by Susan Lewis
On the other hand, being a Tommy Lee Jones lookalike with boyishly cute dimples, a police uniform, and an air of authority didn’t hurt Toby in any way. However, he was married with five kids, which had to remove him from any sane woman’s wish list.
Waving as David glanced her way, Justine felt pleased to realize he was indicating his intention to join her. Though she’d only met him a handful of times, and always with Sallie Jo, she was already starting to think of him as a friend.
“Getting the scoop for next week’s front page?” she ribbed as he came in and greeted her with one of his typically ironic smiles.
“Not next week’s,” he replied, setting his laptop and cellphone down on the table. “Toby was telling me about a training exercise he’s going to be involved in with the sheriff’s department at the end of next month. Thanks, Marly,” he added as she brought him a coffee. “He’s invited me to go along, which could be interesting.” He was checking an incoming text while taking a sip of coffee. “So what’s with the property mag?” he asked, putting his phone down again. “You starting to look?”
Glancing at it, Justine said, “Kind of. I guess before I do I ought to find myself a job. I don’t suppose you’ve any useful suggestions?”
He shrugged. “Depends what sort of thing you’re looking for.”
Skirting her real skills, she said, “My degrees are in business studies and drama, but they’re about twenty years out of date by now.”
His eyebrows rose. “Did you know the old movie theater uptown’s for sale? You must have spotted it, a couple of doors along from the Lakeside Grill. It can’t be more than a hundred-seater, so how about bringing it back to life?”
She laughed. “I’ve no doubt the reason it went out of business is because everyone watches movies on their computers and smart TVs these days.”
He didn’t deny it. “You could turn it into a regular theater.”
“You mean with plays and musicals? Would anyone go? Would anyone even want to act?”
“Believe me, Culver’s full of frustrated talent.”
She had to laugh. “Still no good if we can’t sell tickets, and actually I have zero experience as a producer.” Though this wasn’t strictly true, it kept her on safer ground than if she admitted to anything from her previous life.
“So have you had any ideas yourself?” he asked, checking his phone again.
“A few, but I’ve no idea how viable they are.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe. I’ll let you know when I’ve given them more thought. Meantime, I’ve been considering trying to find out if my grandmother’s old cottage still exists.”
Clearly liking the sound of that, he said, “It could turn out to be Meredith Nicholson’s House of a Thousand Candles.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Except you know it’s not, because you wrote a piece about that place and its impressively philanthropic owners only a couple of weeks ago.”
“I guess I did, but it would be kind of cool, wouldn’t it, if it turned out your grandma’s place had a similar sort of literary or musical or arty connection?”
“Sure it would, but if it did I think it would have come to light by now. To be honest, I’ll be surprised if it’s still standing.”
He grimaced and raised a hand as Sallie Jo came in and was immediately waylaid by Marly. “It would be a shame if it’s not,” he commented.
With a playful twinkle, Justine said, “Because it would deprive you of a great front-page story?”
“I can’t deny it, especially if you found a few skeletons.”
Needing no more of those, Justine was about to flip it away with a lighthearted riposte when Maddy Hawkins’s words suddenly came echoing down the years. I told them it was a load of old nonsense about the place being cursed.
She tried to take a breath.
“Are you OK?” David asked worriedly.
Somehow extracting herself from the memory trap, she quickly smiled and said, “I don’t know about skeletons, but here’s something interesting for you.” Leaning in closer, she told him about the odd encounter she’d had with Billy Jakes the night before.
As they laughed Sallie Jo looked up curiously, and it seemed to Justine, when her friend joined them a few moments later, that she could be coming to some wrong conclusions about what she’d witnessed.
“What’s the joke?” she asked, her eyes moving cautiously between Justine and David.
She really does like him, Justine was thinking as she allowed David to retell the story, and to her relief Sallie Jo seemed to find it as amusing as she’d hoped.
“I think trying to find the old cottage is a great idea,” Sallie Jo declared enthusiastically. “I can help you with that, if you’d like me to.”
“I’d love you to,” Justine assured her.
“OK. I mean, I guess you’re prepared for the fact that it was sold at some point and razed to make room for one of the luxury palaces?”
“Of course. In fact, it’s what I’m expecting, but it would be nice to find out where it was, exactly.”
“Sure. And I’ll speak to my folks about your grandma. It could be they remember her. Did she only ever come in summer?”
“At first, I think. I know Rob and I used to come then, but I have a feeling she might have moved here permanently after we left for London. Don’t ask me why I think that; I guess it must be something I heard someone say.”
“Surely your mom knows.”
“I’ve no doubt of it, but whatever the story might be, she isn’t sharing.”
Sallie Jo’s eyebrows arched in surprise as she looked at David. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I sure do love a good mystery.” She grinned.
“My favorite kind of story,” he responded. “The House of a Thousand Secrets. Great headline. More intriguing than candles.”
No one disagreed—and no one seemed to notice how panicked Justine was suddenly feeling.
“Can I follow the search for the Citizen?” David was asking as he opened his laptop.
Justine swallowed, not sure what to say, apart from No, please don’t. It wasn’t that she minded about it featuring as local news—the hard copy rarely went any further than Culver. However, the online edition was available to anyone, anywhere in the world, and the very last thing she wanted was someone in England making the connection between Justine Cantrell and Justine McQuillan.
Fourteen Years Earlier—Chippingly Vale, UK
It was crazyville! So much to do, so little time to get it ready and not enough people helping out. Added to which there was no sign of the electrician, the delivery van had a flat tire somewhere on the M4, and Matt wasn’t due back for another hour with the family estate car.
“We’ve run out of juniper berries,” someone shouted from across the kitchen.
“Cheryl’s at the supermarket, ring her,” Justine shouted back, carefully spooning melted chocolate into a bowl of hot butter and cream.
“These tomatoes aren’t ripe enough,” Gina complained, pushing hair from her eyes with the back of her hand. “I can’t mash them.”
“Try these.” Justine grabbed a kilo bowl of near mush from a giant fridge and skidded it across the worktop. “Do we have enough stale bread?” she wanted to know.
“Loads,” Thomas, one of the kitchen assistants, assured her. “What’s it for?”
“A panzanella. Start breaking it up. Is there an alternative to coffee cake if the electrician doesn’t turn up?”
“There’s a whole carrot cake,” Becky, another kitchen assistant, told her, “a pecan pie, a triple-layer lemon cake—”
“The lemon cake’s for the kids later,” Justine cut in. “Which reminds me, has Ramona dropped off the brownies yet? Anyone heard from her?”
No one had.
“She won’t let us down,” Gina insisted. “She never has before.”
“Ah ha!” Justine exclaimed as Cheryl wheeled an overflowing trolley bag through the ope
n barn doors while speaking on her mobile phone.
“OK, you’re in the village?” Cheryl was saying. “Great. Go down the main street, turn left opposite the old clock tower, and wind down the hill past a kitchen shop and terrace of stone cottages. Did you get that? OK, go over the humpback bridge into the vale and you’ll see…Yes, that’s us, the old farmhouse up at the top. You need to come round the back to the barns. We’re in the middle one. You won’t be able to miss us. The electrician,” she informed Justine as she rang off. “Any news from Linda? Flat tire fixed yet?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” Justine replied, spinning round at the potential horror of a deafening crash.
A tray of twenty-four individual trifles was all over the floor.
Becky was gaping at Justine and Cheryl, hands clasped to her open mouth.
Justine and Cheryl looked at each other, and to the young girl’s amazement they started to laugh.
“Someone help her clean it up,” Cheryl called out.
“Thomas, are you doing the game pie for the deli tomorrow?”
“I am,” he confirmed, “but we’re out of juniper berries. I tried calling you…”
“Ahead of you,” Cheryl told him, tossing a jar his way.
“What are we going to serve instead of the trifles?” Becky wailed.
“We’re going to make some more,” Justine replied. “Do we have enough ingredients?”
“If we don’t, I’ll go back to the supermarket,” Cheryl offered. “Who’s running the deli today, Maddy or Shona?”
“Both,” Justine replied, “and apparently they’ve run out of green olives and stuffed sweet peppers, and there are only two chickens left on the spit.”
Going to get more supplies from one of the two vast cold rooms, Cheryl said, “Aren’t you supposed to be picking Ben and Abby up from school today?”
“Hell!” Justine cried, noticing the time. “Oh God! Is there someone else who can go? I can’t leave here while we’re in this mess. Gina, who’s picking up Wesley?”
“Simon. I’ll call and get him to collect your two at the same time.”
After making sure the chaos was under reasonable control and the newly arrived electrician was repairing the right oven—the last guy had spent nearly an hour on one that was working—Justine disappeared into her office at the far end of the barn to check if there were any urgent emails or phone calls, and to ring Matt to make sure he hadn’t forgotten the school’s end-of-term show tonight.
“It’s tonight?” he exclaimed. “I thought it was tomorrow.”
“No, tonight, and it’s not at the infants’ school, where we thought, it’s here in the vale. They’re already down there setting up the park.”
“Aren’t you doing a wedding tea today? How are you going to be in two places at once?”
“That’s why we have an events manager. I’ll just make sure the tea’s properly under way and the client’s happy, then I’ll leave Vikki in charge and come straight back. I should make it in time. Thank God I did their costumes last week. Now tell me, how did it go with the agent? I’ve been dying to hear.”
“Well, it was interesting,” Matt responded. “On the one hand he thinks the book’s great, has real potential, but on the other he kept banging on about how hard it is to find a publisher for teenage fiction.”
“Teenage fiction,” Justine cried, aghast. “Is that how he sees it? I think you were with the wrong bloke. It’s sci-fi.”
“For teens.”
She frowned. “You’ve never said that before.”
“Let’s say my eyes have been opened, and not only to genre but to video games.”
She blinked. “Are you kidding? You mean games based on the book?”
“That’s right. He reckons we could make a fortune, so he’s going to pair me up with someone who’s into all that stuff. A Japanese guy, living in LA. Apparently he’s got a massive company already, and he only started up three years ago.”
Seeing Disneyland, Universal, and glorious Pacific surf, she said, “Does that mean we’re going to California? The kids’ll love it.”
“We all will, but there’s a chance this bloke will be coming here in a couple of weeks for some launch or other. If he does, I could meet him then.”
Justine was still grinning. “So how do you feel about the change of direction?”
“Well, I guess I could handle becoming a multimillionaire.”
Yelping with laughter, she said, “I might fancy you even more if you’re rich.”
“Bring it on,” he retorted wryly. “Now remind me what’s happening this weekend.”
“The disco for your nephew’s sixth birthday?”
“Wesley! He’s six already?”
Laughing, she said, “You know very well how old he is, and we’ll have to hold the disco in the playroom if it rains, because the party barn is hired out.”
“No problem. If the weather’s good, we’ll set up down in the park. Is your mother still coming on Saturday?”
“No, of course not. I had an email earlier saying she hadn’t realized she has a prior commitment. Rob and Maggie should be here by five, they reckon. Francine’s bringing a friend. I said that was fine, there’s plenty of room, and your mother should be here around the same time.”
“Great. By the way, is Ben still planning to do his piece with Chantal for the show tonight, or has she backed out?”
“Don’t even suggest it. He’ll never forgive her if she does, but to hear them laughing and giggling when they’re rehearsing I’m pretty sure she’ll go through with it.”
“Have Cheryl and Brad seen it yet?”
“A couple of times, I think. It’s a bit heart-stopping, Cheryl said, but if Chantal’s up for it, she sees no reason why she shouldn’t do it.”
“Is Abby going to join in?”
“Not as far as I know. She thinks they’re amazing, she says, but she’s determined to do her solo act. Don’t forget you’re in charge of the music. Oh, and I think she’s changed her mind about The Snowman. Wrong time of year. She wants to do the one you’ve been teaching her. She won’t tell me what it is because she wants it to be a surprise. Just keep in mind that she’s not quite six. And I know she’s good at remembering lyrics, but please don’t let there be too many. She’ll feel mortified if she forgets them.”
“Would I allow that to happen? She’s going to be great. Promise. They both are.”
“And we’re not biased in any way. OK, I have to go. How far away are you, in case the van doesn’t get back in time?”
“About half an hour, but there’s a load of stuff in the back of the car. We’ll have to clear it all out.”
“Whatever it takes. I’ll see you when you get here. Love you, richer or poorer, but richer would be better.”
As she put the phone down Justine was already dialing the deli on her mobile while heading back into the barn, where Cheryl had taken charge of the wedding tea, and Gina, who helped out on a part-time basis, was dealing with what they were going to serve after the infant school recitals later.
Not every day was like this, thank goodness, or she’d probably end up in a funny farm, but they’d been happening far more frequently lately as more and more requests came in following recommendations from satisfied customers.
She and Cheryl, who’d miraculously persuaded her stubborn, stick-in-the-mud husband to relocate to Chippingly only months after Justine and Matt had moved in, might have dreamt about enjoying a runaway success with their new business, but neither of them had really expected it to happen in quite the way it had. Their deli, Portovino, at the top end of the village high street, had first opened a little over three years ago following a joint family road trip round France and Italy gathering up ideas, wines, and so much produce they’d threatened to sell the kids to make more room in the cars. They’d returned just in time to sign a lease on the shop, and by the following year they’d knocked through into next door to make room for a palm court café with white wicker
furniture and pale green accessories. It wasn’t long after, with the kitchens finally fully operational in the middle barn, that they’d taken the plunge into catered events.
Part of the real joy of their business, they often liked to remind each other, was that neither of them had ever formally learned to cook. It was simply something they loved to do, and thanks to wall-to-wall TV programs on the subject, it had never been difficult to add to their skills. Indeed, they owed much to Nigella, Jamie, Delia, Gordon, and at least a dozen others for some of their best-selling dishes, though they were always quick to point out that they’d added—or even substituted—a little je ne sais quoi to make it their own.
As for staff, they’d found themselves with a whole host of neighbors willing to help out, from either the village or the sprawling housing estate between Chippingly and the main town. There were now five women working on a full-time basis, alternating between the kitchen and deli, with eight regular part-timers backing them up, and still more they could call on for special events. They’d lately begun taking on graduates from various catering colleges, partly to learn from them, and partly to give them experience in the real world before they went on their merry way.
Meantime, the children were developing their own plucky little personalities, with all sorts of passions and talents that enthralled and amazed their parents on a daily basis. By the time she’d started school Abby could already play just about every nursery rhyme she knew on the piano, paint a picture of their house that actually looked like their house, and sing like an angel in front of the entire village, or playgroup, or wherever she’d been invited to perform. Her favorite place in the world to be, aside from the stage, which made her nervous until she was actually on it, was the music room Matt had created in one of the barns, where she’d listen, rapt, to all his old albums and lately had even, with Matt’s help, started writing little songs of her own.