Based on the prices Frank charged, she figured the statement true, but Willow had no desire to take sides in this family matter. “If I decide to do this work, any idea when you could start?”
The taut lines of his anger softened. “We’ve got a tight schedule, but I might be able to fit you in a few weeks from now. I mean, since Owen knows you. Usually we have a longer wait.”
A few weeks? She’d never get home when she’d planned, not if she stayed until both places were ready to list for sale. “That’s very kind of you. I need to get back to the States at some point.”
She refilled their coffee and asked more about his business, learning Frank ran it with Graham, Owen’s younger brother. Pride shone in Frank’s eyes as he discussed Graham’s work with him, a far cry from his reaction to Owen’s new venture.
In the middle of a funny story about his oldest grandson, someone knocked at the front door before it opened.
“Hello?” Owen yelled.
“In the kitchen,” Willow replied.
Owen reached the kitchen doorway and stopped, a stone-cold expression on his face. “Hi, Dad. Did you stop by the cottage yet?”
“I did. You must’ve already left to take Jilly to school.” Frank lifted his coffee and sipped while watching Owen over the rim. He lowered the cup. “You could’ve told me about the roof problems sooner.”
Owen’s jaw tightened. “Yes, well…” He glanced down to his hand, where he held Willow’s jacket. “Good morning. I’m just returning this. You left it on the van’s back seat.”
She took it and tossed it on one of the chairs. “Thanks. I forgot all about it.” She stood. “Let me get you some coffee.”
Owen glanced between the two cups. “No thanks.”
“Stay.” Frank quickly stood up. “Time I left. I’ve got to meet Graham at a big job over on Sandy Lane. You let me know what you want me to do about the roof, young lady.” He tipped his head. “Nice meeting you.”
He walked past Owen and gave him a quick nod. A second later, the front door closed.
Owen exhaled and walked over to the counter and leaned against it. He met her gaze, smiled slowly. “Did you have fun yesterday?”
“I did. I’m exhausted. Can you tell me what just happened here?”
“Regarding what?”
“With your father, Owen.”
“Oh. That.” He shrugged. “We don’t get along too well.”
“I’m sorry. Why?”
He raised his dark brows.
“Sorry.” She softened her tone. “If you don’t mind talking about it. He seems nice.”
“He is nice. To everyone else.” Owen stuck his hands in his jean pockets. “If you must know, it seems I’m the biggest disappointment in his life.”
The obvious pain in Owen’s eyes touched a place inside of her also wounded by insensitive parents. Frank’s angry comment about Owen’s travel business were not the words of a proud father.
“I’m sorry. I know that must hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
She walked closer to him. “Listen, I’ve seen firsthand how parents can hurt kids. Not physically, but by their words.”
“Why? Was someone like that to you?”
“Yes. My stepfather, Charlie. He…”
She stopped, the confession about her weight leaving her face, neck, and ears impossibly hot. Why let embarrassment stop her? Owen could see her size.
She inhaled and stared at the tile wall over his shoulder. “My mom married Charlie when I was five. He never missed a chance to remind me I was fat. Subtle ways, but hurtful nonetheless. ‘Are you eating again?’ or ‘You’ll never get a boyfriend at your weight.’” Willow swallowed a lump forming in her throat. “I hated him for reminding me. Like I didn’t know I weighed more than other girls at school? Jesus, I knew it every single day of my life.” The worst of the admission over, she looked Owen in the eyes and saw nothing but sympathy. “Anger over his comments drove me to get skinny. So driven, I sold hundreds of thousands of customers on my weight-loss plan. But as you can see, I’m no longer driven.”
“Willow, don’t—”
“Please. I know what I am and always will be. Even when I’m skinny, a heavier version of me is waiting inside to come out.” Embarrassment over the confession lingered, but at least she felt something. For months now, she’d been numb. “So, Owen, I understand how parents can make us feel like shit simply by making us believe our feelings don’t matter.”
Owen straightened and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “You listen to me, Willow. I don’t know what you see in the mirror, but, for God’s sake, you’re crazy if you believe you’ve turned back into a chubby little girl.” His gaze burned into hers. “You’re—you’re gorgeous, smart, and great company. And your curves would turn the head of any man worth his salt.”
Heat burned her cheeks. She wanted to believe every word. How many times had she encouraged members of her program to believe in themselves, because loving yourself was the first step toward any kind of self-improvement? Great. Now she could add hypocrite to her list of flaws. “Stop. You don’t have to say that. Honestly, I’m okay.”
He snorted a laugh. “Just like I am. Listen, I found your weight-loss company on the internet with your photo when I learned you owned the place.”
“Oh, so you knew all about my business when I brought it up at lunch yesterday?”
He dropped his hands and shrugged. “I did. I didn’t want you to be mad.”
“No, I’d have done the same.”
“My reason for confessing is because I saw a photo of a bone-thin version of you. Through my eyes, that version can’t hold a candle to the gorgeous lass who stands before me.”
Letting go of the image engrained in her brain for decades seemed impossible, but she couldn’t deny Owen’s attention had a way of making it fade away. “You’re very kind to say so.”
“Kind?” He tossed up his hands. “It’s the truth. Are you going to argue with me? You shouldn’t, because I always win.”
She laughed. Owen’s gift to others came in the form of the smiles he created. “Okay, you win. I will own the beauty you see, at least for the moment. Now, will you tell me why you think you disappoint your father?”
“It’s simple. We’ve never shared the same interests. If I played cricket, he wanted me to play soccer. If I wanted to sit inside and read, he’d tell me books were for wimps. My brother, Graham, is more like him. Problem solved when I went off to the university. I majored in history and literature.” He shook his head, a reluctant smile forming. “It drove the old man crazy, but for once I did what I loved and didn’t give a damn what he thought. It’s been a lifetime of growing apart, I guess. Working in the tour business, I didn’t see him much.”
“And now you’re back.”
He nodded. “Back for a good reason. Unfortunately, it’s near him, although I like seeing more of my mum.” He drew in a deep breath. “Okay, confession time over. Besides returning your jacket, I stopped by to tell you that Ronald McBride accepted my Facebook friend request. I sent him a message, explaining how I’m trying to locate his grandmother and why. Soon as he replies, I’ll let you know.”
Another step in the right direction, all thanks to his help. She touched his arm. “Alone, I’m not sure I’d have ever found Hettie. I honestly don’t know how to thank you.”
“Seeing the relief on your face is enough thanks. Is there anything I can do for you to help out around here? Tomorrow I have some time.”
“I might need some help in the attic.”
“Morning okay?”
“Perfect. Hey, I’m seeing more sights this afternoon. Edna and Eddie are taking me to Bath for afternoon tea at the Pump Room.”
“You’ll love it. If you have time, make sure they take you to the Royal Crescent and The Circus, both beautif
ul examples of the architecture in Bath. Guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
He turned for the door.
“Owen?”
He stopped and glanced back.
“I really did have fun yesterday. You were nice to take a whole day to show me around.”
“Happy to be of assistance.” He tipped his head like a gentleman of class. “And I had a good time, too.”
She followed him out and waved from the porch as he pulled away.
The revealing moment she’d just had with Owen swirled inside her head. She rarely spoke of her childhood memories. Even when interviewed by magazines in her role as the CEO of Pound Busters, she chalked up her obsession with weight loss to a chubby childhood alone, but never dared revealed the painful incidents she’d shared today.
Another mask she hid behind. Not the fat versus skinny mask, but something deeper. A mask to hide pain caused by external sources, the power of them embedded so deeply inside that they controlled the very way she saw herself.
Yet here, in Bitton, she felt comfortable. Like she belonged “as is.”
Chapter 13
“Come on up.” Owen stood in the attic, right near the door opening, and motioned with a wave of his hand to Willow. “I promise, there are no ghosts.”
“Very funny. Seriously, you checked everything?” Willow put one foot on the first step. “It didn’t sound like you walked around up there much.”
He raised his brows. “Okay, Rosebud. Want to tell me exactly what’s going on here?”
“It may sound silly, but when I was ten, a bat attacked me in our attic. To call it terrifying would be an understatement.”
“It attacked you?”
“Okay, it flew around my head and I screamed. Can you check for bats?”
He stared at her for a second then smiled. “Sure.”
His feet padded on the floor overhead. She leaned against the hallway wall when it struck her how idiotic she must sound, terrified over something that happened so long ago. His opinion of her mattered more than when she’d arrived in town.
“Would you look at this?” Owen said loudly from upstairs.
“What?” She froze. “A bat?”
“No.” He laughed, the happy sound rolling gently to her ears. “It’s a bat-free zone. Come on up and see what I found.”
Willow climbed the stairs and found him by a window, studying a painting displayed on an easel.
He glanced her way. “This is signed by your grandfather.” He motioned for her to join him. “Seems he was a painter.”
“Edna mentioned that.” She approached, studying the oil painting. A city view done from a country hillside.
“It’s Bath.” Owen stepped aside and she joined him in front of the easel. “Your granddad was talented.”
The details were painted with a loose brushstroke using pure but intense colors and giving the viewer a sensory effect of the scene. An impressionist style, void of pure linear definition and with a more unfinished style. “His work is incredible.”
“There are more canvases against the wall.” Owen walked to the other side of the room and she followed.
A lineup of vibrant oil paintings told a story of England spanning the seasons. A snowscape of a rotting fence gate with low rolling hills in the background. Flat fields of spring green, fighting with frosty patches of snow while half-naked tree branches sprouted lime buds. Summer wild flowers growing against an old stone wall in a quaint village. And the vibrant earth tones of autumn leaves as a backdrop to a wood post sign that read Cotswold Way.
Owen came to her side and motioned with his hand to the autumn painting. “Oh, that’s why these locations look familiar. They’re all painted from the Cotswold Way.”
“What’s that?” She looked to Owen, who’d crouched down and studied the painting closely.
“A walking trail. Been around for decades.” He moved on to the next painting, giving it the same intense study. “Around ten years ago the government made it a national trail.”
He waved toward the first painting he’d been staring at so carefully when she first came up. “That one, with the view of Bath, is probably from a spot on the trail.”
Willow examined the paintings while Owen walked over to a box and opened it. As she did, a rush of excitement bubbled inside her over the treasure they’d stumbled upon, the artwork personal and close to her grandfather’s heart. She imagined him sitting by the light of the window and painting from a photograph or outdoors at a spot on the trail.
Owen laughed. “This doesn’t surprise me.” He held up a magazine. “Come look at what I found in these boxes.”
She walked over and took it. “Walk Magazine? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Probably because you’re not a Rambler.”
“What are they?”
“An association for people who enjoy walking and other outdoor pursuits. They act as a watchdog to keep the walking paths in proper condition, have fundraisers, provide information on the trails. I actually met with them four months ago because we started doing walking tours of the Cotswold Way in the summer months.”
“People hire you to have them walk somewhere?”
He nodded. “Many pursue the path on their own, but it’s become popular to hire guides. My company maps out a route, books hotels for each overnight stop, transports luggage there. This way when you reach each town everything you need is there. We offered about two tours a month over the summer season. All the tours were booked solid.”
She kneeled beside him and rifled through the opened box of magazines, discovering her grandfather’s Rambler membership paperwork about halfway down. “Oh look, he was a Rambler.”
Owen nodded, preoccupied with another unopened box.
She stood and went back to the painting lineup. What were her grandfather’s favorite towns along the walk? Which trail did he think gave the best views? As an older man was he able to still walk them, or only up until a certain age?
The weight of disappointment wiggled straight to the core of her chest. She’d never know the answers. Again, she stared at his artwork, vivid representations that brought each location to life. At least through his eyes. Yes, through his eyes...
She glanced over at Owen, who opened a plastic trash bag. “How long is the trail?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “About a hundred miles.” He pointed to another stack of magazines. “Can I toss these?”
She nodded and turned back to the paintings, each one suddenly screaming a message to her.
Come see us, Willow. Walk in your grandfather’s shoes.
“I’m thinking, if my grandfather loved walking the Cotswold Way so much, maybe I should walk it, too.”
He dumped the box of magazines into the bag then glanced to her, his dark brows furrowed. “You could. There are some shorter walks from town to town. Maybe less than twenty-five kilometers.”
“No, not just to one or two towns. I mean, everywhere my granddad walked. From these pictures. What better way to experience the family roots my mother denied me? It’s only a hundred miles.”
“Yes, but that distance will take you some time.” He lifted the trash bag. “At least a week, week and a half.”
“So? I’ll extend my stay. It’ll be perfect. The electricians need to do some work, so I’ll schedule it around when they’re here.”
Owen drew his dark brows together, and though he didn’t say a word, his frown spoke for him.
She laughed. “What’s wrong? You don’t like my idea?”
“No. I think you’d enjoy it. But how about I get one of my guides to go with you?”
“Thanks, but it’s not necessary.” Willow pulled her phone from the pocket of her jeans, and started to take photos of each painting. “Can you help me identify where these were taken? I’d like to incorporate some of these
locations into my route.”
He dropped the trash bag and it clunked on the floor. “Why don’t you reconsider that guide? I don’t know if a woman alone is always safe. I mean—”
She lowered her phone. “Owen, I run around New York City all by myself. Surely, in this beautiful countryside, nothing bad could happen.”
“I’m not saying it does, but it could.”
She laughed. “Don’t be a mother hen. Besides, I don’t want to walk with a stranger.”
He came to her side. “How about if I walk with you?” The shine in his eyes held so much hope it teased her heart.
She took his hand and squeezed. “You are very sweet to worry about me, but I’ll be fine on my own.” She let go. “Besides, you have work to do and Jilly to take care of. But can you help me plan my route and suggest some places to stay?”
“Yes. I’d be happy to.” He offered up a stiff smile, one she read as reluctant agreement.
“Great. Now let’s finish up here before you have to leave. I’d like to treat you to dinner or lunch for all your help, if you have time.”
He smiled more genuinely this time. “Sure.”
They worked silently, tossing out old paints and half-used canvases, saving brushes and clean canvases that someone might be able to use. Willow buzzed with a surge of energy eluding her for over a year.
All because of the Cotswold Way.
* * * *
“I made it.” Edna plunked into the empty folding chair beside Willow at the Bath Central Library, where a group of about fifty or so waited for tonight’s Jane Austen reading.
Even Owen liked to partake in the festival fun. Right before leaving her house earlier today, he’d invited her to attend tonight’s event, where and he some fellow local actors would perform scenes from Austen’s works.
Edna leaned over and stuffed both her shopping bag from the store located below the library and her purse beneath her chair. “I forgot to mention, in the morning Kathleen is dropping off a dress for you to wear to the masked ball. You’re coming, right?”
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