The House at the Bottom of the Hill

by Jennie Jones

  ‘Bottom of the what?’

  ‘Hill.’

  ‘You’re giving the place a name?’

  Well, of course she was, although she hadn’t meant to tell him. It had slipped out, but as anyone in business should know— as coffee Hotshot himself should know—the key factor when selling involved credibility. And a seemingly innocuous little something extra would tip the scale for a prospective buyer. ‘I was considering it.’ Giving the B&B a name suggested it was a lucrative, ongoing business and a good exit strategy always gave the best return. She’d learned that in Starfoot.

  Except that regarding Swallow’s Fall, it was a lie. There was no good faith and no steady stream of customers, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be.

  ‘Why bottom of the hill?’ he asked. ‘You’re set on the entrance to town facing Main Street and we’re on the flat.’

  ‘And there’s a hill on the eastern side of town. The one I run on, the one you don’t like squashing wildflowers on, and my B&B sits at the bottom of that hill.’

  ‘The hill you jog on—you’re not up to running yet, you’re still getting in shape.’ He paused, but not long enough for Charlotte to respond to yet another of his teases. ‘Let’s keep the new name quiet for the moment, shall we? We’ve got enough on our plates.’

  ‘We?’

  He slid his fingers into the pockets of his jeans. ‘We don’t want to rub the committee the wrong way with too many ideas. I don’t know how things work in England, but out here, life is slow.’ He pulled a hand out of his pocket and skimmed it across the air, palm down. ‘We glide, we take things easy, we relax.’

  ‘I’m happy to relax but I’m not waiting a year before I …’ She faltered. Sell—she’d been about to tell him she planned on selling up. ‘Before I paint the weatherboard.’ The second slip-up in front of him.

  ‘You’ve got to back down, Charlotte, in order to go forwards.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you’ve got to chill. Get them on your side first. Do something for them. Show them a gesture they’ll appreciate.’

  ‘Like what?’ What did they want—a bunch of flowers? She’d been here three weeks and hadn’t got further than fixing the veranda and laying new turf.

  He shrugged. ‘That’s up to you. But you can’t run them over with your stubborn streak. That’ll get their backs up even more.’

  ‘They started it.’ She’d been nothing but friendly from the moment she arrived; had baked pastries and cakes every time they turned up on her doorstep. They’d eaten her fare but hadn’t returned the bonhomie. If they now thought her terse and non-communicative, that was their problem—and their fault.

  ‘Look. I’ll give you an example. When I first got here, the wall behind the bar was putrid green. I waited three months before I repainted it a darker green. That didn’t get noticed, so the month after I painted it a shade of green with dark blue tones. That got noticed, but people liked it because it was still greenish.’ He took a breath. ‘The next month I took the green out and painted it a deeper blue. People liked that because they’d got used to the blue. They forgot about the green. Two months later I painted it navy. Everybody patted me on the back for a job well done.’

  He had to be joking. ‘It took you seven months to change the colour from green to blue? That’s nutty.’

  ‘That’s Swallow’s Fall.’

  Green and blue were almost the same colour, in certain lights. Changing pink to yellow was … nothing like the same.

  She breathed deeply and took her gaze away from his scrutinising expression.

  Why was she so keen on yellow anyway? What did it matter when she’d be leaving as soon as she’d found the courage she hadn’t realised she lacked to talk to Ethan privately? She could agree to paint it a softer rose colour and let it be. Pink wasn’t too bad, as long as it wasn’t flamingo pink.

  She straightened and looked Daniel in the eye. It was the principle, not the colour. Yellow. She would paint her little house sunflower yellow if it killed her. If it meant she had to stay here right through summer into autumn. Which meant she’d have to pretend to be getting along famously with her mediator.

  ‘What do you need to know?’ she asked.

  He smiled, took a step towards her. ‘First off, don’t worry about the committee. I’ll handle them. My role in this is to help them, and you.’

  ‘I thought I’d make a start on the inside first,’ she said, looking around the wide but shabby hallway. ‘Then get around to the weatherboard colour later, when I get a better footing in town.’

  ‘Now you’re talking. I knew you’d see sense.’

  She fired him a look. ‘You know nothing about me.’

  ‘I know you’d like a coffee. You’ve got that “hanging out for caffeine” look in your eyes.’ He put a hand on the banister. ‘So where shall we start? Upstairs?’ He took a few steps up the stairs. ‘You’ll need to get the bedrooms sorted first, if you want guests soon.’ He paused, smiled down at her. ‘I know a couple of guys who might be your first customers.’

  She wouldn’t be having customers.

  He gripped the banister in one of his big hands and shook it. ‘Bit wobbly.’ He bent to inspect something and pulled the carpet back from the stairs. ‘Dry rot creeping in.’ He straightened. ‘They’ll probably last a year, but you ought to tend to them sooner rather than later.’

  She’d be long gone in a year; she’d be gone in two months if they’d just let her paint the damn weatherboard. ‘I’ll deal with the banister but the stairs can wait.’

  ‘If you’ve got the capital, you ought to deal with it now.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’ No need to tell him that the hefty capital she had would be sending her straight back to Britain on a first-class ticket and to a new life. Free from fear … and free from interference, and free from the not inconsequential charms of a honed sixfoot-two guy with a great butt.

  He swivelled on the fourth step and sat on it, elbows on knees. By the look on his face, he was pondering more than the creaky staircase. He nodded at the door. ‘One question—no joking, no bullshit—what is it with the locks and bolts? You think you’re going to be invaded or something?’

  Charlotte didn’t answer.

  ‘You’re getting all defensive again, Red.’

  ‘You’re throwing your smooth, sexy charm around. It grates on me.’

  He grinned. ‘So now I’m gorgeous and sexy? What’s not to like?’

  Another slip-up. Time to knock his inferences and suggestiveness on the head and get her own brain functioning around something other than coffee and sex. She moved to the banister and rested a hand on the wooden knob. ‘Let me tell you the definition of charmer.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Quote: An entertainer exhibiting a professed ability or power to charm a venomous snake. Unquote.’

  He studied her for a long time. Three beats, four, five …

  ‘Looks like it’s not working on you,’ he said softly. He stood, head tilted, brow drawn. ‘Let me give you the lowdown on uptight. Bad-tempered, snooty, repressed—’

  ‘Repressed?’

  ‘Inhibited—and I don’t mean shy—and frightened to death of making the wrong decision. I reckon you’d rather shave that red hair off than admit you were wrong about anything. You’ve got a marker for yourself and you’ve put it real high on the board.’

  Charlotte blinked and closed her mouth to stop from answering. Quite a speech. She must have pissed him off big-time. Had she meant to do that?

  He jumped the three stairs down to the hallway and strode to the door.

  ‘You’ll never attain the mark, Charlotte.’ He yanked the flyscreen open and turned to her. ‘Not until you liberate yourself from the rigid corset you put on every morning. Shake up your skirts and dance a little, why don’t you?’ He stormed down her path, the flyscreen slamming shut behind him.

  Shocked, Charlotte wavered in a haze of angst about apologising— and even worse, possibly telling him why she wa
s here.

  Ethan.

  Dan glanced up when someone knocked on the door.

  ‘Man,’ he murmured, but didn’t move from behind the bar.

  The redhead stared at him through the glass panel.

  ‘It’s open,’ he called.

  She stepped half inside, holding onto the door with her hand and resting it against her shoulder. ‘I came to apologise. And for that coffee, if it’s still on offer.’

  Dan didn’t answer.

  ‘Pissing you off wasn’t my intent,’ she said. ‘I got carried away.’ She paused, looking as though she was gauging her next words with caution. ‘I also think it would be good idea to accept your offer of mediation.’

  ‘Alright then.’ Dan threw the cloth in his hand over the rim of the stainless steel sink. He strode across the wooden floorboards and pulled the half-opened door she was leaning against out of her hands. She stumbled into Kookaburra’s, steadied herself and swung around to him.

  ‘During which process,’ she said, with a business-like expression, ‘I promise to be the politest I possibly can be while around you.’

  ‘Do you always change your mind so fast?’

  ‘Depends what’s on offer. Right now, I could do with a real coffee.’

  He smiled and let the door swing closed. ‘I might need something stronger.’ This bar was his home and he didn’t want bad feelings in his environment; it took more than a mop and a bucket of water to wash them away. And maybe this time they’d talk without bickering. Dan rolled the sleeves of his shirt up and moved behind the bar. Shame Mrs J wasn’t here to witness his tetchiness with the redhead first-hand. It would sure stop the gossip.

  ‘You didn’t come to the barbecue last week,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I didn’t think I was invited.’

  ‘Nobody was invited. There was a small dollar charge per head and me and my cook threw some sausages and steaks on the hot plate. Everyone had fun. You should have come.’

  ‘Who would I have spoken to?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘We’d have ended up arguing.’

  The woman had layers of vulnerability beneath that bristly veneer. ‘You’re right. Glad you didn’t come. Might have made me look too macho when everyone knows I’m just an easy-going, friendly country boy.’

  Her smile appeared quickly, but she angled it away from him. One layer stripped. How many more to go? Dan let his own smile form. Felt like he couldn’t keep it contained when she was around. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked as he pulled the portafilter from the coffee machine.

  ‘From just outside Harrogate in England,’ she answered, slipping onto a stool.

  ‘Big town, huh?’

  She tugged at the thin cardigan she wore. ‘No. A village called Lower-Starfoot-in-the-Forest.’

  ‘Sounds like a fairy tale,’ he said as he packed the portafilter with ground beans and tapped it down.

  ‘It was, once.’

  Dan glanced at her. ‘Fancy place, is it?’

  ‘If you like village ponds, Maypoles and ye-olde-type buildings.’

  ‘Flat white or latte?’

  ‘Flat white. So who’s your cook?’ she asked, picking up a laminated bar menu and running an eye down the list.

  ‘Me and Lily Johnson.’

  ‘Mrs J’s daughter?’

  ‘Yep. Mrs J looks after Lily’s kids while she works. Lily’s divorced, and Mrs J lost her husband a few years back so the ladies and the kids live together. Seems to work well for them all.’

  She glanced back at the menu. ‘Not bad.’

  ‘We keep it small. People don’t like change.’ Dan was sure she almost laughed at that.

  ‘Does Lily do all the cooking while you swagger around the bar being a hearty country boy with your customers?’

  ‘Mostly,’ he said, deciding the gentle barb was merely one more layer stripped from her prickly nature. ‘I’m a dab hand in the kitchen though.’ He nodded at the menu. ‘Chilli is my speciality. Chilli chicken, chilli mussels, chilli con carne. Give me a chilli pepper and I’ll create mouth-watering magic for you.’

  ‘Really?’ She turned the menu over. ‘Who does your desserts?’

  ‘I get most of them delivered.’

  ‘Mmm, shame.’ She put the menu back into its metal holder. ‘You could expand your business if you offered home-made desserts. I doubt even the steadfast citizens of Swallow’s Fall would refuse a good selection of cakes and tarts.’

  ‘Is that what you offered in your quaint English B&B?’

  ‘Yes. I trained as a pastry chef.’

  ‘Can you make all the fancy doings? The éclair things and the sweet puff pastry stuff?’

  She gave him a perplexed look. ‘Of course. I’m a pastry chef. I had a small side business running alongside my bed and breakfast. I catered for parties and weddings.’

  Dan pursed his mouth. Pretty much all he offered at Kookaburra’s was shop-bought tiramisu cake and lemon meringue pie alongside Mrs Tam’s home-made ice creams. ‘Impressive,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  She paused a fraction too long. ‘Adventure.’

  No way did he believe that. ‘And you thought you’d get it in Swallow’s Fall?’ He smiled at her. ‘Come on, give. Why are you here?’

  She leaned an elbow on the bar. ‘I thought we’d formed a truce.’

  He poured milk into a stainless steel jug and lifted it to the steam wand. ‘We have. We don’t trust each other, so all questions we ask are fair and equal. Any answers decided on are up to the individual but open to suspicion from the other.’

  She rested her chin in her hand and arched one delicate eyebrow. ‘For a moment there, I almost fell for your country-boy charm.’

  Cute expression on a cute face, especially with the light of cheekiness glowing in her eyes. But she was the one with charms. Beneath her expensive, slightly conservative clothing, Charlotte had a body with any number of fascinations a guy might be tempted by. Not that he’d admit to anyone that he’d noticed.

  He looked back to the jug as the milk heated, circulated and gradually began to rise up the sides. ‘I’m your negotiator. I need to know more about you so I can get everyone on your side.’ He withdrew the jug, set it down and wiped the steam valve with a damp cloth. He took a cup and saucer off the stack sitting neatly on top of the coffee machine.

  ‘How?’ She leaned forwards, watching him work.

  ‘You’re new in town. I can help you get settled.’ He made sure the portafilter was tightly secured and turned the hot water knob on full. After a few seconds, her nose twitched as the scent of coffee pouring into the china cup reached her.

  ‘Don’t know if I’ll ever actually … settle.’

  ‘I’d like to know why you need so many bolts on your doors,’ he said quietly.

  She sat upright on the stool and turned her attention away from the coffee. ‘General security.’

  ‘Kinda touchy on the subject, aren’t you?’ She didn’t answer and the light had gone from her eyes. ‘I’m pretty good at sussing people out,’ he said. ‘And I think you’re scared of something.’

  ‘And I’m pretty good at not letting anything slip—should there be anything to let slip.’

  ‘So are you hiding from something? Or someone?’

  She smiled, looking sweet and saucy suddenly. ‘Do you want to hear about how I was fired from my job as a waitress and why I’m sulking here in the country? Or would you prefer the tale about my angry boyfriend … the one I was three timing?’

  ‘Three, huh? That must have tired you out. Personally I prefer the one about you tying up an intruder in your house and using him as your sex slave for three days before turning the poor wasted bugger over to the police.’

  The cheekiness left her eyes and she shivered slightly. ‘I imagine you would.’

  Damn. She obviously hadn’t heard that story. Bloody idiots from outside town. Good job they were contractors and
not around all the time or he might be tempted to visit one or two of them and put them straight with a punch to the jaw. Perhaps he should have done that in the first place. He picked up the milk jug and banged it on the bar to settle the milk then swirled the jug to get rid of any bubbles.

  ‘Make that a takeaway, would you?’

  ‘Those stories came from guys passing through, Charlotte. The ones that had seen you and fancied you. They won’t be back, so don’t worry about it. But as far as general gossip goes there’s nothing you can do. Unless you tell someone why you’re here, they’re going to make up stories. And they’re wondering why you’re here.’ He bent to the shelf beneath the coffee machine for one of the takeaway cups.

  ‘I’m here because …’

  Dan stilled. She swivelled on the bar stool to face the windows and the street. She’d been about to open up to him, he sensed it. Was she starting to trust him? Perhaps he really could help her. Perhaps they’d become friends—eventually. He poured the espresso shot into the takeaway cup.

  Why the nerves and the occasional shadows fluttering beneath her eyes? She was flicking at her hair as though there were a bug in it. Was she more hurt by the townspeople’s attitude than she was letting on?

  ‘What’s upstairs?’ she asked, head tilted back as she gazed at the ceiling.

  ‘The old rooms from a hundred years ago. Falling to bits though. Mainly storage space now.’ He poured the thickened milk onto the shot of coffee.

  ‘Must be a big space.’

  ‘Three hundred and fifty square metres’ worth.’

  She got off the stool and walked into the centre of the bar where a wooden balustrade separated the drinking area from the family restaurant, still gazing up at the ceiling. ‘You could have a whole apartment up there.’

  Dan picked up a skewer and drew a heart-shape through the light froth of milk on her flat white, something he’d normally only do with a latte but he figured what the hell, Red needed something to make her smile.

  ‘Three apartments, probably,’ she said.

  Or seven redeveloped hotel rooms. ‘Yeah, well, I like my back room.’ He pressed a lid onto the cup, firmed the rim and walked around the counter. ‘No sugar. I figure you’re sweet enough without it.’ He handed her the coffee.