choose quiet and peaceful over a noisy concrete city any day. Damselfly Cottage was her home. How dare he look down his nose at it, implying he’d rather be anywhere in the world but here?

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ He grabbed a plate and began to butter his toast.

  At least they’d cleared the air, though. Was he really so self-centred that he’d never thought about how his bike’s noise might disturb others?

  ‘There’s jam in here,’ she said, pointing to a cupboard. She was careful not to try too hard since most of her efforts to help him feel welcome had been rebuffed. Yesterday, he hadn’t even wanted breakfast.

  He opened the cupboard and hesitated over the jars of peanut butter, marmalade and blackberry jam. He had beautiful eyes, she noticed grudgingly. Dark, with really long lashes.

  ‘I’ve never had marmalade before,’ he said, picking it up.

  ‘Good choice. I recommend it.’

  He carried it with his plate and coffee to the kitchen table. She hesitated. It was tempting to leave him to have breakfast alone, and she needed to go to work soon. But his apology had been an olive branch of sorts. So she made herself an espresso and sat down opposite him, smiling to herself when he took a bite of toast because the surprise on his face was priceless.

  ‘This tastes good,’ he said. ‘Tart yet sweet. Delicious.’ He took another bite.

  ‘It’s homemade. Dorothy in the village gave it to me.’ So you can stop being so uppity about Willowbrook, Mr I-Like-My-Jetsetting-City-Life, because I bet you don’t get homemade marmalade in Singapore or Monaco or wherever you’d rather be.

  Liberty McKenzie, those thoughts are not welcoming.

  She cleared her throat and asked politely, ‘So do you get a chance to see much of these countries you go to?’

  ‘Only the racetracks. Sometimes I go to the odd restaurant or hotel for a party.’

  ‘Right.’ So not only was he missing his globetrotting life, but also the glamorous parties. No wonder he and she didn’t get on: they were chalk and cheese. Parties were not her thing, and she couldn’t think of anything more daunting than constantly travelling around the world, waking up in different places where she couldn’t speak the language or read road signs. She’d miss Charlie and her cottage, the Button Hole and, most of all, the comfort of knowing exactly how each day would unfold.

  She watched as he ate hungrily. ‘You know, Willowbrook might be a quiet village, but everyone knows everyone and it’s really friendly.’

  His eyes creased as he smiled. ‘You think that’s a good thing?’

  ‘I do.’ She held his gaze. ‘You don’t?’

  ‘I prefer the city – where it’s more impersonal.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘Aren’t you afraid, living here?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘In the woods, with no other houses around. It’s so …’ he searched for the word ‘… isolated.’

  She wanted to laugh. ‘I’m not afraid at all. It’s a beautiful place to live.’ She looked out of the window at the familiar woodland tapestry. The trees stirred in the winter breeze, and light trickled through the filigree branches. ‘There’s birdsong and wildlife all around.’
Well, there had been before he’d arrived with that enormous noisy machine.

  ‘What kind of wildlife?’

  ‘Owls, foxes, pheasants. Sometimes we get the odd deer.’

  He quirked an eyebrow. ‘All you’re missing is the Seven Dwarfs.’

  Deadpan irony. She liked it. And she felt a tingle of awareness, but quashed it. A man like him must have hundreds of admirers and she was definitely not going to join their ranks. ‘Oh, they’re in the back garden.’ She smiled sweetly.

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘I’m serious. Look.’ She got up and beckoned for him to come to the window too. She pointed to a cluster of garden gnomes on a small rockery. ‘My mum collected them.’ She noticed they were a little faded now and made a mental note to repaint them.

  Alex frowned. ‘Aren’t gnomes a different species?’ He remained serious, but the glint in his eye told her he was joking.

  She smiled and put her hands on her hips. ‘If you’re going to be racist you can leave right now. Those guys are my friends. Happy, Sneezy, Dopey, Doc …’ Grumpy was in the kitchen beside her, but she kept that thought to herself.

  ‘Right.’ The corners of his mouth twitched.

  She felt a burst of warmth. Or was it relief that they’d reached a kind of ceasefire? She glanced at the clock. She really needed to go, but something was niggling and she knew if she didn’t ask now, the opportunity would be gone. ‘Where did you go in the night?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘On your bike. You said you had to go out. Where did you go?’

  He dipped his head, as if about to make a shameful confession. Liberty tensed. Oh, no. It was drugs, wasn’t it?

  ‘When I can’t sleep, going out on my bike helps me relax.’ His gaze met hers, and what she saw in his eyes made her still. Despair: black and weary. ‘It’s the only thing that helps.’

  She blinked. ‘Riding a motorbike is your cure for insomnia?’ She couldn’t think of anything that would make her blood pressure spike more. Well, she could: aeroplanes. But a motorbike would be a close second.