A Winter's Dream

by Sophie Claire

Liberty obediently took a seat on the sofa and sank into the soft cushions. She didn’t feel like discussing knitting patterns or ‘that nice Frenchman’ tonight, but it was clear Dorothy had gone to some effort, so she reined back her impatience. She couldn’t stay too long anyway because Charlie would need to go out.

  ‘Sherry?’ Dorothy had already poured them each a tiny glass.

  ‘Actually, I’m—’

  ‘Take it.’ Dorothy added, under her breath, ‘You might need it.’

  Liberty took it and frowned. ‘Why will I—’

  ‘It’s about the flowers you get every year on your birthday.’

  She froze. ‘You know who’s sending them?’

  Dorothy nodded. But she had a strange expression, one Liberty couldn’t read, and she gulped down her own sherry (although, on reflection, that wasn’t so unusual).

  ‘Well? Who is it?’

  She hesitated, and Liberty could see she was fighting a battle with herself. The person must have sworn her to secrecy, just as they had done the florist.

  Finally, piercing blue eyes met with hers. ‘Someone who loved you very much.’

  ‘Loved?’ Past tense. Liberty held her breath and waited for her to go on.

  But Dorothy didn’t. Instead, she asked, ‘Can’t you guess? I think you know deep inside.’

  Frustration bubbled up inside her. She’d spent the last twelve years trying to guess and hadn’t worked it out.

  Loved.

  But she’d only considered those who were still here.

  Her voice was a whisper. ‘Was it – Mum?’

  Dorothy nodded.

  Liberty shook her head. ‘No, it can’t be …’

  Her mum had been there the first time she’d received a bouquet and had sworn it wasn’t her.

  ‘You must have made a mistake, Dorothy. Maybe you misheard something or—’

  ‘No mistake, dear.’ Liberty blinked. ‘It was your mum. She set it up, arranged it all.’

  Stunned, Liberty ran this through her mind. Had she denied it? Or had she simply been evasive – What me? Organise something like that? – and led her daughter to dismiss the idea? How many people knew gerberas were her favourite flowers? Not many. But her mum had died not long after Liberty’s eighteenth birthday. ‘How? I mean, I can’t …’

  ‘Drink your sherry, dear. Just a sip.’

  The fiery liquid tasted foul, but the rush of heat was welcome. Her mum? How had she arranged for them to come every year after she’d gone?

  ‘Better?’ asked Dorothy. ‘I told you you’d need it.’

  ‘But you knew Mum. She couldn’t even organise her sock drawer! Planning wasn’t a word in her vocabulary.’

  ‘She did it for you.’

  Those words settled like spring blossom fluttering to the ground. Her mum had planned for her to receive this gift each year on her birthday. Liberty felt the warm wash of her mother’s love and it made her heart swell.

  ‘She loved you more than anything.’

  The sudden spring of tears made her blink hard. ‘I – I know.’ She’d never doubted it. ‘Why did she do it? What are the flowers supposed to mean?’

  With an unsteady hand, Dorothy refilled their sherry glasses. ‘She was worried that as a teenager you’d become quieter and a little shy, and she always wondered if growing up without a father figure in your life had affected your confidence.’

  ‘What a ridiculous idea!’

  Dorothy put the sherry bottle down. ‘She sometimes worried that she wasn’t enough.’

  Liberty’s eyes filled. ‘How could she think that? She was the best mum.’

  ‘Anyway. The flowers were supposed to get you thinking about all the people in your life who cared about you. Make you realise that you had a lot to feel proud of, confident about.’

  She remembered her mum asking, ‘Is there anyone you’ve helped in some way or been kind to?’ And Liberty had thought about all the good deeds she’d done. ‘Is there anyone who admires you, maybe from a distance, or a friend who’s too shy to say how much your friendship means to them?’

  The realisation dawned that her mum had been encouraging her to examine her life and see that she was surrounded by a community that cared and was rooting for her. She felt a smile spread across her face. ‘How ironic,’ she said. ‘Mum sent those flowers to boost my confidence, and they were the very thing that triggered me to feel I was too timid and stuck in a rut!’

  But in doing the challenge she’d faced her fears and discovered she was braver than she’d realised.

  ‘Your mum would be proud of your challenge. She’d be cheering you on all the way.’

  Liberty nodded, her throat too tight to speak. Even in death her mum was still sending her love, encouragement and support, and that was just typical of her. How had Liberty not guessed?

  Dorothy patted her hand. ‘She loved you and isn’t it wonderful that she found a way to tell you so even after she was gone?’

  ‘She always was creative.’

  Dorothy laughed. ‘She certainly was. I hope I did the right thing in telling you. It was supposed to be a secret, after all. A mystery. But …’ Her thin lips pressed flat.

  ‘But what?’ Liberty asked, with a rush of concern.

  She hesitated, then admitted, ‘The doctor’s been doing a few tests and – well, I’m worried. I won’t always be around, love.’

  ‘Oh, Dorothy! What tests? What’s wrong?’

  Dorothy waved away her concern. ‘Nothing to worry about. I’m just not as young as I used to be, that’s all. But I don’t want you to be sad if one day when I’m gone the flowers stop coming.’ She grinned. ‘I’m not sure your mum thought that far ahead.’

  A little later Liberty walked back to her car, her head filled with this news, her heart lighter. She couldn’t wait to tell—

  She stopped herself.

  Damn. Why was Alex still the one she wanted to run to with her news?

  He was gone. She had to remember that.

  The race should have been a walk in the park. The opportunity to showcase the bikes of a bygone era with all their classic beauty and historic value. And now Alex’s father was no longer around there was no real competition. The other racers were simply not in the same league to challenge Alex’s place in pole position, even with his weak wrist. Engine revving on the starting grid, he expected it to be a breeze.

  But Fate had other ideas.

  On the third corner the guy next to him leaned in a little too close and Alex tried to adjust. Perhaps his mind was still on Liberty, or perhaps he was out of practice after a month away. Perhaps he over-adjusted or his tyre lost traction – he’d never know. But for the third time in two years he felt the bike separate from him and he sailed away from the track, skimming the ground towards the barriers.

  It was déjà vu – yet it was different.

  He’d had two serious crashes before and each time he’d done what he’d been trained to do: relaxed his body, let himself roll and slide, resigned to whatever the outcome was to be.

  Not today.

  This time blinding white fear gripped him. He didn’t want to die.

  Liberty’s face flashed up in front of him. He saw her smile, her hair, her beautiful eyes. He couldn’t leave her. He had to live.

  But his body continued to roll and bounce, and the barrier loomed larger and closer – until he smashed against it.

  And the lights went out.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Thursday, 8 January

  Charlie was curled up asleep next to her sewing table and Liberty was getting ready to go to Brenda’s for the evening. She dropped into her bag the gold squares she’d cut ready to stitch on tonight. She’d almost finished the Van Gogh quilt and if she held it to her nose and inhaled, she could smell the gorgeous perfumes of Provence: pine trees, sunshine, a salty hint of the sea. It reminded her of the day she’d arrived in France and the high she’d felt.

  Reminded her of Alex.

  She p
ut the scissors down and waited for the sharp, jagged pain to pass. Sometimes it was so raw it stole her breath. She knew it would ease eventually, but that day was far in the future. Her best form of defence was not to let herself think of him at all, to keep busy, fill her mind with quilts and colours and plans for the future.

  But tonight she was tired, and for once she didn’t have the strength to prevent her thoughts from wandering to him. She wondered where he was, what he was doing. Did he think of her? Did he miss her at all?

  A thought suddenly occurred, and she checked the date. His race had been two days ago. Had he won?

  She glanced over at her laptop. Leave it, Lib. You must move on.

  But, unable to resist the temptation, she sat down and typed in a search for the results. He hadn’t come first.

  She frowned and scanned the list. Finally, she found his name near the bottom:

  Alexandre Ricard – DNF.

  ‘DNF? What does that mean?’ she said.

  Charlie opened one eye, then went back to sleep. She typed in another search, and her pulse quickened. Did not finish. Why not? She tapped furiously, searching for a write-up of the race. A journalist’s report came up, and as Liberty read it her skin began to prickle. No!

  The report said he’d crashed – early on. A handling error, it said. Unusual for him – as if his mind hadn’t been on the race, the journalist speculated. Alex had been thrown from the bike, hit the crash barrier and blacked out. He was airlifted to hospital and his family were with him, but there’d been no updates since.

  Liberty gripped the table, feeling sick, winded. He’d told her the race wasn’t high level, that it involved nothing like the speeds he was used to. She snatched up her phone and texted him: Just heard about your accident. Are you okay?

  She waited five minutes. When he didn’t reply, she dialled his number. Stuff her pride. She needed to know. But his phone didn’t connect and went straight to voicemail.

  What should she do?

  It took her less than ten seconds to decide. She went back to the laptop and looked up the next available flight to the South of France.

  Alex felt a kick as he spotted the first sign for Willowbrook. But the traffic lights switched to red so he grudgingly slowed to a stop, cursing under his breath. As he’d lain in hospital, then as he’d travelled here, he’d had time to think – to really think – about what Liberty had said a week ago.

  Was she right? Was he afraid? He, who’d had a passion for speed since the moment he could ride on two wheels, did he fear opening his heart and getting hurt?

  He revved his engine and waited impatiently for the lights to turn green. He’d watched his mother suffer time and time again. He’d witnessed her pain, her torment. He’d tried to help but most of the time he’d been helpless. As he’d grown older she’d leaned on him because he could at least help in practical ways, but the anger he’d felt at his father had been about her hurt.

  Or had it?

  A memory struck unexpectedly. He pictured himself as a young boy the night before Christmas: tense, anxious, unable to sleep. But not because he was fantasising about reindeer and sleighs.

  Christmas had been either a time of tension or of absence. Always of hurt.

  How many times had he lain awake, wondering why his father couldn’t be content with them – his family? Why was he never interested in his son, who’d done all he could to impress him, even surpassing his own professional achievements? Pain corkscrewed through him. He’d desperately wanted his father to acknowledge him – not just as a motor-racing champion, but as his son.

  He hadn’t. And that had hurt.

  Liberty was right, he realised now.

  He pictured the hurt in her brown eyes, the tears she’d furiously blinked away, and the corkscrew dug in deeper. He’d encouraged her to be brave with her challenge, when all along he’d been avoiding relationships himself and living by the belief that love hurt.

  He’d been afraid of his feelings for her.

  He thought of how she’d said yes to so many things she’d found terrifying – the bike ride, the flight to France, spending Christmas alone in a country where she didn’t speak the language – and knew he couldn’t let his fear hold him back any longer. He couldn’t live his life constantly on the run, heading for the fire escape each time someone began to get close to him. He had to give their relationship a chance, even if it meant risking his heart – and hers.

  He gripped the handlebars anxiously. If only he could see into the future and be sure it would work, he’d be back at her side in the blink of an eye. But no one knew what the future held, did they?

  He stopped. Why was he assuming the future was out of his hands?

  If he’d learned anything from his poor excuse for a father, it was that relationships were about being there and sticking around, even when things were less than perfect.

  And Alex was good at that. He’d always been there for his mum and brothers: why couldn’t he be there for Liberty?

  The lights finally changed and he charged forward with the same purpose and determination he used to have on the starting line of a race.

  He slowed right down as he turned off for her cottage, and inhaled the fresh woodland scents of bark, wet leaves and fertile soil. He couldn’t bring himself to get off and walk the rest of the way, he was too impatient to see Liberty.

  His heart slugged hard. Liberty had been the only thing on his mind as that barrier had come rushing at him. She was the only thing that mattered. As he drew up outside the cottage, a curtain jerked open and he saw a flash of red hair before she darted away. The front door opened and she flew out, Charlie hot on her heels. Alex killed the engine, dismounted and unclipped his helmet. Joy pounded through him at the sight of her.

  ‘I’ve been trying to call you,’ she said urgently. ‘They said you crashed.’ Her eyes were round with fear and concern, and he wanted to draw her to him.

  ‘I did. But I’m fine.’

  By some miracle, he hadn’t been seriously hurt. Once he’d come round, though, he’d already been lifted into the helicopter. He’d insisted he didn’t need any checks, but they’d flown him to hospital anyway. He was discharged the same day.

  He knew he’d been lucky. He knew how close he’d come to losing everything. You’re like a cat with nine lives, his mum had told him.

  He was still here, he’d been given another chance, and this time he wasn’t going to waste it. From now on, he wasn’t going to take anything for granted: things were going to be different.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ Liberty said, flattening a palm to her chest. ‘I was so worried.’

  Her visible relief made his heart swell. ‘Sorry about that. My phone battery died halfway here. That’s why you couldn’t get through.’

  She nodded, and his instinct was telling him to kiss her, but she hung back. Charlie, on the other hand, jumped up and Alex rubbed his ears. ‘Hello, Charlie.’

  The dog did a couple of excited circles, then cocked his leg against the back tyre of his bike.

  ‘Merci,’ Alex muttered drily. He turned back to Liberty and searched for the words, which, all the way here, had been so clear in his head, but now they fluttered out of reach. ‘Lib, when I lost control of the bike there was a long moment when I wasn’t sure what was going to happen.’

  ‘You thought you were going to get hurt again?’

  ‘Or worse.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And in those moments all I could think of was you …’

  Her eyes widened. Fear and hope quivered in him, like butterfly wings, but he told himself there was nothing for it but to take a deep breath and say the words. Take the leap of faith he’d been too cowardly to take before.

  ‘I love you, Liberty. I want to be with you.’ He went on, ‘I love that you visit Carys every Sunday without fail and you refuse to give up on her. I love that when you sing it’s so beautiful I get goose-bumps. I love that you’re so talented and passionate about sewing. I love that when I’m wit
h you I don’t want to be anywhere else. I love that you’re brave even when you’re scared, and I love that you weren’t afraid to say you loved me even when I pushed you away. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met, Liberty, and I love you.’ He grinned, and found that saying the words brought unexpected pleasure. A sense of peace, too, of everything suddenly coming into focus.

  Her eyebrows knotted. ‘But I can’t ask you to make sacrifices for me. You love travelling, I’m a home bird.’

  ‘I love that you’re a home bird. You love the simple things in life. And I don’t miss travelling. I miss you. I miss this place.’ He gestured to the blanket of trees above them and pictured the hum of wildlife that filled it by day. ‘I want to live here. I’m going to talk to Guy about restoring classic bikes, and I want to be by your side for the rest of my life … So what do you say?’

  He held his breath, waiting for her answer.

  ‘You know my answer, Alex Ricard,’ she said quietly. She took his face in her hands and her smile made his chest constrict. ‘I love you.’

  Their lips met, and he pulled her to him, impatient for this, impatient to begin this new chapter in his life. In their lives.

  ‘I’m going to love you like you deserve to be loved,’ he promised, ‘full throttle, no holds barred.’

  Epilogue

  Sunday, 25 January

  It was a Sunday like any other. They’d walked Charlie through the woods, up the hill towards the Old Hall and back again, enjoying the little signs that spring would soon be on its way: the call and response of a pair of pigeons, the clenched buds of a camellia bush, the first clusters of snowdrops. They’d made waffles with chocolate sauce. And now they’d come to visit Carys at the hospital.

  Later, Natasha, Luc and the children were coming to Damselfly Cottage for a Sunday roast, and Liberty planned to present the cot quilt she’d made for baby Arthur.

  But for now her attention was focused on her friend. Carys slept on, her breath steady, her expression soft and calm.

  ‘So, once Alex has found some premises, he’s going to set up a workshop specialising in restoring classic bikes. He’ll pay a team of mechanics to do the dirty work and he’ll manage the place, tracking down the parts and quoting for work and so on. At least, that’s what he says.’ She glanced up at Alex, who was sitting on the other side of the bed, and they shared a smile. ‘Knowing him like I do, I’m sure he’ll end up in the workshop tinkering too, but it should keep him busy.’