by Rosie Green
He nods thoughtfully. ‘Closure.’
‘Yes. I mean, Dad’s gone and he won’t be coming back. I know that. And I know I should be planning for the future again. But . . . the thing is, I feel sort of frozen in time, as if life has moved on without me. And I suppose there’s a part of me that feels guilty as well.’
‘Guilty?’ He looks puzzled.
I shrug. ‘Dad’s gone but I’m still here. It’s not fair, is it? Why him? And how can I allow myself to laugh or be happy when he’s not here to join in?’
Jonathan sighs. ‘You know, your dad wouldn’t want you to feel bad. He’d want you to honour his memory but then move on. He’d rather see you laughing than crying. If he were here.’
My throat feels choked. ‘I suppose.’
‘Look, Jess, if there’s anything I can do, just you let me know, okay?’
I nod, feeling the hot rush of tears at his kindness.
He touches my shoulder. ‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
As I leave the shop and start heading along the high street to the village store, Jonathan’s words are circling inside my head.
Your dad wouldn’t want you to feel bad. He’d want you to honour his memory and move on . . .
The autumn leaves crackle beneath my feet, and by the time I reach the store, a plan is forming in my mind.
Jonathan is such a lovely man. He gave up a lot to take over The Treasure Box and I’d love to help him get the shop’s fortunes back on track.
Glass-blowing was Dad’s passion and I know he loved the Christmases we spent working side by side in the studio, just as much as I did. The last two festive seasons, I’ve hardly been able to look at the studio, let alone venture inside. But maybe now . . .
Surely the perfect way to honour his memory would be to start glass-blowing again? Creating Christmas baubles for the tree in The Treasure Box window?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The following day, after a restless night’s sleep, I’m up early with a plan.
I want to check out Dad’s studio and the glass-blowing equipment. It will need to be in good working order if I’m to start creating baubles again to help revive Jonathan’s business.
And I’m also going to get those apples picked before Seb arrives.
Not even bothering with breakfast, I throw on some clothes and grab the two wicker baskets from the cupboard. Within minutes, I’m driving out of the village and turning into Pepperpot Lane.
I park outside and place my baskets by the trees in the back garden, then I crunch across the frosty grass to the old garden shed to collect the implement Dad bought to harvest the apples. It looks like a fishing net with ‘teeth’ around the edge to trap the apple, which then falls into the net.
It’s chilly and I’m glad of my padded jacket. But after just half an hour of activity, with the first basket filling up nicely, I’m starting to get a bit too warm. Slipping the jacket off, I glance down at myself in dismay.
Determined to get over here as early as possible, I’d dived out of bed and pulled on any old thing - straight from the ironing pile, actually. But now, I’m wishing I’d put a little more thought into what I was wearing . . .
Not that there’s anyone here to see. Just as well, really.
I gaze around the garden, which used to be Dad’s domain.
Dad loved his garden. He used to say that an hour out here, even just weeding the borders or watering his vegetable patch, was the best way to calm his mind if he had a knotty problem to solve. I used to help him sometimes, although I’m still no great gardener.
I know nothing at all about growing vegetables, so sadly, that section of the back garden has been allowed to go to seed. It tugs at my heartstrings to see it because I feel as if I’m letting Dad down.
I glance at the grassy spot in the far corner of the garden, where he used to have his bonfires. In the autumn, he’d be busy tidying up the gardens and preparing them for new growth in the spring, and he’d always have a bonfire at some point. The neighbours didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Mrs Bevan next door used to say that autumn only truly arrived when the smoky scent of Dad’s splendid fire drifted over her hedge.
I knew what she meant. I loved it, too. Many a freezing day, I’ve stood with Dad, staring into the leaping, spluttering flames and enjoying the evocative smoky scent of autumn. It became a bit of a tradition in the end, with mugs of hot chocolate practically a necessity. Isla hated getting her hands dirty and was never one for gardening, so I suppose those bonfire days were our time, mine and Dad’s.
Perhaps I should make a bonfire this year? In Dad’s honour?
I glance up into the branches of the apple tree. It’s a tantalising thought but I know I won’t do it. It would be too sad without Dad here.
It’s after nine now and I’ve almost finished this tree. I decide I might as well move on to the others and finish the job. Make the most of the fact that Seb isn’t –
A crunch of wheels on the gravel makes my heart lurch.
Bloody marvellous! I might have known he’d turn up. But I’m not going to slink off now, just because Demolition Man is here. No, I’m going to finish picking these apples. It’s my house, after all.
Expecting Seb to appear at any moment with a sarcastic comment about my apple-picking technique, I shrug my jacket back on to preserve my dignity.
But he must be busy because he leaves me to get on without interruption. Although listening to the clangs and crashes coming from the house, the neighbours aren’t quite so lucky on the interruption front – it’s hard luck if Mrs Bevan fancies a Sunday lie-in!
Who the hell rattled his cage this morning?
Maybe he’s hung over after a night out and he’s taking it out on the house. It was Saturday night, after all, and I doubt very much that Seb shares my idea of a great evening - a bath, an early night and a good book!
Thinking of this makes me feel suddenly down. No doubt he was out on the town, like any normal person our age, lapping up the admiration of the local female population. Or devoting all his attention to one special person . . . the owner of a very gorgeous jewellery box . . .
Realising I’m now hurling the apples into the basket, instead of treating them with care so they don’t bruise, I stop and take a deep breath. Then I start again more gently, filling the second basket, every now and then my eyes sweeping around the garden and taking in the windows at the back of the house. There’s no sign of Seb, and all the clanging and banging has mercifully stopped.
Out of nowhere I think of Dad’s attempt at styling up the living room. I doubt that will have survived Seb’s onslaught! One day, Dad - who was strangely terrible at DIY - decided some Victorian-style cornicing would be nice. I remember Mum joking to me that it was just as well it was above people’s heads because it was less likely to be noticed.
I know he’ll have to get rid of the cornicing, but the thought of Seb up a ladder ripping it out is a really sad thought. Another memory trampled over. And what about the bookshelves that Dad put up in my bedroom? I loved those bookshelves but no doubt they’re destined to meet a similar fate – if they haven’t already.
I’m distracted from these unedifying thoughts by a sudden image of Seb up that ladder, in his dusty jeans. The pale blue ones that fit just right. Not too tight, just hugging nicely . . . and that old blue T-shirt that seems to emphasise the colour of his eyes –
‘Hi, there.’
Seb’s voice behind me makes me jump. But when I turn, he’s striding past me, over towards the garden shed.
There’s not much point replying since he’s already out of earshot.
How rude of him to not to even wait for a reply.
I watch him furtively from behind the apple tree. He seems to be bringing some long bits of wood out of the shed. Goodness knows what they’re for. I don’t even want to know.
‘You’ve missed some,’ he says as he passes, nodding at the top of the tree.
‘Oh. Yes, I know. My net doe
sn’t stretch that far.’
‘It will.’ He pauses by the tree.
I shake my head. ‘It really doesn’t.’
With a sigh, he sets the wood on the floor. ‘Give it here,’ he commands, holding out his hand.
I glare at him, the obstinate child in me seething inwardly at being told what to do.
He waits patiently and I relent, handing over the net. But I’m sneakily looking forward to the satisfaction of seeing him proved wrong.
In Seb’s deft grasp, however, the handle of the net becomes twice the length it was. I could almost reach the roof of the house, never mind the top of the apple tree.
Bloody typical! How was I to know the handle’s telescopic?
‘There you go.’ He holds out the net.
‘Thank you.’ I glance up at the apples, aware that Seb is still standing there, feet planted in the earth, his long legs solid as tree trunks.
‘Don’t let me keep you from your work,’ I say airily.
‘I can get those last ones for you if you like.’
‘No, really, I can manage.’ I turn, giving him a confident smile while aiming the net at the top of the tree.
He folds his arms with a doubtful expression on his face.
And now my bloody arm is shaking!
Probably because it’s been angled upwards for the best part of an hour. Or maybe it’s because I know he’s standing there, watching my every move. I can feel my heartbeat reverberating in my ears.
I manage to get one apple down, then I start the whole shaky procedure over again.
Seb sighs close to my ear and takes the net from me, and the sudden touch of his hand sends a little thrill through my entire body. He steps forward and I stand there, rooted to the spot, watching as he hooks the remaining half a dozen apples with ease. His T-shirt keeps riding up, revealing a glimpse of firm, muscled back each time, and I’m suddenly finding it impossible to tear my eyes away.
Feeling quite hot suddenly, I unzip my jacket and waft some air in.
He turns and catches me staring at his bum.
‘Might as well do that one as well,’ he says gruffly, nodding at the third tree, which has fewer apples on it. ‘Otherwise you might still be here next Tuesday.’
I swallow, reddening at the criticism. I want to snatch the net from his hand and tell him to bugger off, but he’d probably enjoy seeing me rattled. So I mutter a terse ‘thank you’ and allow him to be the big macho man, riding to my rescue and showing me exactly how it should be done.
When he’s finished, I smile politely. ‘That’s great. I’ll take it from here.’
But he ignores me, lifts one wicker basket on top of the other, then hefts them both up together. As he heads off across the grass, I stare after him for a second, marvelling at his strength. No doubt he’s the sort who enjoys showing off his muscles in the gym.
Not my sort of man at all . . .
I hurry after him, catching him up at my car.
‘Keys?’ His blue eyes pierce me and for a second, my brain turns to mush.
‘Oh, yes. Sorry.’ I fumble in my pocket and they fall out onto the ground. Stooping to pick them up, I suddenly get an eyeful of my boobs practically hanging out of the little pink strappy top I grabbed to put on this morning under the baggy cardigan.
The same eyeful Seb is no doubt getting!
I glance at him but he’s staring down at the baskets of apples, a pensive look on his face. I sigh inwardly. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to have noticed I’m half naked under this jacket. I try to open the car boot with the fob but for the first time ever, it doesn’t want to work, and I end up clicking uselessly. Seb sets down the baskets and grabs the fob from my hand, and the boot clicks open first time. Bloody typical!
He hauls the baskets into the boot, slams down the lid and claps his hands together. ‘Anything else I can do while I’m here?’
Is he laughing at me?
‘Thank you. No. You’ve done quite enough already.’
He raises an eyebrow and gives me a look that could be mild amusement or total disbelief at my cluelessness.
I swallow. ‘Right, I’ll be off. I’ll – um – be doing some work in the studio tomorrow morning. Just in case you wonder why I’m here.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He nods and I catch a gleam of interest in his eyes. ‘What kind of work?’
‘The sort that requires total concentration.’
His mouth lifts at the corner. ‘Point taken. I won’t disturb you.’
‘Excellent.’
Ha! Let him wonder what I’ll be doing! I seem to have the advantage over him for the first time and it feels good. With a pleased little smile, I hop in the car. ‘Till tomorrow.’
I prepare to close the door.
‘Oh, Jess?’
‘Yes?’
‘Remember a jumper next time,’ he says solemnly. ‘It’ll be cold in that studio.’
My eyes flick down to my scanty top.
So he did notice. Well, of course he would.
He gives me a salute with one finger, grins and strolls back across the grass. I start the engine, watching him in my wing mirror as he bends to collect his wood from where he dropped it next to the apple trees.
However much he might rub me up the wrong way, I have to admit he’s very easy on the eye.
I think of what Hannah said about him. No wonder most of the village’s female population (and probably some of the males) have welcomed his arrival in Lower Luckworth.
Well, this is one woman who refuses to be bowled over by his manly charms!
My foot slips off the clutch and a hideous crunch of gears splits the air.
Not even looking to see Seb’s reaction, I zoom away, feeling hotter than a potato baking under a bonfire . . .
CHAPTER TWELVE
It had been a whole day and night with no news of Dad and Janice.
Dad had promised to call when they set sail around two on Thursday afternoon. By nine on the Friday morning, Isla and I were in a full-scale panic because we hadn’t been able to reach either Dad or Janice.
That’s when we phoned the police.
The person Isla spoke to was calm and practical. She took down a lot of details – including the type of boat they were in, where they were heading and what sort of survival gear they had. She said that while it was likely Dad and Janice would turn up unharmed, they would contact the French police and make them aware of the situation. The coastguard for the region would also be involved, and meanwhile, if we heard from Dad or Janice, we were to let them know straight away.
I felt slightly calmer at first, knowing we’d taken action. But as the days crept by, turning into weeks, the agony of not knowing what had happened was almost unbearable.
Something terrible had happened to Dad and Janice. We now knew that beyond all doubt.
But there was one thing I absolutely refused to accept.
The idea that our darling dad might never come home again . . .
*****
I was in the supermarket, trying to decide between salted caramel ice-cream and raspberry ripple, when I got the news.
It was seven weeks since the last time I’d spoken to Dad on board The Escape, the day before they were due to depart from Camaret. Seven whole weeks of torture and trying to hold it together.
When Isla’s name flashed up on my phone, I knew something was wrong instantly. Her voice was oddly high-pitched, as if she was struggling to keep panic at bay. ‘Jess? The police just phoned. They’ve . . . found something.’
My hand clutching the salted caramel ice-cream froze in mid-air. I couldn’t speak. I just waited for her to continue.
‘They found a body. Washed up on a French beach.’ She gave a gasp. ‘Oh, Jess, he’s not coming home. Dad’s never coming home.’
The blood was roaring in my ears.
After all our desperate hoping, our very worst fears had become a reality . . .
‘It’s not Dad,’ she said quickly, and my heart gave a gian
t lurch of relief. ‘It’s a woman’s body. They haven’t identified her yet, but they think it might be Janice.’
‘No. Oh, God.’ I closed my eyes in horror.
‘I know. I can’t believe it.’
‘Stay there. I’m coming straight back.’ I dropped the basket on the floor and surged blindly for the exit.
Oh God, poor Janice . . . I can’t believe this is happening. But it might not be her. Please don’t let it be her. Have her family been told? They’ll have to fly over to identify her. If it’s Janice who’s been washed up on the beach, that means Dad’s still out there . . .
Bursting out of the doors, I raced for the car, just wanting to get home. To be there for Isla . . .
As I fumbled with the car keys, I felt a heavy hand clapped on my shoulder.
What the . . . ?
I turned and a security guard was glaring down at me.
‘You going somewhere?’ he demanded.
I swallowed and stared up at him. ‘Yes . . . home. I’ve got to get home.’
‘Without paying for it?’
‘What?’ My head swam with confusion. I needed to get back to Isla. Why was this man trying to stop me?
Then I glanced down and saw I was still holding the tub of ice-cream.
‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry. Of course I’ll pay for it.’ I felt sick as I started fumbling for my purse.
‘You’ll have to come inside.’ His tone was rough.
‘Now?’
‘Yes. Now. Come on.’
I almost fell apart at his abruptness, but I somehow managed to explain about Dad being missing at sea, and that I’d just received news. My voice didn’t sound like my own.
The security guard’s expression softened. He could obviously tell I was distraught, and within a couple of minutes, I was behind the wheel and on my way home. When I walked through the door of Moondance Cottage, Isla was waiting for me in the hall, sitting on the bottom stair, her face as white as a ghost. She stood up and we exchanged a look of silent despair.