Permelia Cottage

by Carole Lehr Johnson

“Ta-ra. Nice meetin’ ya, Ryan. An’ good to see ya’, April. You’ve grown into a fetching lass.” Mr. Jenks turned his stout, muscular body, and walked toward his lorry. His strength defied his age of sixty.

  April turned to Ryan. “You’ve done enough in tidying the cottage. I feel like a charity case.” His complexion paled while her cheeks warmed.

  “What do you mean?” His eyes narrowed. “I told you I’d already arranged the gardening before we met.”

  “Not the repairs. You told me you were selling it as-is.” April’s brusqueness matched his own as she slung her purse over her shoulder. The strap slipped, and the bag dropped to the ground. Contents spilled out. They both stooped to retrieve the items, one of which Ryan still held. April snatched it back so quick it caused Ryan to teeter on his haunches. She stuffed it back into her purse with the other items and rose.

  They glared at one another for a moment before Ryan spoke, “Listen, I’m only trying to speed up the transaction. The bank will not loan money to someone who wants to buy a rat-trap.”

  April’s eyes widened at his elevated voice. He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “I didn’t mean to sound angry. I’m not mad.” His shoulders sagged. “I need to get this done and return to New York.”

  April hadn’t considered the urgency of his impending departure. Was his work that important, or was the cottage a painful reminder of his mum and he needed to separate himself from it?

  Her voice softened, and her gaze flitted to the flower garden. “Ryan, I’m sorry. You need to go home. If you can accompany me to the bank in the morning, maybe we can move things along. Please forgive me for speaking so rashly.”

  “It’s fine.” His expression of irritation lessened, but his physical posture told a different story. His gaze was on the distant hills.

  “Guess I best be going. Mum is holding dinner for me.” April pulled the gate until the latch clicked. “Have a good evening.”

  Ryan stood still, hands in his pockets. “Is your bank here in Neville?”

  She turned to face him, the gate separating them. “Yes, down the street from the bookshop. You can’t miss it. See you there at nine?”

  “Sure.” His voice had lost its sharp edge. “See you.”

  Tears lurked beneath the surface as April walked home. She had to compose herself before she got to the flat. Her parents would grill her if they thought she was upset. One block over was a bakeshop that also sold ice cream. Her father was weak for ice cream and cake. That’d cheer things and take her mind off Ryan.

  A while later, she took a deep breath before turning the key and then pushed the door open to the flat. “Good evening. Mum, Da. I have treats.”

  “’Allo, love. Treats, did you say?” Mr. Conyers glanced over his shoulder, eyes widening at the announcement of a treat, the telly no longer his sole focus.

  Mrs. Conyers placed the book in her lap and looked at the writing on the side of the bag. “Extravagant aren’t we, pet?”

  “Oh, Mum. I don’t do this often, and I wanted to do something nice for the two of you.” April went to the kitchen. “I’ll be right out.”

  Her mum called from the lounge. “But you haven’t had dinner yet, love.”

  “I’m not hungry.” She lifted her head and peering through the cut-out opening to the lounge area and watched her father reposition himself in his comfy chair in anticipation. Her mother, however, placed her book on the table between the two chairs, rose with a groan, and headed to the kitchen. April’s stomach rolled.

  “You’re upset about something and trying to cover it. What’s happened?” She retrieved three spoons and placed them in the bowls April had put on the counter.

  “Mum, I’m fine.” April refused to meet her gaze.

  “I won’t press you as long as you’re all right.” They worked in silence while one cut the sweet-smelling butter cake and the other scooped soft creamy vanilla ice cream into the bowls.

  “I’ll take Da’s.” She struggled to make her voice sound normal.

  “Glad you’re better, pet.”

  “Thanks, Mum … love you.”

  April said a silent prayer to forgive Ryan for his anger—and to ask God’s forgiveness for her anger. She felt peace wash over her.

  ∞∞∞

  April shifted her position on the bed, her phone at her ear after Polly answered her call. “Hope I’m not calling too late.”

  Polly cleared her throat. “No, no, I fell asleep in front of the telly.”

  “Wanted to tell you I’ll be late in the morning. The bank opens at nine, and I’m meeting Ryan there to complete our business arrangements.”

  Polly let out an audible yawn. “So, it’s Ryan now and not Mr. Wilkinson?”

  “Oh, Polly.” April dreaded the teasing.

  But Polly stopped, “So, I’ll see you when I see you. Good luck. Bye.” The phone clicked.

  April returned the phone to its cradle. She sighed and chose not to take Polly’s behavior personally.

  “Mum—Da. I’m off to bed.” She grabbed a book from the side table, stretching her shoulders to ease out the kinks.

  “Night to you, love,” they said in unison.

  April sighed as she slid between fresh, crisp sheets smelling of lavender. “Lord, thank you for all your blessings and for forgiving me for my anger with Ryan. Please guide me regarding this cottage purchase.” She paused, “And bless Ryan. Amen.”

  She tried to read, but her thoughts switched from subject to subject like a runaway train, moving in and out of stations without pause—from Ryan to the bank and back again to Ryan. What was it about him?

  Boys—men—were mysterious to her. She’d never even had a boyfriend, though most twenty-something girls would have gone through several by now.

  Her short stay at university didn’t produce even one. Friends that were guys, yes, but never a handholding, kissing chap. Was there something wrong with her? There had always been so many things to do that there never seemed to be enough time for boys. Why did she keep saying boys? She should say men. Ryan was most assuredly not a boy. Oh, good grief. From where had that thought come?

  Tristan’s face formed in her mind’s eye. Tristan was good-looking, though he was younger than her. Ryan had commented that age shouldn’t matter. She guessed he had a few years on her at perhaps twenty-nine or thirty.

  Also, Ryan had asked why it was okay for men to date younger women, but society said the reverse was unacceptable. He seemed irritated by the concept. Did he have an older girlfriend? Maybe that’s why he seemed so agitated. April drifted to sleep with the faces of both men displayed in her head, her book slipping to the floor.

  ∞∞∞

  It proved to be a superb, cool morning as April walked by Books-on-the-Green. She passed the shop as Polly was unlocking the door.

  “Good morning. Did you go back to sleep on the sofa last night?”

  She wasn’t smiling. “Funny for so early in the day, aren’t we, April?”

  “Sorry,” April said and kept walking. “You haven’t had your coffee yet, have you?”

  “No, Miss, I’m-always-chipper-from-first-light.” Polly’s sarcastic tone rang out behind her.

  “Have a huge cup, and I’ll be back in a jiff.” April was halfway down the block. She had a few minutes to spare before the bank opened, so she stopped by Coffee, Tea, and Crumpets. She reached for the door as it lurched toward her.

  “Excuse me,” a man said in an unmistakable American accent. She glanced up to meet Ryan’s smiling eyes as he held the door with his shoulder, a cup in one hand and a napkin-wrapped muffin in the other.

  “Ryan.”

  “Morning.” He pointed along the street toward the bank with his cup. “I was about to have a quick breakfast and keep an eye out for you.”

  “I had the same idea. I’ll see you there.” She thanked him and ambled inside, still shameful over their encounter the previous day.

  A few minutes later, April exited with a cup of tea and two p
etite scones. Before she could locate a free table, Ryan called out to her. He sat underneath a blue-striped umbrella, facing the coffee shop door.

  “Please join me.” He motioned toward a chair at his table.

  She placed her tea and scones on the table, looped her purse over one arm of the chair, and sat. “Thanks.” She bowed her head and said a brief silent prayer, and took a bite of scone, an urge to break the stillness tugging at her. “It’s a lovely morning, though nip.”

  April flashed up to find him studying her with care. Her chest tightened.

  “I’m sorry I got short with you yesterday.” He hunched over his cup as he stirred it. “I meant nothing by it.”

  April broke her scone into another bite-sized portion. She dared not take a second bite for fear of choking from the lump in her throat.

  “I’m used to being in charge of projects, people, and negotiations … didn’t mean to interject it into our business arrangements.” He stopped, sipped his coffee, and waited for a reply.

  Ryan bit into his muffin. As he was chewing, April looked into his eyes. “Ryan, it’s me that must ask for your forgiveness.”

  He shot her a bewildered look. “For what?”

  “For my anger, yesterday. I mirrored your anger, and that was wrong of me. I’ve asked God to forgive me, and He has—I need yours, too.”

  Ryan stilled in his seat. “What in the world are you talking about? I’m the one who’s ashamed of my actions. I don’t think I need to be forgiving you. You did nothing wrong.”

  “In God’s eyes, I did, and I must have your forgiveness—if you’re willing.”

  “If it means that much to you.” He nodded.

  “Thank you.” She placed a piece of scone in her mouth and chewed with a closed-lipped smile.

  He mimicked her and finished his muffin. They drank and chatted for a while when the click of a lock caught April’s attention. “The bank is opening. Guess we need to get this going.” April rose from her seat, and put their rubbish in the bin, and grabbed her purse.

  Once in the bank and seated in front of Mr. Dunbar’s desk, they exchanged greetings and introductions, and got to business. Mr. Dunbar estimated the loan based on the unknown condition of the cottage until he could get an appraiser to see the property. “April, here is the preliminary amount we are prepared to loan you without the appraisal.” He pushed a piece of paper toward her.

  April observed Ryan as he leaned back farther into his chair, avoiding the paper. She looked over the figures. “Mr. Dunbar, this is the cost of the cottage alone and nothing for the repairs.”

  Mr. Dunbar leaned back as well and rubbed his dimpled chin. “Yes, until we see the property, that’s all we can do. I could have someone out there next week.” With a heavy sigh, he said, “I’m sorry it can’t be sooner.”

  Ryan’s brows creased in concern, and April was crestfallen. “But Ryan has to get back to America and cannot wait that long.” Her swallow was distinct.

  “I’m sorry, but our appraiser is booked. If she has a cancellation, she may move you up in the queue.”

  Ryan touched April’s arm as he looked at Mr. Dunbar. “May we speak privately for a minute?”

  April’s cheeks burned as she turned toward Ryan. Mr. Dunbar stood. “Why don’t I go get us a cup of tea while you talk.” He didn’t wait for a response before leaving his office.

  “Yes?” April rubbed her upper arms, suddenly cold.

  “Please don’t be angry, but I have an idea.” His pause was brief. “You have approval for the loan on the house. Let me pay for the repairs.” He lightly touched her hand to silence her disapproval and continued, “If the bank won’t loan you the repair money after they do the appraisal, you can pay me back in installments. We’ll even draw up papers if that would make you feel better.”

  April’s muscles tightened, and she began to twist the delicate cross pendant of her necklace. “I suppose that would work.” Her voice uneven. “But are you certain?”

  “I trust you. I’m a good judge of character, remember?” He leaned toward her and rested a hand on one of his jean-clad knees, his gaze reassuring. “That’s a big part of my job—knowing whom I can trust.”

  Mr. Dunbar came in with a tray containing three cups of tea, milk, and sugar. Ryan prepared April’s tea the way he’d seen her do it, and then his own. Mr. Dunbar reached for his as Ryan shared the agreement he and April had made.

  Ryan raised his cup to clink lightly with April’s, his eyes smiling, his tone gentle. “Here’s to the deal.”

  She paused, her mouth at the edge of the cup, his gaze lingering on hers, and his words came back to her about knowing whom to trust. And despite the fact she’d only known him a few days, something deep within April told her this was a man she could trust.

  Chapter 10

  Neville, North Yorkshire, England

  2019

  Ryan entered through the gate in front of Permelia Cottage. He pulled in a deep breath as he perused the garden and its new plantings, neat, tidy, and now free of weeds. It gave the place a more lived-in and cared-for facade. He pushed the gate closed behind him as he heard the soft tinkle of bells. Before he could search out the source, something brushed against his leg. He looked down to find the whitest cat he’d ever seen.

  “Well, hello there, fellow.” He bent to the cat’s level and reached for the fluffy ears and rubbed with gentleness. The cat purred with pleasure. “Assuming,” he continued, “you are a fellow.” The cat hummed like a small motor. Ryan noticed the bright pink collar with tiny bells. “You must be a terror on birds to have warranted so many bells—not very ladylike.”

  As Ryan petted the now-enamored cat, light footsteps brought his gaze around to see an elderly woman approaching the cottage.

  “I see you’ve found my Olivia.” The cat’s ears perked, and she sprang toward her, jumped over the gate, and straight into the lady’s waiting arms.

  The woman was of slight build, about five feet tall, with shoulder-length gray hair pulled back at the nape and held together with a silver barrette. She reached into an ample pocket on her blue-checked apron and pulled out a treat to feed to the cat.

  “She’s a naughty one—always roaming. I hope she didn’t bother you.”

  “No, ma’am, not at all. She reminds me of a cat my mom and I had when I was a child.”

  “How lovely. Are you moving into the cottage?” Her eyes looked into his, hopeful, as she cradled the cat like an infant.

  Ryan, surprised by the question, responded, “No, ma’am—I’m selling it for my mother.”

  “Oh my, she doesn’t wish to return and live in Neville again?” She stared into the face of her cat as she rubbed her ears.

  “It’s not that … she … well, left it to me, and I live in the U.S.” He let his attention wander over the garden as he looked away from her imploring stare.

  “I’m so sorry. She was such a kind and thoughtful woman. She once cared for my Olivia a few days while I visited my sister in London. I’ve missed her. She left with no word. Was she suddenly taken ill and passed swiftly?”

  Ryan struggled to speak, but no words would come.

  She broke the silence. “Please accept my condolences. I shouldn’t have intruded. It must be sorrowful for you.” As an afterthought, she added, “She dearly loved this cottage. A day rarely passed without my seeing her tend a plant or flower in it. She had a special way with it—giving life to something so long neglected.”

  “Thank you.” The quiet could have been dissected—lying there—hard and mournful.

  “Well, I suppose I should get Olivia home.” Spry, she turned and stepped away at a clipped pace.

  Ryan hesitated, bolted through the gate before she could get away, and called out, “Ma’am.”

  Turning, Ryan noticed tears on her wrinkled cheeks. “Yes, son?” Her voice trembled.

  “My name is Ryan.” He extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m glad my mother was happy here.”


  “She was, dear.” She juggled the cat, holding her in one arm and grabbed his with the other. “I’m Adelaide Claxton, and it’s my pleasure. You favor your mum.” She smiled through the tears. “A beautiful lady, she was.”

  ∞∞∞

  After the pleasant conversation with Mrs. Claxton, Ryan sat at the desk facing the street. The late morning sun shone through the large window, bathing him in a soft glow. Mom liked painting in the morning—said it was the most flattering light. He leaned back in the chair, his gaze roaming the room as his fingers gripped the arms. He pictured her in the window seat, a book in her lap and a cup of tea on the sill. He looked over the collection of framed photographs on her desk. Several were of him as a child, images of them together during happy times.

  In the past, such recollections brought anger—now it had shifted to a gloomy aura surrounding the memories. The slam of a car door brought him out of his reverie. As he rolled the chair back, he heard paper tearing. Still seated, he bent and spotted the torn article. He must’ve dropped it on his previous visit. He reclaimed the paper and stared at it for a moment, crumpled and tossed it into the trash basket. “I should never have saved it to begin with,” he muttered.

  “Mr. Wilkinson!” A voice called from the open front door.

  He took long strides from the office and met Mr. Jenks as he stood in the doorway.

  “’Ow do? We’re ready to get started right after we down a quick pasty.” The genuine joy in the man’s eyes coupled with the many laugh lines endeared him to Ryan. He had yet to see the man with so much as a cross look at anyone, and he seemed to love his job—one accomplished by the strength of his hands, sweat, and hard work. Though Ryan’s job was nothing like it, did he truly like his job as much as this man did?

  “Good morning, Mr. Jenks. It’s good of you to come on such short notice.” Before Ryan could ask when they would begin the repairs, a hammer pounded on the far side of the cottage.

  “Had another job that cancelled.” He tilted his head toward the pounding. “Guess my mates have eaten their pasties on the drive over. If you don’t mind, I’ll polish mine off in the back where the hammerin’ ain’t so loud.” Mr. Jenks chuckled to himself as he walked through the cottage, Ryan following. They perched on the edge of the low stone wall surrounding the garden—legs dangling—and discussed the plan for the repairs.