by Daisy James
‘I do not!’
‘A smoulderingly sexy guy wrapped in crisp, starched chef’s whites, long ebony curls brushing his collar, dark sultry eyes boring into your soul as his moist lips descend onto yours and...’
‘Emily Davenport, what’s got into you? I’ve told you, he’s not my type! Now, maybe if we were talking about Austin here,’ Rosie teased Emily.
‘Austin? Yes, immaculate, designer-clad, corporate shark – from the same pond as you, just different shores.’
Rosie rolled her eyes and decided to move the subject on. ‘I didn’t tell you: I’ve been reading Aunt Bernice’s diary. Did you know she adored the same man her whole life and she kept the flame burning right up until she died? It’s so sad, and she urged me not to fall into the same trap with my own life. Chance would be a fine thing! Maybe you’re right. I should extend my stay for a couple of months; I will date Austin again. Despite having no idea whatsoever what was going on at that cricket match he dragged me along to, I enjoyed his company and we do have a lot in common.’ Rosie drained her cup of the last dregs of the perfumed brew.
‘But, Em, if Aunt Bernice was in love with someone all her life, and I’m assuming Gordon is still alive, how can I risk publishing her journal? What if it becomes successful and the press start poking around in her background for salacious gossip!’
‘Rosie, dear, it’s a cookery book, with beautiful, hand-sketched illustrations. Not an exposé of her life with the Prince of Wales! Bernice adored books, especially cookery books. I think she’d have loved to know her journal had found a willing publisher. Of course, it’s your decision, but throwing in my two pennies’ worth, I’d say go for it.’
‘Do you really think Bernice would have leapt at this chance? Am I denying her a posthumous display of her talents?’
‘Maybe. Just ask yourself why those journals were in the only trunk up there in your bedroom along with one single diary – this year’s? My theory is that Bernice sifted through her personal papers at some point and arranged for you to find these items after she died. She even primed Susan to give you a hint, didn’t she? She wanted you to read that one diary she wrote. She wanted you to know her secrets and to enjoy those artistic drawings, even try out her recipes – to Bake Yourself Better. You, Rosie. And, failing all other arguments I can present to the court, Miss Hamilton, think of Freya.’
‘What do you mean? What about Freya?’
‘Well, she was left nothing in her aunt’s will, and, as you’ve decided to delay the sale of Thornleigh Lodge – who knows, maybe you will end up keeping it – no, Rosie, I’m just saying, the royalties from any new book published could be shared with Freya. Maybe she won’t have a rich husband to rely on forever.’
‘God, Emily, you have uncanny foresight. I forgot to tell you what Lauren told me this morning. Freya is back to her old tricks already. She’s only been married for four months.’
‘Not a surprise to me, darling. So, why don’t you ring Charlie, apologise for your irrational behaviour, explain it was his sexy good looks that clouded your judgement and you’d love to let his publisher friend take a look at the recipe journal – no harm done, eh? You can pull the plug at any time, and, maybe, you could ask him for date at the same time, see how that goes too?’
‘Emily…’
‘Okay, okay! But you do need to ring Austin today at least; to delay the exchange of contracts or you’ll be out on your tail. What did you say the purchaser’s name was?’
‘Brian Dixon.’
‘Mm, that name rings a distant bell. Maybe I’ll mention it to Nick. It’s a shame a family aren’t buying the lodge, or a retired couple who will appreciate the garden. Look at it, bursting with late summer glory. September is my favourite month, you know, the kaleidoscope of colours defy description.’
As the friends lingered on the threshold at the back door munching on slices of fresh, sweet focaccia, olive oil dripping down their chins, Rosie had to admit the cottage was pure paradise – its neat thatch, its cheery scarlet door with late ivory roses climbing over the porch sending out a fragrant welcome to all who called by.
But the garden was Thornleigh’s crowning glory. Maybe not up to her aunt’s exacting standards, but she and Ollie had worked like Trojans to complete the artist’s evolving canvas. Whilst she would not be flinging open the gate to the public and enthusiastic gardeners any time soon, she’d experienced the deep satisfaction of achievement in her horticultural life, if not in her personal life. It was a truly fitting tribute to her aunt.
‘Gosh, Em, Austin will freak out if we lose this buyer. He was right; there’s been no other interest over the summer.’
‘That’s only because you’ve taken down the For Sale sign, you moron!’
Chapter Twenty-Two
As she had expected, Charlie had been magnanimous when she’d apologised profusely for abruptly showing him the door when they’d last met, admitting that what he had said was entirely true – she was a doormat when it came to her sister. She had gone on to assure him she was working on her personality issues and making some progress. He’d also been delighted when she had agreed he could show her aunt’s journal to his publisher friend and he’d offered to call round to collect it.
Charlie arrived at Thornleigh Lodge on the back of his bicycle. Rosie was relieved that at least this time it wasn’t raining. He was astonishingly handsome, she admitted to herself for the first time, and to add to his attraction, he seemed totally unaware of this. She certainly didn’t want a repeat of his first visit to the cottage when his white cotton shirt clung to his rippling stomach muscles and his ebony hair had curled just above his thick, dark lashes as though he’d just stepped from the shower. Nevertheless, as he turned one of the pine chairs round to sit astride, she had to kerb the urge to run her fingers through his tumbling tresses as the lemony tang of his cologne sent an erotic shiver through her body.
Oh God, Roseannah Hamilton, pull yourself together!
But Charlie had noticed her expression and the corners of his pink, moist lips curled in acknowledgement and mischief. She turned her back on him and made an effort to look busy making a pot of tea.
‘So, what changed your mind?’
‘Erm, what?’
Charlie laughed. He knew exactly what she had been thinking.
‘About publishing your Aunt Bernice’s recipe journal? Is this it here? May I?’ Charlie pulled the manuscript across the table and flipped open the front cover. ‘Bake Yourself Better is a great premise. My publisher loved it.’
‘Your publisher?’ Rosie set the brown teapot on the table, handed Charlie a china mug painted with a blue periwinkle and took a seat across from him, leaning her elbows on the table as he turned to the first recipe.
‘Oh, just a friend from London. I love this recipe – is this the one you tried to poison the village with at the Brampton village fair back in April? Cherry Scones for Aching Bones ? Oh, oh, no. I bet the very first recipe you tried is this one – Strawberry Tarts for Broken Hearts. Am I right?’
The look on her face told him he had scored a direct hit. But instead of his usually pithy sarcasm, she saw his face soften as he flicked through the beautiful, art-filled pages. ‘Your aunt was a true maestro with the paintbrush – and, it seems, with the spatula! Look at this one – Gooseberry and Thyme Sorbets for Bad Hair Days. Got to try that one out!’ Charlie shook his wayward curls from his eyes in a practised gesture.
‘Did you know, Rosie, that there are experts in the mental health arena who advocate the use of cooking and baking activities to improve emotional and psychological wellbeing? This is exactly what your aunt is trying to illustrate in her journal – in more ways than one. Yes, the artwork is exquisite, there is no doubt that she is a professional illustrator, and the recipes are all mouth-wateringly delicious. But it is the premise behind the book that had stirred Jasper’s juices.’
‘What do you mean?’ Rosie leaned in closer to scrutinise the branch of gooseberry bush entwi
ned with a garland of thyme running around the recipe. When she looked up, her eyes met Charlie’s and a coil of desire snaked through her stomach.
‘Well, to Jasper, and to me, the journal’s concept is multi-dimensional. There are the stunningly beautiful illustrations and the recipes as I’ve said, but also the use of not only baking as a tool to heal, but herbs too.’
‘Like this camomile tea soothes stressful situations?’ She swore it wasn’t the reason she had selected it from the many tea varieties in her aunt’s cupboard.
‘Exactly. Many common garden herbs possess potent healing properties, as I see your aunt had recorded. But it’s the therapeutic associations that blow me away. By focusing on the activity of an indulgent afternoon of baking with these ingredients, it’s like getting a session of free therapy. Just like art therapy. Baking takes your mind off your thoughts and feelings whilst you concentrate on the repetitive tasks of weighing out ingredients, whisking eggs, kneading dough, folding flour into batter. It’s almost meditative.’
Rosie smiled as she watched Charlie’s excitement bubble to the surface. Clearly cooking and baking were his passion.
‘Baking has other advantages too, though. It forces you to take things slow; you can’t rush a rising cake. It is nourishing – provides home-prepared food made with oodles of love which makes others happy. It satisfies any craving for creativity, too. Did you know that curiosity is the mother of all invention, not necessity? Wondering what will happen to the taste buds if you add a sprinkle of cinnamon to a cappuccino soufflé or a tablespoon of grated beetroot to your chocolate muffin mix? Then decorating the end product with panache. I adore a sprinkle of edible glitter as much as the next patisserie chef!’
Charlie smiled at her and she felt the last icicle in her heart over his direct delivery of home truths defrost. ‘You make it sound like a day out at the spa!’
‘Oh, it’s much better than that. I’ve saved the best until last. Baking stimulates every single one of the senses.’ He gave her a look suffused with such raw sexual desire she had to avert her eyes as her stomach tumbled with a medley of emotions. ‘There’s the symphony of the blender and the mixer, the aromatherapy of the myriad tantalising smells – vanilla, nutmeg, caramel – that release feel-good endorphins. Then there’s not only the taste of the final product, but also the feel of the flour as it cascades through your fingertips, the rhythmic caress as your palm massages the dough.’
Rosie didn’t trust herself to speak for she would have broken the spell. Were all these avenues into a world of magic contained in her aunt’s simple recipe book? The kitchen clock ticked the seconds by as Charlie held her eyes.
‘I know! Let’s test out one of the recipes now!’
‘Oh, I don’t…’
‘Which one do you think we should try? There are so many to choose from it will have to be a random selection. Agreed?’ Charlie clamped the journal shut, balanced it on its spine and let the manuscript fall open.
Rosie’s eyes fell on the choice made by the roulette wheel of luck. Her eyes widened and a giggle erupted from her lips. Charlie joined in and they ended up laughing until they had to wipe their eyes of tears. It was the first time that year that Rosie could remember laughing until she cried.
‘Fig Delights for Passion-Filled Nights’
‘Or should that be Knights,’ teased Charlie as he ran a practised eye over the ingredients and the instructions before reading aloud Aunt Bernice’s pearls of wisdom.
‘It will come as no surprise to you I’m sure, Rosie, that figs have been associated with passion for centuries. In certain cultures the fig is the symbol of fertility. They are even credited with possessing aphrodisiac qualities by some. I suppose it must be their voluptuous shape, but I adore their rich, sweet taste and their sticky succulent texture. It is difficult to get fresh figs, but dried figs are fine – in fact they contain the omega essential fatty acids so beneficial to health. I’ll let you into a little secret, Rosie. Emily swears by them! Tread carefully! ’
They rolled up their sleeves and launched into one of the best afternoons Rosie could remember. As they worked side by side in companionable silence, the kitchen filled with the aromatherapy that Charlie had promised. Then, during the tasting session, presided over by Bernice’s huge brown teapot, they shared the produce of their afternoon’s healing session along with the exchange of gossip from their recent history – mainly hers. She had for the first time managed to be honest about her obsession with caring for people, with putting others first all the time, and how she now intended to follow her aunt’s advice to work on her own happiness when she went back home to New York.
And Charlie had missed one therapeutic benefit from his list. The activity had brought back crystal-clear memories of Rosie’s childhood before Freya arrived in the world, when she’d stood on a tiny wooden stool next to her mother and performed the role of sous chef as they whipped up one of her father’s favourite Victoria sponge cakes. Nostalgia wrapped its downy arms around Rosie’s chest and squeezed in a feeling of such warmth and gratitude that she had been fortunate enough to experience such a happy childhood. Even if her mother had been taken too early, she had been blessed to have known her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rosie had enjoyed their baking sojourn so much that, in a moment of madness, she had agreed to Charlie’s invitation to spend the following afternoon with him in return. Charlie’s spontaneity was rubbing off on her, the queen of organisation and list-making. She would never have believed it if Lauren had told her she would be spending an afternoon with a guy without first of all arranging a visit to the beauty salon and spending the whole week searching for the perfect outfit. Here, she had no endless choices; it was her black jeans and stilettos and a pale blue cashmere-soft sweater she had borrowed from Emily and forgotten to return.
At least Charlie didn’t arrive on his bicycle this time. A disturbing mental picture had appeared of the two of them riding in tandem around the village in their scruffy Barbour jackets and Wellington boots, gracing the local pub for a pint of ale under the gawping stares of the local patrons. However, his chosen transport for their afternoon date could only be described as one step up on the transport evolutionary scale, as an ancient, Air Force-blue Land Rover screeched to a halt at her gate. Charlie had obviously begged the vehicle from the Manor’s head gardener, she realised as she peered over her shoulder into the back which was crammed with spades, hoes and a couple of deathly-looking pitch forks. She fervently hoped he wouldn’t have to brake suddenly.
She was relieved to see he’d not made a huge effort in the clothing department, evidence that he hadn’t misinterpreted their meeting as a romantic date. He still sported his scruffy, olive-green Barbour, its corduroy collar turned up at a jaunty angle, but today his Wellingtons had been replaced by a pair of very old Nike trainers in honour of their afternoon foray into the Devonshire countryside.
‘No Louboutins allowed where we’re going, Rosie,’ said Charlie. ‘There’s a pair of old Hunter boots in the back for you as I see you don’t own a pair of trainers. It’s two extremes with you, isn’t it? Either designer stilettos or Wellington boots. Taxi or bicycle.’
Rosie scrunched up her nose at the thought of sliding her bare feet into pre-owned Wellington boots. Charlie noticed and, with his trademark smirk, passed across a brown paper bag.
‘What’s this for?’
‘Open it.’
She removed a pair of fluffy white socks.
Charlie glanced across at her shocked expression as he dragged the Land Rover at speed around the tight bends of the country roads with ease and experience.
‘They’re from the hotel’s spa. Don’t ever say I don’t know how to treat a girl!’
She couldn’t supress her smile and relaxed back into the paint-splattered passenger seat, enjoying the patchwork of autumnal countryside flash by the window, until they swept an abrupt left onto a bumpy dirt track leading to an isolated farm on the edge of Dartmoo
r National Park.
‘What are we doing here?’
‘Wait and see, nosey.’
She rolled her eyes but leapt down onto the farm’s cobbled courtyard, shoving her fluffy-socked feet into Charlie’s ancient Wellingtons.
‘Now you are a proper country farm girl.’ He swung his arm around her shoulders and directed their path to the farm’s chaotic office, the plethora of scattered agricultural implements straight out of a Hollywood western.
‘Hi, Mike. This is Rosie, the “high-flying New York City executive” I told you about. But today she’s kindly agreed to ditch the Louboutins and the Prada to join us for a fun day out on the farm.’
Rosie ignored Charlie and shook hands with Mike, a thick-set, thirty-something guy shipped straight from central casting for the role of farmer’s son.
‘You’re lucky to have this guy for the whole afternoon, Rosie. Many a girl would kill for that opportunity,’ said Mike.
Yeah, right, thought Rosie, wondering how much Charlie had slipped Mike to sing his praises.
‘Here are your helmets, guys; the bikes are ready. Help yourself, Charlie. You know the score.’
‘Cheers, Mike.’
Charlie’s eyes shone as he led Rosie to the dirt track behind the farmhouse, almost exuberant in his anticipation. He grinned at Rosie’s horrified expression when her eyes landed on the stationary contraptions waiting for their drivers.
‘It’s great fun, Rosie. Ever been on a quad bike?’
‘No way! Charlie, look, I’m not sure this is a…’
‘Come on, coward. Give it a go,’ and he tucked her bushy tresses behind her ears before slamming one of the helmets down tight onto her head. Their eyes met for a split second and a coil of nerves mingled with excitement and something else wriggled through Rosie’s stomach.
After a short safety briefing from Charlie, she was let loose on the track. She squeezed the throttle of the bike gently, steering carefully around the muddy bends, her back and shoulders arched, eyes focused in deep concentration on the route ahead.