Blueprint for Love (Choc Lit)

by Gyland, Henriette

  ‘That’s the name. Anyway, Esther’s boy – he has an eye for the ladies – well, he finds it strange that a woman looking like that, with her credentials, etcetera, takes a job so out of the way. She’d want the bright lights of London, that one, wouldn’t she? Not rural Norfolk.’

  Aunt Rose paused as the carer returned with a tray. When the woman left, Hazel noticed their tea was served in proper china cups.

  ‘You have them well trained here,’ she commented, and her aunt grinned back.

  ‘Did you expect I wouldn’t? No need to lower my standards just because I’m stuck here now. Anyway, to get back to that woman.’ Aunt Rose was clearly warming to her subject. ‘So, Tom looks into her background and discovers that she used to work for a large, well-known oil company.’ Aunt Rose put her hand on Hazel’s arm. ‘Don’t you think that’s strange? Why would an architect work for an oil company?’

  Hazel shrugged. ‘Beats me.’

  ‘There’s more. Gough Associates are working on a contract which involves planning permission from Tom’s department. Obviously he’s seen their company brochure where all the individual architects’ profiles are listed. You know the sort of thing.’

  Having tidied away a whole box of these brochures, Hazel nodded.

  ‘There’s no mention of the oil company under this Fanshawe woman’s profile. Almost as if they’re ashamed of it.’

  Or hiding something, thought Hazel. But why?

  They drank their tea then Hazel suggested a tour of the pretty garden behind the nursing home. As she pushed the wheelchair, Aunt Rose talked about the staff and some of her fellow residents, as if she sensed that Hazel needed time to digest this new information about her workplace.

  She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. The oil industry was big business, and she couldn’t see what it had to do with a small firm of architects. And why would Jonathan keep quiet about the connection? Or was it Tabitha herself who’d kept quiet?

  Either way, it was food for thought.

  She left her aunt with the promise that she’d visit again next weekend, and caught the bus back to the manor, contemplating someone else she needed to drop in on that afternoon.

  In the kitchen she found cold meats, cheese, a loaf of Irene’s delicious home-made bread, and some bottles of soda water and the dark stout she’d seen George drink sometimes, then assembled a picnic in an old hamper from the laundry room.

  She found George where she’d hoped he’d be, in the formal garden, cutting back the rose bushes. Spotting her, he scowled.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Bringing you lunch.’

  ‘Lunch? Pah!’ He turned away and viciously snipped off a twig with his secateurs.

  ‘Aren’t you hungry? I’m willing to bet you haven’t had anything since breakfast, and it’s now two o’clock. Come on, have a sandwich.’

  Still with his back to her, George didn’t speak for a long moment. ‘Sandwiches, eh?’ he said at last. ‘With proper butter? Not that fancy margarine nonsense which is supposed to be good for your heart?’

  ‘Butter? Oh, lashings of it!’

  Hazel thought she caught a glimmer of a smile. ‘You’re not on a diet, then? Women are always on a diet.’

  ‘Some of us are quite happy with the size we are.’ She sent him a wry smile. ‘Although, I wouldn’t mind being taller. I had to stand on a chair and a box to get this hamper down from the top shelf. Could’ve broken my neck.’

  This time she was sure his grimace counted for smile. ‘You’d risk your neck for a grumpy old man like me?’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly, as if she was addressing a recalcitrant child. ‘I’d risk my neck for a delicious picnic. If anyone wanted to join me, it’d be a bonus. Depending on their level of grumpiness.’

  Suddenly he laughed, and the transformation was magical. Gone was the old grouch, and in place was a jovial, elderly gentleman. ‘Touché,’ he said, and put the secateurs down in a wheelbarrow. ‘We can sit over there.’

  Indicating a stone seat against the brick wall at the end of the garden, he offered to take the hamper. Hazel accepted gratefully because it was rather heavy, and followed him.

  ‘I’m sorry about your coat,’ he said.

  ‘So it was you?’

  ‘You’d guessed?’ He nodded to himself. ‘Irene said you were smart. Yes, I was coming through the door with firewood, and I knocked it down and nearly got entangled in it. Then I got annoyed, and, well ... ’ He shrugged. ‘Is that why you brought me lunch, to butter me up, so I can see what a nice, sensible girl you are and leave your things alone?’

  ‘Is it working?’

  Putting down the hamper, George gave her a wry smile. ‘Yes, it’s working. You’ll do.’

  The stone seat had been warmed by the sun, and Hazel spread out the contents of the hamper on a tea towel between them. She had no illusions that she and George were now best friends, but he answered her questions about his work on the estate readily enough, even if he was still a little guarded.

  ‘I understand you own a share of it yourself.’

  ‘Only a small part,’ he replied, wiping his mouth on a paper napkin. ‘Jonathan has the lion’s share.’

  ‘Not the bank, then?’

  George chuckled. ‘My son’s far too modest. He’s wealthy enough, but he keeps his cards close to his chest. Probably to stop that catty woman from sinking her claws into him.’

  Tabitha, thought Hazel. Funny how her name kept cropping up.

  ‘Can’t say I blame him,’ George continued, ‘after what happened with his wife.’

  ‘His wife? Oh, yes, so sad her dying so young, isn’t it? Your grandsons told me about it. She looks lovely in that portrait in the library. He must’ve loved her very much.’

  ‘Tragic, it was.’ George sipped his stout from the plastic cup Hazel had brought. ‘Although, between you and me, it wasn’t a happy marriage. They were going in different directions from the moment they met, I think. Arabella wanted the high-flying career and the bright lights of the city, Jonathan just wanted to be a family man and run a business. Polar opposites. Upset him that they couldn’t work it out between them, and when she died, he blamed himself, although obviously he had nothing to do with it. He never says anything, though.’ George cast her a sideways glance. ‘We don’t talk much, as you might’ve noticed. Which is probably my fault. I said some things about Arabella I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Hazel had briefly glimpsed that side to Jonathan; that little lost boy look. The widower who carried on bravely, trying to be a good father while worrying that he was failing, burying himself in work in the hope that the guilt would go away.

  She almost felt sorry for Tabitha and her attempts at ensnaring Jonathan. If she was a career woman like Jonathan’s dead wife, Arabella, it seemed unlikely she’d succeed.

  ‘I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t discuss my son with you like this. You just have this way about you ... ’

  ‘Let’s change the subject, then.’ Hazel recalled what Aunt Rose had said about strange goings-on at Combury Manor. Deciding to plunge right in, she pointed to the east of the park. ‘I’ve noticed a strange, green light at night, coming from that direction. Do you know what that could be?’

  George sent her a startled look, then he frowned. ‘I don’t know anything about a green light. The only thing at the end of the park on that side is an outbuilding where we keep our, uhm, machinery and such. You’d best stay out of there. That stuff is dangerous, and expensive too.’

  ‘Of course, I wasn’t pl– ‘

  ‘Ah, there’s Jonathan,’ said George. Was it Hazel’s imagination, or did he seem relieved? Which was strange, given the fact that he and Jonathan were barely on speaking terms.

  Jonathan was walking down the gravelled path with Seth and Ben in tow. Ben was carrying a large, flat parcel.

  ‘We saw you from the library,’ Seth called.

  ‘We were just about to tu
ck into our pizza, but then the boys wanted to sit out here instead,’ Jonathan explained.

  Hazel’s eyebrows rose. ‘Pizza? In the library?’

  ‘Awful, aren’t I? Feeding my kids junk food in a nineteenth century library. If Mrs Whitmore finds out, I’m for the high jump.’

  Running his fingers through his hair, Jonathan smiled. Hazel felt that familiar tug in her abdomen, followed by a feeling of guilt that she could ever have suspected him of any kind of wrong-doing. Whatever went on here at the manor, if anything at all, she was sure he had nothing to do with it.

  ‘Fancy some pizza, Granddad?’ Ben held out the box, but behind his apparent high spirits his eyes were wary.

  ‘I’ve just had ... ’ George began, then looking from Hazel to Jonathan and back to Hazel again, he summoned up a smile. ‘Is it pepperoni?’

  ‘Course,’ said Ben.

  ‘Then I’d love a slice.’

  Ben turned to Hazel. ‘You like pepperoni?’

  ‘My favourite, although I quite like cheese and tomato as well.’

  ‘Did you hear that, Dad? Next time we’ll order two, and then we can have a real family dinner.’

  Ben passed the box to Seth and the boys tucked into their pizzas with gusto. Hazel met Jonathan’s eyes over their tousled heads. There was that smile again, and that funny feeling in her stomach. It made her go completely weak at the knees, and it was just as well she was sitting down because she wasn’t sure her legs would have been able to carry her.

  Family dinner.

  It sounded so nice. Having little family of her own, Hazel realised how much she missed it. And the idea of a life with Jonathan, George, and the boys, was suddenly so appealing that she had trouble swallowing.

  I’m falling for him, she realised. Big time.

  CHAPTER SIX

  She left them soon after, returning the hamper and washing up the plates and cups, not wanting to give Irene extra work.

  Then she retired to her flat to read a book on Jacobean architecture, which Jonathan had lent her. Normally the subject fascinated her and could keep her enthralled for hours, but after half an hour she had to give up. Instead, she pottered about aimlessly, unable to get the picture of Jonathan and his family out of her mind. In the end, she made herself a plate of pasta for supper and went to bed early.

  At least Monday would bring a welcome distraction in the form of her job and finding ways of slipping under Tabitha’s radar.

  She woke in the middle of the night with a peculiar feeling that everything was somehow too quiet. Her alarm clock showed two in the morning. Groaning, she turned over and tried to go back to sleep, but there was too much on her mind, and she pushed the covers irritably aside.

  When she spied the light at the bottom of the park once again, all thoughts of sleep left her.

  George claimed to know nothing about the green light, but having seen it several times now, Hazel knew it couldn’t be her imagination. Expensive machinery was stored in that outbuilding. What if someone was trying to break in?

  Without any thought to the consequences, she quickly put on a tracksuit and a pair of trainers, found her way through the darkened, labyrinthine house, and out through the rose garden. She took no torch with her and had no intention of calling out ‘who’s there?’ as silly women always did in films. She intended to assess what was going on first before alerting anyone else.

  Besides, the thought of going into Jonathan’s bedroom to shake him awake was enough to send her pulse racing. She imagined him lying tousle-haired among the sheets, his skin warm from sleep, a strong arm stretched out in front of him, cradling a pillow. An impossible heat rose in her face, and she blinked hard to dispel the image.

  She found the outbuilding and was surprised by the level of security around it. Cordoned off by a razor wire fence, the building had CCTV cameras on every corner, as far as Hazel could see, as well as a keypad entry system on the fence gate.

  Despite this, the gate stood open. After a moment’s hesitation, Hazel stepped through it, conscious of the camera right above the door which thankfully seemed to be angled away from her. The green light from the windows reflected eerily against the shiny leaves of the mature rhododendron bushes surrounding the building, but the windows were too high for Hazel to look through, and she glanced around for something to stand on. Finding a rickety crate, she climbed up, only to be disappointed. The glass was opaque and, although she could see movement inside and hear voices – male voices – she could discern nothing else.

  Pressing her ear to the window, she hoped to catch something of what was being said, but the twisting movement, combined with her weight, was more than the old crate could take. Her foot went through the rotten wood with a loud crack, sending shooting pains up her shin.

  Her heart jumped into her throat as the door was flung open, and she came face-to-face with one of the men in the shed. That the person was Jonathan should have made her feel relieved, but it didn’t. His expression was thunderous.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I, er ...’ Struggling to get her foot out of the broken crate, Hazel tumbled backwards and landed unceremoniously on her behind. Jonathan made no move to help her up, and the deliberate omission almost made tears well up in her eyes. This wasn’t the Jonathan she knew.

  ‘I saw the light,’ she explained in a small voice, when she got back on her feet. ‘George told me you keep expensive machines in here. I thought it was a burglar.’

  ‘And you thought you’d deal with this burglar on your own, did you?’ Jonathan’s expression was unreadable. ‘All eight stone of you?’

  Hazel felt her cheeks heat up. ‘Hm, put like that, it does sound crazy.’

  Jonathan’s lips were twitching, but he didn’t comment on that. Instead, he said, ‘What did you see?’

  ‘See?’

  ‘In the shed.’

  ‘I ... nothing. I couldn’t see anything through the glass.’

  He nodded. ‘You have no business here, Hazel, even if you did suspect a burglary. Go back to bed.’ With that, he returned to the shed, sliding home a bolt on the inside.

  Needing no further encouragement, Hazel ran back to the house, or rather stumbled because of her injured shin. When she got back to her flat, she threw herself on the bed and buried her face in a pillow, utterly mortified.

  What must he think of me?

  Forget the way their eyes often met, or the way her heart beat faster just thinking of him. Forget the notion that he might be warming to her, as she was to him. He’d seen her at her worst. A busybody, a meddler, someone who poked her nose into things which were none of her business. A Nosy Parker.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  As she lay with her face in the pillow to hide the embarrassment which still made her cringe, she felt her confidence and credibility evaporate. Perhaps it was best if she admitted defeat and went back to London.

  It was the thought of never seeing Jonathan again which brought her to her senses. She knew she was falling in love with him, but whether he felt the same way about her or not, self-preservation dictated that she held her head high and apologised for her idiotic behaviour, like the mature and sensible individual she believed herself to be. The rest was up to him.

  But that was easier said than done.

  Jonathan didn’t give her an opportunity to apologise the next day. Whenever she was close enough to mention it, there was always someone else around requiring his attention, and when she finally had him on her own for a split second, he merely shook his head.

  ‘Forget it,’ he said, almost tersely.

  She was left feeling even more like a wayward teenager. In the end she tried to put it behind her, but somehow Tabitha sensed something was up and exploited her hesitation.

  Why did she have to be so sharp-eyed? Hazel thought, when Tabitha had sent her on another pointless errand for the umpteenth time.

  The final straw was when Tabitha hinted that there was an ‘understanding�
�� between herself and Jonathan, whatever that was supposed to mean. By then Hazel was ready to scream. She escaped to the kitchen to offload on Irene.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of her,’ said Irene. ‘She’s a bit Upstairs, Downstairs, that one. Nothing you can do will change it. The best you can do is be who you are and keep minding your own ‘Ps’ and ‘Qs’. Then you’ll be above reproach if it comes to blows.’

  Having someone as wise as Irene on her side made Hazel feel a little better, and she returned to the office with renewed determination. There was no reason why she should allow Tabitha to chase her out of a perfectly good job.

  Jonathan sighed as he put the phone down after yet another lengthy and frustrating conversation with his client, Robert Miles. He liked working with the man and was impressed by his vision for regenerating the area, but Miles wanted to be kept informed of every little detail, which was immensely time-consuming. Jonathan had just reassured his client that their planning application was going through as hoped, but he was certain this wasn’t the last conversation they’d have today.

  Another problem preoccupied him. When he’d caught Hazel looking in through the windows of his father’s lab, his first reaction had been anger and suspicion at what she was doing there, followed by genuine admiration for her pluck. Seeing her awkwardness, he’d believed her when she said she suspected a burglary. He’d liked Hazel from the very beginning; he had a feeling she was the kind of person who’d never be capable of lying without betraying it in some way. No, she’d definitely been telling the truth.

  So why had he humiliated her? He’d treated her like a naughty child and knew he owed her an apology. Yet she was acting as if she owed him an apology. It baffled him, but whenever an opportunity presented itself to bring it up, he couldn’t find the words to express what he felt. It seemed easier to just tell her to forget the whole thing.

  Except he didn’t want to do that himself. He had to clear the air between them somehow, so that they could go back to their former easy footing. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel awkward around him, and he suspected that was exactly what was happening at the moment. Besides, he really liked her, and the idea of her not talking to him upset him more than he cared to admit.