by Fiona Harper
Louise inhaled. She didn’t want to tell Tara about Ben. Especially as she wasn’t sure just how much contact her friend had had with Toby over recent months. Now, Toby would have no sensible reason to object to her having a new man in her life—especially after his behaviour—but when had Toby ever been sensible?
‘There was plenty in that article that was complete fabrication,’ she said truthfully. ‘But I do know the man. His firm is landscaping the gardens for me and he’s been to the house numerous times.’
Tara did a silly little laugh and pressed her palm to her breastbone. ‘Thank goodness for that! For one second, I thought you’d made good on your threat to have a tawdry little fling with a muddy local.’
Louise was saved from answering by the whistling of the kettle. ‘Coffee?’ she asked through slightly clenched teeth as she went to take it off the Aga.
Tara leaned back in the wooden chair and stretched her long legs out. ‘Gasping for one,’ she said. ‘I’ll admit the view is stupendous, but it felt like I took a trip through several time zones—and possibly back a couple of decades—to get here. I don’t know how you haven’t gone cuckoo living this far away from civilisation.’
Louise made the coffee and held her tongue. Those viper-filled parties and competitions to see who could get the most column inches in a week were civilisation, were they? If that was the case, she was quite happy moving to the dark ages and staying here.
Louise carefully slid the loaf tin containing a pale yellow Madeira cake batter into the Aga and closed the door. Soon, the kitchen would be filled with the scent of lemon zest and eggs and butter. Heavenly.
She wondered if her house guest would try some? Probably not. Although Tara was as stick-thin as Louise had once been, and one slice wouldn’t hurt, she also had an iron will. Tara wouldn’t be Mrs Gareth Adams otherwise. It had taken a steely determination to beat all the other contenders for the role off and convince the footballer she was the only one for him.
Which led Louise to pondering, with brownies and mini-muffins in the cake tin already, why she was making yet another cake. Not that she was scared of cake any more, and would definitely enjoy some, but it was far too much for her to eat on her own. The chief cake-eating culprits—Jack and Ben—were far away. It would probably go hard in the tin.
She poured herself a cup of tea from the old brown pot and sat down at her kitchen table. Although the rest of the house had been transformed, the kitchen still remained its old-fashioned, orange pine self. She’d get a designer in after Christmas, maybe. Or the spring. Although it was ugly, something about this room felt like home to Louise. Always had, ever since she’d first walked into it.
Home. That had been where she’d perfected her baking skills. Family life had been full of noise and love, but it had also been tough. Baking had been a cheap way to cheer her brothers and sisters up when Dad wasn’t doing so well. It hadn’t just been about eggs and flour and sugar. It had been about love, about taking care.
She’d have baked for Toby if he’d have let her, but he’d been unusually snobby about having the private chef do everything. But now and again, when Jack had come along, Louise had slipped into the kitchen and baked with her son. She and the chef had an understanding. And Toby had never known the chocolate fudge cake he’d loved so much had been made by his wife’s fair hand.
Louise walked over to the cake tin, chose an apple and cinnamon mini-muffin and carefully peeled it from its case as she sat back down with her cup of tea. She didn’t eat it in one bit but savoured it, and as she was swallowing the moist crumbs, a truth hit her.
She was baking for herself. To comfort. To take care.
The urge had just risen up from within and would not be quashed. But that was good, wasn’t it? Ben had told her she needed to stop always looking after other people, that she should take some time for herself.
Louise frowned. But if she was trying to make herself feel better, did that mean she was unhappy?
No. She had Jack with her—most of the time. She had Ben, and whatever it was they were starting. She had this wonderful old house and the new life she’d dreamed of. How could she be unhappy? Everything was fine.
Maybe it was just because Jack was away. She was lonely. Or possibly she was baking for him in his absence. Madeira cake was one of his favourites.
Tara, who’d gone upstairs to have a shower and ‘feel more human again’ after her distressing journey to the outer wilds of Great Britain, walked through the kitchen door, looking as glossy and as polished as always, even in her designer jeans and soft cashmere jumper.
But looks were deceiving. Louise knew that. And, as she studied her friend carefully, she wondered if she was baking for Tara too.
But Tara never let anyone close, never let anyone see the chinks in her armour. Except, maybe, by coming to Whitehaven. Because Louise knew she wasn’t altruistic enough to have come all this way just to see her. Something was up. And it might just be something big.
They chatted about fashion and gossiped about acquaintances as Louise prepared a simple roast chicken salad for supper. When it was ready, she filled two glasses with Pinot Grigio—nothing more fancy was available at the local shop, but Tara wasn’t much of a wine connoisseur, so she probably wouldn’t notice—and sat down at the table.
When they were halfway through their salads, Louse leaned back in her chair and took a sip of wine. ‘So, what’s really up with you?’
Tara’s knife and fork went still. She didn’t look up. Then, slowly, she began to carve the piece of chicken again and only when it had been carefully dissected and chewed did she put her cutlery down and meet Louise’s gaze.
‘Who says anything’s up?’ She blinked and smiled, but Louise wasn’t fooled for a second. She’d seen that same smile in the mirror many a time. Of course something was up. And as much as Tara drove her crazy sometimes, she wanted to help her.
‘I do.’ She reached across the table and laid a hand on top of Tara’s. The pair of them had never been ones to share hugs or be very touchy-feely with each other, but somehow it felt right. Needed. ‘You can tell me … And you know I won’t tell anyone.’ She let out a dry laugh. ‘Ninety percent of my friends have conveniently forgotten I exist, anyway. Unless you mind the sheep round here knowing, there’s no one else I can confide in.’
For the first time ever Louise saw a crack of hesitation, of self-doubt in Tara’s eyes. Then she looked back at her plate.
‘It’s Gareth … I think he might be … I think he’s …’
Louise squeezed Tara’s hand. She knew just what that was like, how that felt. ‘Do you just suspect, or do you know for sure …?’
Tara got up and walked over to the handbag she’d left on the counter earlier. She returned holding a mobile phone. But not Tara’s bright pink, custom-made smart phone, one that looked entirely more masculine. She fired it up and scrolled through the menus until she showed a text to Louise.
‘Tomorrow @ 11 The Hilton. C u then, G x’
Louise blinked. ‘This is Gareth’s phone? You took Gareth’s phone and drove three hundred miles away with it? Isn’t he going to go nuts?’
‘Don’t care,’ Tara said, her mouth thinner than those lip injections should let it be.
Louise shook her head and looked at the screen again. ‘It seems fairly innocent,’ she said. ‘Are you sure he’s up to something?’
Tara’s jaw clenched. ‘He told me he was meeting one of his team mates for lunch—but at The Ivy. That’s in a different part of town altogether. And I just have this … feeling.’
Louise knew all about the feeling. And her mistake with Toby had been not paying attention to it sooner.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she told Tara. ‘What are you going to do?’
Tara took a great gulp of her wine. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t even really plan to come and see you. I threw some stuff into an overnight bag and just got in the car and started driving. Somehow, when I saw the sign on the M25 for the West
Country, I decided to take the exit.’
Ah, now that sounded like the Tara she knew and loved. Well, the don’t-mind-if-I-inconvenience-you bit. Driving off without telling anyone where she was going, doing something unpredictable and unplanned, now that wasn’t typical Tara behaviour at all.
So, whatever their ups and down had been in the past, no matter how smug Tara had been about her perfectly devoted husband while trying to comfort Louise when she’d split with Toby, Louise decided she would do whatever she could to help. Everyone needed a friend when their carefully constructed life started to fall apart, and she had the funny feeling she might be the closest thing to a friend Tara had.
Louise was glad she’d brought Laura’s diary up from the boathouse earlier that afternoon, because now she couldn’t sleep. Maybe it had something to do with having another person in the house. She couldn’t quite get past how jarring it was to have someone from what she now mentally referred to as her ‘old’ life here, trespassing on the new, making the edges blur together.
For some reason she’d waited until Tara had disappeared to have a nap before she’d hurried down to the boathouse to get the diary. She could have easily asked Tara to come for a walk with her, she supposed, but she hadn’t wanted to. The boathouse was too special to her. Private. And she hadn’t wanted to see Tara cast her assessing eye over her favourite place in the world and find it wanting. She didn’t want to see the boathouse through Tara’s jaded eyes.
She plumped up an extra feather pillow and tucked it behind her head as she leaned over to the bedside table for Laura’s diary.
2nd July, 1956
Finally, after so many months of bleakness I have had some good news. Glorious news. I wish I could say that it was that Dominic had replied to the card I sent him after Jean’s death, but it’s still only been three months. I don’t think he’s ready, and even—oh, how my heart jumps just at the thought—even if the way was open to us to go forward, it would look a little hasty if we took up together now.
I can be patient. Loving Dominic has taught me that, because I always seem to be waiting for him.
Anyway, I had a telephone call from the Forbes-Hamiltons today, the owners of Whitehaven. It seems that neither of their sons wishes to take it on and they’re feeling it’s too big for them now they’re getting older. I’d jokingly mentioned when I visited that if I ever they thought of selling they should contact me first, and it seems they took me seriously.
Thank heavens they did. Maybe this is what I’ve been waiting for—a turn in my fortune, something going right for a change. Maybe this will be the first part of my dream to come true.
I haven’t said yes yet, but of course I will. I had to make the right noises about coming down to see it myself before I made up my mind. So, I’m booked on the 9.35 from Paddington tomorrow.
Please, if you’re up there, God, don’t take this from me too. Let me have Whitehaven. That house is special. It can heal people; it can bring love. And if you give me this one thing, I promise I’ll do my best to make sure I’m not the only one who benefits from it.
Louise looked up. There had been a noise outside her door. She waited, but all was silent. Just another of the strange creaks of an old house, she supposed.
Still, Laura was right about Whitehaven. It was special. She didn’t know if it was in the air or the earth, but somehow this house did heal. She just had to pray that it worked for her and Jack. And even for poor Tara, asleep in one of the guest rooms.
But there was something in what Laura had written—her promise. She’d been right about that too. The person who owned such a place shouldn’t be selfish with it. There had to be a way to share what she had.
This time it was a floorboard that creaked outside her door. A second later the doorknob turned and it opened a few inches. Tara poked an unusually dishevelled head into the room.
‘I saw a light under your door,’ she said quietly.
Louise smiled. ‘Can’t sleep?’
Tara shook her head. And just for a second Louise saw the ordinary girl, full of insecurities and issues, who had once been in the place where the focused and driven Tara Adams now stood. She patted the bed beside her. ‘Me neither. I seem to have become a bit of a nocturnal creature since I split with Toby.’
Tara just nodded and settled herself on the bed, propping a pillow up behind herself. ‘I’m not splitting with Gareth.’
Louise mentally kicked herself in the shins. ‘No. Of course. You’re not even sure there’s any reason to yet.’
Apart from The Feeling.
Had Tara forgotten that already? Louise still dreaded its icy clawing, its jittery squeezing. Just as well she was shot of Toby and didn’t have to worry about it any more.
Tara looked at her, wide-eyed. ‘If I was sure … If he had …’ She looked down at her hands clasped in her lap then met Louise’s eyes again. ‘I don’t know if I could do what you’ve done.’
Louise leaned over and put an arm round Tara. ‘Brain working overtime. That’s one of the symptoms. Listen, you don’t have to decide anything yet. You don’t have to make any plans. You need to find out the truth first.’
Tara nodded, but Louise could tell that her brain was whirring away inside her skull. Tara planned. She always had, always would. But the problem was that all her platinum-plated plans had revolved around being Mrs Gareth Adams. The thought of tearing all of that down and starting again must be terrifying.
‘Good book?’ Tara asked, nodding at the open diary in Louise’s lap.
Louise closed it and carefully replaced it on the bedside table. She didn’t want to share that with Tara, either.
But that was selfish, wasn’t it? Hadn’t she just been thinking about how Whitehaven healed, about how she should share that gift somehow? It was time she learned to stop shutting people out, to be more open and giving like Laura had been.
‘Actually, it’s the diary of the former owner.’
Tara pulled a face and sneered. ‘Riveting stuff then … all counting sheep and walking in the hills? No wonder you read it when insomnia hits.’
Louise shook her head. ‘No. Ever heard of Laura Hastings, the film star?’
Tara’s eyes grew wide.
‘Well, she lived here for forty years. I found this hidden away and forgotten.’
And she began to tell Tara Laura’s story, hoping that whatever her friend was feeling at that moment, that she’d realise she was probably better off than poor tragic Laura. ‘… and I’ve just read the bit where she decides to buy this house,’ she said.
‘OMG that’s an amazing story!’
Louise nodded. She had the feeling she had things to learn from Laura’s journey, that if only she could think about it hard enough it might contain the answers to some of her present struggles. It was a surprise and a joy to know the other woman felt the same.
‘You could make a fortune selling them,’ Tara said, her eyes glazing. ‘Or maybe you could publish them yourself, write a foreword, add some stuff in about the house today …’
Louise opened her mouth to speak, but Tara was on a roll. She clapped her hands and sat up off the pillow.
‘I know! You could do a book tour … Do all the chat shows … Don’t you see, Lou? This old lady’s diary could get you back in the game! You’ve found buried treasure.’
Louise felt nauseous. ‘I don’t think …’
But Tara wasn’t listening. Off in her head, she was making plans. But not plans for herself—since those were on hold—but plans for Louise.
Louise supposed she should be grateful. It was actually a step up for Tara that she was trying to be help someone else, rather than just criticising their decisions. But these were Tara-type plans, and they might—just might—have fit Louise when she’d first told Toby she was leaving, but now they were big and baggy and unflattering. Not what she wanted at all.
She faked a yawn. ‘Actually, I am feeling a bit sleepy now. I might try and doze off again, if you don’t mi
nd?’
Tara shrugged, then she eyed up the brown leather notebook on the bedside table. ‘Can I have a read, then? It might work for me too.’
Louise picked it up and clutched it to her chest, shaking her head softly. ‘I … I haven’t finished it yet. I’d better keep it in case I wake up again.’
‘Another time, then,’ Tara said and pushed herself up off the bed and walked toward the door.
Over my dead body, thought Louise.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
How Ben had volunteered to take Jas and her two younger cousins shopping he couldn’t quite remember. His sister was subtle like that. Dangerous. Especially when the twin nephews in question were at that in-between age when they were too big for a pushchair, but too young to behave themselves in crowded shops. He supposed it was his penance for foisting himself on Tammy like this.
One slippery little hand wriggled free from his and one small boy was suddenly running into the busy crowds in the shopping mall. He yelled for Jas to follow him, scooped the other boy up into his arms and gave chase.
Thankfully, Peter—the tearaway—was stopped in his tracks by a rather fed-up-looking man in a furry turkey costume. Confronted with over seven feet of slightly disgruntled bird, he began to cry.
Angus, who was fidgeting frantically in Ben’s arms, saw that his brother was in distress and started to howl too. Great. The end to a perfect shopping trip. Tammy was going to wonder what sort of ordeal he’d put them through when he got back to her house.
He was now in grabbing distance of Peter and he hauled him up to join his brother. The turkey guy gave him a dismissive look.
‘Ought to watch out where them kids are going,’ he said, and waddled off.
Ben found he couldn’t resist a parting shot. ‘Aren’t you past your sell-by date? Christmas was almost a week ago!’
Jas giggled beside him.
Great. What a great example he was being to all three kids. It was just that hiding away like this, keeping away from Louise, felt like he was hiding something. Lying, almost. He puffed air out through his lips and turned to his daughter. ‘Remind me what else is on the list, Jas.’