Snowflakes Over Moondance Cottage

by Rosie Green

  My throat hurts, thinking of him. We lost Gran and Grandad a few years ago.

  So many precious memories, tied up in these rooms but now in danger of being lost, thanks to Demolition Man’s sledgehammer.

  I spot something lying on the floor and hurry over to pick it up.

  It’s a slightly blurry photograph of Dad, Isla and me. It must have been Isla’s birthday – her tenth, according to the number of candles on the cake. Mum’s taken the photo just as Isla is filling her cheeks with air to blow them out. And there’s me in the background, leaning on the table beside where Dad is sitting. He must have made a joke because I’m laughing up at him and he’s reaching out to ruffle my dark hair. Dad seems happy in that photo. He’s younger, of course, with none of the worry lines that settled on his face later when Mum left.

  Things seemed to go wrong between Mum and him around the time I went on a ski-ing trip to Austria with the school when I was eleven. Mum, who’d just left her job at the advertising agency, had signed up as a helper on the trip, so she came, too.

  I really enjoyed the week, although Mum wasn’t in the best of moods, probably because she injured her ankle on the first day and ended up having to go to hospital to get it checked out. She couldn’t ski after that, so I suppose it was no wonder she was fed up.

  But it was when we got back from the trip that everything seemed to change.

  Mum seemed to be permanently grumpy – not like her usual self at all – and it seemed that whatever Dad did to try and cheer her up, it wasn’t working. Isla and I grew used to the tension that filled the house. Apart from anything else, we were both wrapped up in our own mini dramas, the way you are when you’re young. So when Mum left, about six months after the ski trip, I don’t think either of us believed she’d gone for good. I suppose we thought she’d come back the next day.

  But she didn’t . . .

  Now, with a pang of sadness, I tuck the photograph carefully into my pocket, then I retreat into the hallway. I’ve seen more than enough for one day.

  But as I reach for the latch, I remember something.

  The globe of the world.

  It always sat on the landing windowsill at the top of the stairs. It’s an antique, inherited from Dad’s Irish side of the family, and it was a big part of my childhood memories. It’s incredibly heavy, the base made of solid metal, but the globe part is light as a feather. Isla and I would flick it every time we passed.

  One day, Dad spun the globe, planted his hand on it, then looked at where his finger was pointing and called to us kids, ‘Love you to Morocco and back!’

  Of course, we had to try it as well – dozens of times. We probably wore the joke thin fairly quickly. But for a long time after that, whenever one of us came upstairs, we’d spin the globe and shout out the destination. ‘Love you to Florence and back!’ Or wherever our finger had landed.

  After a while, the game changed slightly. Isla started inventing funny name places, so then it became a competition to see who could come up with the most outlandish and daft-sounding names. (Love you to Jessica’s Bottom and back was a particular favourite of Isla’s.)

  I let go of the door latch, thinking I’ll nip upstairs and see if the globe is still there. But before I know what’s happening, the door is pushed open.

  A draft of cold air whooshes in as I collide quite forcibly with Seb. Reaching out to steady myself, my hands land on his body, just above the waistband of his jeans. Feeling the warmth of his skin permeating through his T-shirt, I pull away as if I’ve touched a red-hot radiator. Our eyes meet and I feel a funny little quiver deep inside.

  ‘Going already?’ he asks gruffly, scraping his hand over his unshaven chin.

  ‘Yes, don’t worry. I’ll be out of your way in a second.’ His scent – a musky, lemony body spray? – is tantalising my nose.

  ‘I’m not worried.’

  ‘Good. I just want to . . . look for something.’

  I take the stairs at a run, almost tripping half way up, knowing his eyes are following me. The globe is still there on the windowsill but I hurry past it just to escape from Seb’s view. In the empty room that was my bedroom, I lean against the dusty window frame, staring out over the front garden as my heart beat slows down. I feel strangely breathless, as if all the air has been punched out of me.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  It must be the emotion of being back in Moondance Cottage. Seeing it stripped bare and smelling of rubble.

  Hearing Seb bounding up the stairs, I take a deep breath and straighten up. Turning, I catch sight of myself in a forgotten mirror by the door. My cheeks are bright with colour and there’s a streak of plaster dust in my hair. Quickly, I give it a shake and fluff it a bit.

  ‘Looking lovely,’ remarks Seb, catching me in the act. His hint of a smile only makes me more flustered.

  ‘Well, thank you, I’m sure.’ I smile dismissively. ‘But my hair isn’t my prime concern right now. It’s the state of this house.’

  He thrusts his hands in the pockets of his blue jeans and stands there, filling the doorway. His gaze doesn’t move from my face as he says wearily, ‘You know I’m under contract to do a job for your sister.’

  ‘Yes, I do. And that’s fine. I just . . .’ Swallowing, I add softly, ‘Please take care.’

  He nods. ‘I will. I always do.’ The way he says it, I believe him.

  ‘Good. I’d better move this mirror.’ I cross the room and try to unhook it from the wall. But annoyingly, it’s stuck.

  He watches me tussle with it for a moment as I try to untangle the string from the screw, and I can feel my face growing hotter and redder by the second.

  ‘Let me.’ His voice is close to my ear.

  ‘Thank you, I think I can do it.’

  I feel the stir of his breath on my cheek. ‘The string’s caught.’

  ‘I know. I’m unwinding it.’ And trying desperately hard to ignore that musky man-scent . . .

  ‘Pull the screw out.’ His hand closes over mine briefly and my heart lurches at the contact. Then next second, he’s detaching the screw and setting the mirror on the floor, propping it against the wall. ‘If you like, I can add the mirror to the other items I’ve gathered, and bring them round in the van some time. I’ve been storing them in one of the bedrooms.’ He indicates the room next-door.

  ‘Mum’s painting studio.’ I cross my arms, feeling calmer now he’s a few feet away from me.

  ‘Right. Is the wild flower meadow scene one of hers?’

  I nod.

  ‘I wrapped it in a blanket to protect it. She’s obviously a talented woman, your mum.’

  ‘She is. And thanks.’

  ‘No problem.’

  He thrusts his hands back in his pockets and studies me for a moment, an indecipherable expression on his face, and I suddenly wish I could read his mind.

  ‘Right. Better get on.’ He takes a step towards the door, almost as if he’s reluctant to leave.

  ‘More walls to smash down?’ I can’t resist a dig, even though I know it’s not really his fault.

  ‘Just the ones on the ground floor.’ He shrugs. ‘Apparently your sister prefers big open-plan spaces.’

  I stare at him in horror. ‘You’re knocking down all the walls?’

  ‘Joke.’ The stern mouth curves into a genuine smile, his eyes crinkling attractively at the corners, knocking me a bit off balance. ‘Obviously, I’ll leave the downstairs toilet intact to preserve your privacy.’

  I stare at him in exasperation, not quite knowing if he’s joking.

  He glances down at his feet a little sheepishly. Then he looks up, locking his eyes on mine. ‘Don’t worry, Jess. You can sleep easy. I won’t be smashing down any more walls.’

  The breath flutters in my chest. ‘Well, good.’ I pick up the mirror to take into the storage room, and he watches me but doesn’t offer to do it himself. He probably knows I’d refuse his help. The mirror is dusty and quite heavy and I have a sudden panic,
thinking it’s going to slip from my grasp and crash to the floor. But I get it there in one piece and set it down against the wall with a sigh of relief.

  Having Seb wrecking the house is unlucky enough, without being cursed with a whole seven years of ill-fortune!

  I can hear him hammering in the kitchen now, so I creep downstairs and make for the front door.

  ‘Oh, Jess?’

  I stop in the hallway and he pops his head around the kitchen door.

  ‘Isla asked me to take the chest of drawers in the main bedroom to the storage unit. But I notice there’s some stuff in the drawers. You might want to clear it out first?’

  I nod. ‘I’d do it now but I’d need a box.’

  He disappears into the kitchen and returns with a plastic crate. ‘One box.’

  ‘Great.’ I take it and start climbing the stairs. Then I pause. He’s standing in the hallway, doing something with a light switch. ‘Will you be working late?’

  He looks up at me. ‘Not tonight. I need to be away by five.’

  A hot date, no doubt.

  ‘Right, I’ll get this done.’

  In what was once Mum and Dad’s bedroom, and latterly just Dad’s, I empty the chest of drawers quickly into the box. If I start looking at the contents, I’ll get swamped with memories and I’ll be here for hours. I’ll sort through it all at home.

  When I go back downstairs, Seb’s still in the hallway, hunkered down, combing through a carton of screws in his tool box. His T-shirt has ridden up slightly at the back and I catch a glimpse of smooth, firm lower back, which seems to do weird things to my knees.

  Get a grip, girl!

  I balance the box in one hand and try to open the front door but to my annoyance, my fingers fumble over the latch and I find myself tensing up, not wanting Seb to ride to my rescue.

  But it opens, and I turn, pleased with my little victory – only to find Seb’s no longer there anyway. The deafening sound of hammering starts up again. He sounds as if he’s taking out every ounce of stress on those floorboards, and I’m relieved to escape.

  As I leave the cottage, I glance over the garden gate and notice the three apple trees are heavy with fruit. My heart sinks. Usually, I adore picking the apples, seeing them pile up in the wicker basket and planning what I’ll cook with them. I like to stew a lot of the apples with blackberries picked from the hedgerows around the village, freezing them to make crumbles and pies.

  But the last thing I want is Seb there, observing me.

  I’ll have to come along at the crack of dawn or pick the apples at midnight by torchlight! Which makes it all a bit bothersome. It’s annoying because I really should be able to walk into my own garden without having to check the builder’s timetable first.

  I put the box in the boot and get into the driver’s seat.

  Why can’t I just do that?

  Why can’t I just waltz into Moondance Cottage and completely ignore him?

  A memory of us colliding at the front door earlier flashes through my mind. My hands on his waist for a brief moment sending a pulse of remembered desire racing through me.

  That’s exactly why I need to give him a wide berth.

  There’s been no-one in my life since Ollie. And even back then, I never felt anything like the strong physical reaction I seem to experience with Seb Morgan. And it’s really thrown me.

  I’ve created a life for myself that probably seems boring to most people. But it’s perfect for me. Ever since I moved out of Moondance Cottage and into my little rented flat, all I’ve wanted to do is curl up in my own cosy space, get lost in books and steer clear of social occasions. My emotions have taken such a battering over the past few years, I’m determined to avoid anything that might compromise the relatively safe harbour I’ve created for myself.

  Seb is ‘my sister’s builder’, that’s all, and seeing him in any other way would be foolhardy. Staying away from him will keep me out of danger.

  So that’s the way it will be . . .

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dad met Janice Lowe six months after Mum left.

  He introduced Janice to Isla and me in stages, the first time when we were taking our black labrador, Henry, for a walk on the beach.

  It seemed a very casual meeting at the time. Dad introduced us to ‘my friend, Janice’, who just happened to be walking along the same stretch of beach. Of course, later I realised that far from being casual, the meeting had been carefully engineered. I’m not surprised Dad was nervous, introducing us to someone we might possibly view as a mother substitute.

  Anyway, the pretty lady in the red coat and black knee-high boots, who laughed an awful lot – even at Dad’s really bad jokes – seemed nice to me. She bought us all ice-creams, asked me how I was finding my new school (at twelve, I’d recently started at the secondary school Isla already attended), and then we went our separate ways.

  Over the next few months, we met Janice a few more times. Once, she came to the cinema with us to see the movie, Enchanted. I was swept away by the romance of the film and Janice seemed to love it just as much as me. (Isla said Giselle was boring and she much preferred the evil queen.)

  We went for pizza afterwards and when Isla was away getting some napkins, Janice, who was sitting beside me, leaned over and murmured that she’d get me a poster of Giselle for my room. She put her finger to her lips as Isla was walking back, as if to say it was a secret, just between us, and I was over the moon when she actually remembered her promise and brought it round for me the following week.

  I remember hanging it on my wall, wishing I could be like Giselle, who could charm the little animals and have a handsome boy fall in love with her.

  Next time Isla was in my room, she looked at my poster and made a face. ‘The evil queen’s a much more interesting character than that soppy Giselle.’

  ‘Janice gave me the poster,’ I said proudly. I thought Janice was cool. She was a lot younger than Mum. She felt more like a big sister, really, even though she seemed to like Dad a lot.

  ‘Well, I’m getting my make-up done by a proper make-up artist,’ announced Isla with an air of triumph.

  I stared at her. Then I shook my head. ‘Dad wouldn’t let you put make-up on.’

  ‘Yes, he will. Janice persuaded him.’ She gave a casual shrug. ‘It’s just for a laugh.’

  I felt a little crestfallen then. Janice had made me think she liked me specially, but apparently, she’d done something nice for Isla as well. It seemed a bit sneaky at the time.

  Now, looking back, I can see that Janice was only doing what any woman would probably do in that situation. She was trying to win us over to make Dad happy.

  Overall, though, I liked Janice.

  She was always laughing and carrying on. Dad used to joke that the party only started once Janice rocked up. She used to cry a lot as well, though. Sometimes, she’d go into a really black mood for no apparent reason, and Isla and I learned to recognise the warning signs and give her some space.

  I remember Janice talking about boats the very first time Dad introduced us to her, on the beach, although it seemed to me to be just in a dreamy, I’d love to sail away into the sunset sort of way.

  Then later we found out that she and her ex-boyfriend, Eddie, had owned a boat called The Emerald Lady. Janice didn’t just talk about boats in a wishful thinking kind of way: she was actually a highly competent sailor.

  Dad knew nothing at all about boats but being with Janice, he learned fast and their summer weekends were spent pootling about in her Seamaster 23-foot sailing boat, which was moored at Falmouth on Cornwall’s south coast. Dad said that Falmouth’s sheltered deep harbour was one of the best locations in the UK to learn to sail and Janice was clearly a good teacher. In no time, Dad’s conversation was peppered with terms like reefing and bridles and nautical miles, which didn’t mean much to Isla and me but definitely seemed to put a smile on his face and a spring in his step.

  Where before, he was impossible to buy for at
Christmas, presents for Dad became easy: socks with multi-coloured anchors, jaunty sailing caps and big glossy coffee table books about sailing.

  I liked Janice most of all for making Dad feel special again.

  It was plain as day that she and her love of boats had turned Dad’s life around. His new hobby seemed to be doing him a power of good, both physically and psychologically. It gave him a new lease of life – along with Janice herself, of course – and seeing him healthy, tanned and fit was a relief for Isla and me. Looking back to how tormented Dad was when Mum first walked out, there was no comparison . . .

  Eventually, a few years after he and Janice got together, they bought a boat called The Escape.

  Isla and I used to go down to Falmouth during our summer holidays, and we’d have days out with Dad and Janice on The Escape. We’d sail along the coast, then they’d anchor the boat in a little cove and we’d go swimming, jumping off the side and shrieking at the shock of the cold sea water against our sun-burnished skin. We’d climb back on board, huddling into towels and wrapping our hands around mugs of hot tea, then devouring the bacon rolls that Dad had been conjuring up in the little galley kitchen. With the sea breeze in my damp hair and feeling the gentle motion of the boat shifting on the water, I could quite see why Dad had grown to love the way of life.

  Isla and I only ever went out on The Escape on warm, calm days when being out on the sun-sparkled water seemed the perfect way to pass the time.

  Now, I think of those days we spent at sea with something approaching horror. Because for our family, they were the prelude of a nightmare that seems as if it will never end. If Dad had never learned how to sail, he’d never have embarked on that fateful journey with Janice.

  Leaving Falmouth and crossing the Bay of Biscay then sailing on to Portugal was their plan.

  I researched the route on line and I knew the dangers all too well. But their minds were made up. So we went along with it, Isla and I.