by Fiona Grace
Lacey shrugged. She was completely at a loss.
Gina launched into an explanation. “It’s when a bunch of rich horsey people descend on Wilfordshire for a week. A lot of businesses around here can double their takings just in that week alone!”
“And by rich horsey people you mean….?”
“Breeders, traders, racers, the whole shebang. The type of people who wear fascinators. Who drive Rolls Royces. Who buy their kids ponies, but get some other, poorer person’s kids to muck them out!”
Lacey sat back in her seat and contemplated. Rich horsey people. Maybe this could be an opportunity to cash in big. Perhaps with another auction? Her nautical-themed one had been a hit. Would an equestrian-themed one be popular as well?
“When did you say the festival starts?” she asked Gina.
“It starts next week,” the woman confirmed.
A smile inched across Lacey’s lips. “In that case, I’d better get planning.”
CHAPTER TWO
“Is that it?” Gina asked, peering over Lacey’s shoulder at the writing pad scrawled with notes lying on the desk in front of her. “Your grand plan?”
It was the morning after the boozy night before, and the two women were in the antiques store, doing their best to tend to the steady stream of customers despite nursing pounding hangovers.
“My grand plan,” Lacey confirmed, tapping the page with her pen. “I put aside a chunk of money from the sale of the gold coin which I can use to buy stock for an equestrian-themed auction. Tomorrow I’ll go on a whistle-stop tour of Dorset to pick up some bits, bridles, stirrups, and spurs from a store in Bournemouth, then to a specialist leather store in Poole for some sandwich cases, canteens, and hip flasks, then finally to this cute little place in Weymouth where they sell prints and artworks.”
“Mooth.”
“What?”
“It’s pronounced mooth, not mouth. Way-mooth. Born-mooth. The double O is the same as in book or nook or crook or hook or—”
“—I get it, I get it!” Lacey interjected, even though she was well aware she’d soon forget Gina’s correction and absentmindedly revert back to a phonetic pronunciation. Pronouncing English place names was not one of her fortes. But to be fair to her, they had some really wacky spelling! Leicester? Try Lester! Worcestershire? Wooster-shear! Apparently, once you knew the rules it was pretty easy, but that all fell apart when Lacey confidently pronounced Cirencester “Sernster,” only to discover she’d found the one exception to the rule, and it was pronounced how you’d guess: Siren-sester.
“Well, it sounds like you’ve got it all mapped out,” Gina said with a sigh. “And Bournemouth is wonderful in the summer. There’s a lovely sandy beach. A pier. Long cliff walks. Chester will love it.”
The mournful edge to her tone was not lost on Lacey. Gina hated being left behind to man (or woman) the store by herself when Lacey went off on adventures with Chester. It always made Lacey feel guilty. Then she’d have to remind herself she was the boss of the store, and that Gina was her employee, and that it was perfectly reasonable for her to do other things beyond standing behind a till and stacking shelves.
“I’ll barely be gone a day,” Lacey told her. “Then it will be all hands on deck to get the auction room ready. But while I’m gone, I have a very special project for you.” Lacey had learned this technique after spending a day with her eight-year-old nephew, Frankie, in Dover—if he needed distracting, she’d just give him a “very important” job to do.
“Oh?” Gina asked, curiously, immediately falling for the bait.
Lacey smiled to herself. “I need you to call up the Wilfordshire Weekly and place the advertisement.”
Gina grimaced. “Is that it?”
“AND,” Lacey added, quickly thinking on her feet, “I need you to…. design a poster! Yes. That’s it. I need you to design a poster for the community notice board and get it printed.”
She hadn’t originally been planning on printing posters for the auction at all, instead hoping an ad in the Wilfordshire Weekly would do most of the legwork, followed by passing foot traffic and word of mouth, but now she’d plucked the idea from her mind it seemed like a pretty good one. Her friend Suzy, who owned the Lodge B&B, always managed to get full bookings with some carefully targeted poster campaigns.
“Design the poster, eh?” Gina said, looking interested. “What do we think about that, Boo?” She looked down at her pup. Boudica whinnied her agreement. Gina turned back to Lacey. “It’s a deal.”
“Great!” Lacey said. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, so we can use the whole of Sunday to sort out the auction room. Do you think you’ll be able to get the posters done by then?”
“Oh, easy-peasy,” Gina said, already taking ownership of the task.
“And you know it’s horse themed. So make sure there’s a horse on it somewhere. No need to reinvent the wheel.”
“Sure, sure, I’ve got it,” Gina said, waving Lacey away.
Lacey wasn’t entirely sure leaving the somewhat ditzy Gina in charge of the poster was a good idea but at least it would keep her busy. And now she was off the hook to spend a whole day in Dorset treasure hunting. How exciting!
“Do you think Tom would want to come with me?” Lacey said. “Since Dover was such a horrible disaster, maybe Dorset could be the do-over we need.”
“You can ask him yourself,” Gina said.
Lacey looked up at the same time as the bell over the door tinkled and Tom came rushing toward her. Lacey was surprised to see him so close to lunch time, his busiest hour. Maybe he’d come to apologize for bailing on her last night.
“What are you doing here?” Lacey asked, anticipation swirling inside of her.
“I need some change,” Tom said, wafting a handful of twenty-pound notes at her as he went straight past her without stopping and promptly set about counting out coins from her till. “Tourists always pay with notes. Have you noticed that?”
She had, but that was beside the point. “I thought you were here to apologize,” she said, deflating.
Tom was only half listening as he counted out change. “Apologize? What are you apologizing for?”
“Not me. You! You cancelled on me last night.”
Tom’s head darted up. He immediately stopped what he was doing. “Oh! Oh, Lacey, of course. I’m so sorry!” He abandoned his pile of coins and finally focused on her. He rubbed her arm tenderly. “I really am sorry for canceling on you.”
“What happened?” Lacey asked. It wasn’t like Tom to be so unreliable.
“Just boring work stuff,” he said. “I had a bride call up in floods of tears canceling her wedding cake because her father was being taken to hospital with a suspected heart attack. I’d almost finished frosting the whole thing, so to cut my losses, I sliced the cake up and sold the pieces. Only the bride called back a few hours later to tell me the wedding was back on because her dad was fine; it was just indigestion! So then I had to make a whole other cake.”
“Well, as happy as I am for the bride and her digestively challenged father,” Lacey said, “it was a total bummer for me.”
“I know,” Tom said, caressing her cheek tenderly. “I get it. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Just one more crazy week to get through, then things can go back to normal.”
Lacey couldn’t stay mad at him. He was clearly stressed. Tom usually enjoyed the buzz of his work at the patisserie, but right now it seemed to be frazzling him.
“The horse festival keeping you busy, huh?” Lacey asked.
Tom nodded. “This morning a kid climbed on the window display and knocked over the macaron racing horse I’d made for the festival. I’ve been trying to rebuild it all morning but the place has been so rammed, I’ve not gotten the chance yet.”
Lacey peeped through the window and across the street to Tom’s famous macaron display. Right now, it was a headless horse. She couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh dear.”
Gina guffawed. “Looks like the mafia
got to it.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that one,” Tom said wearily. “At least five times. Because every other customer makes some joke about it.” He put on a silly voice, and said, “‘Someone should report you to the RSPCA.’ ‘Patisserie? I thought this was the butcher’s.’ Et cetera.”
He went back to counting out his change.
Lacey leaned her backside against the counter, watching him. “I guess now’s not a good time to invite you along on a day trip tomorrow.”
Tom looked up, his expression anguished. “Tomorrow?”
“I’m going to hold another themed auction for the festival,” she explained. “I’m planning on a stock run in Dorset.”
“Another auction?” Tom said, smiling. “That’s great. And I wish I could, but my gingerbread horses won’t bake themselves.”
“That’s okay,” Lacey said, failing to hide her disappointment. “Chester can be my companion.”
Chester’s ears twitched at the sound of his name.
“I’m sorry, Lacey,” Tom said earnestly. “Once the festival is over we can take as many day trips to Dorset as your heart desires.”
Lacey felt dubious about that. Until Tom hired some decent staff, there’d always be something that took up all his attention.
“Hey, I have an idea,” Tom said suddenly, clicking his fingers. “Why don’t you take my van? It’ll give you more space for all your purchases.”
He flashed her a hopeful smile. He was obviously trying to help but his van wasn’t much of a substitute for spending time with him, in Lacey’s opinion.
“Don’t you need it?” she asked.
Tom shook his head and rummaged in his pocket for his keys. “It’s all yours,” he said. “Just bring it back in one piece. I’d better get back to the patisserie and deal with that headless horse.”
He gave Lacey a quick peck, then hurried off, clinking from all the change in his pockets.
Lacey stood holding the van keys, feeling a bit like a child who’d been fobbed off with her parents’ car. The whole interaction had felt extremely disappointing but Lacey decided not to dwell on it. Tomorrow she’d be setting off on a brand new adventure and who knew what exciting treasures she would find?
CHAPTER THREE
Saturday morning arrived in a blaze of late summer sunshine. Lacey set off early to make sure she got ahead of the traffic. Tom’s van was stuffy, so she cracked the windows and enjoyed the breeze as she drove.
She’d chosen to take the long route to Bournemouth, avoiding the A-roads and motorways in favor of the countryside roads. There was nothing quite like a drive in the English countryside, on winding single-lane roads slicing through fields and hillsides, especially on a bright summer’s day. Lacey would never tire of it, and was delighted as she drove past sheep-dotted grassland and fields of rippling wheat, as excited for the countryside as she was for the upcoming treasure hunt.
She reached Bournemouth, and the quiet country roads became a thing of the past as she was suddenly thrust into the busy seaside town, and all the tarmac and traffic that came with it. A lot of people had obviously decided to visit Bournemouth beach this weekend, and it took Lacey a long time to find somewhere to park the bulky van. She ended up quite far along the cliffs, by a dated cafe and playground filled with wooden equipment and an abundance of children.
Lacey killed the engine and took a moment. At thirty-nine, she knew her window for making a decision about having a family was quickly closing. She’d been steadfast against it, back when she lived in New York City with her now ex-husband, David. But since moving to England, where the pace of life was slower and things in her life had begun to align, there had been a shift in her attitude. Spending time with Frankie and discovering she was actually pretty good at it had also prompted her to rethink her position. That, and her impending fortieth birthday, which she was trying to forget about, though it was fast approaching.
Chester broke Lacey from her reverie by pawing at the door and whining loudly. He’d enjoyed the drive here, sticking his head out the window, but was obviously eager to get out and explore the gorgeous sandy beach below.
“You know, who needs kids when they’ve got a dog?”
Chester barked his agreement.
They hopped down from the vehicle and headed toward the path that sloped all the way down from the cliffs to the seafront. A whole cluster of paragliders were taking it in turns to launch into the air, float over the sea in a queue of bright fabric wings toward the pier, then loop back around again and land on the cliff. Chester barked excitedly as a man with a rainbow sail took to the sky.
“I wonder if they make tandem gliders for dogs,” Lacey mused aloud to Chester as they passed.
They headed down the slope and reached the beach, which was bustling with families, groups of teenagers, old folks picnicking, dog walkers, volleyball players, hula-hoopers… practically every type of person one could expect to see. The calm waters were full of canoeists, kayakers, paddle boarders, and sunbathers on inflatable rafts, while yachts and speedboats crisscrossed the deeper waters beyond the jetties. Gina was right; Bournemouth beach was far busier than Wilfordshire beach, but Lacey loved the buzz of it all. Not to mention the golden sand, which was much vaster than the beach at Wilfordshire.
Lacey couldn’t resist; she slipped off her shoes and sank her feet into it. Meanwhile, Chester ran up to the sea and started snapping at the waves as if trying to catch them.
“Ice cream!” a voice called. “Ice cream!”
Lacey turned to see a man pushing a refrigerated trolley along the beach. He gestured to her. “You look like a lady who needs an ice cream.”
“I couldn’t possibly,” Lacey told him. “Every time I eat ice cream my dog gets jealous.”
“Perhaps he’d like to sample one of my frozen dog treats?”
“Frozen dog treats?!” Lacey exclaimed. “That sounds very niche.”
“Are you kidding me? Ninety percent of people in this town own a dog or two. My frozen pupsicles sell like hotcakes. Or cold cakes.” He grinned.
“What are they made of?” Lacey asked skeptically. Dairy was an absolute no-no for Chester, as was anything containing chocolate or sugar substitutes, which were toxic and potentially fatal for dogs.
“There are two flavors to choose from,” the man said, producing bone-shaped frozen treats from his cooler. In his left hand was a watery-looking orange one. In his right, a watery green one. “We have pureed carrot on the left, and pureed honeydew melon on the right,” he said. “Both vet-approved recipes.”
Chester barked.
“Well, in that case, I’ll take one of each,” Lacey said.
“And a tropical fruit popsicle for the human?” He waved a very juicy-looking popsicle at her. “So you don’t get jealous?”
Lacey chuckled. “A tropsicle? Fine, I’ll take it.”
She exchanged money for the frozen treats, then she and Chester slowly meandered along the beach devouring them. Mango, pineapple, and watermelon flavors flooded Lacey’s taste buds. The blend wasn’t overly sweet, and the iciness was refreshingly welcome.
“How were yours?” Lacey asked Chester, noting the sticky residue on his muzzle. “Tasty, I presume,” she chuckled.
Just then, Lacey spotted an old Art Deco–style building in the near distance. It was the shopping emporium where the horse supplies store was located, standing on the top of the hill with views over the sea and the rest of Bournemouth town.
Excited, Lacey licked the sugary goo from her fingers, slipped her shoes back on, and hastened her pace off the beach and onto the sidewalk. Chester followed, his coat covered in sand and his face wet from sea water.
They reached the building, which had been a cinema back in its heyday and was now filled with small pop-up shops. Inside, it reminded Lacey of the London markets she visited with Gina, from the kooky Greenwich market, to the bustling food market of Brixton, the historic Covent Garden market, to the Borough food market under the eaves of t
he train station. Lacey loved the quirks of English architecture, where new builds seemed in short supply, grand old buildings were repurposed for other uses such as undercover markets or shopping centers, and no space was too small for a pop-up craft store.
The market here was like its own town within the town. Myriad food stalls offered street food from every corner of the globe. Lacey’s mouth watered as the scents of Ethiopian injera flatbread and South Korean soybean stew with kimchi cabbage wafted into her nostrils, before they were overpowered by the pungent floral smells of a packaging-free organic soap stall, where huge bricks of brightly colored soaps were arranged into a pyramid. She carried on, passing the distinct mothball smell of a stall selling vintage thrift clothing, on past a surfboard shop, before finally losing her willpower when she reached a vegan cupcake stall. A dark chocolate, peanut butter, and oatmeal breakfast muffin gave her a small taste of heaven.
She weaved through the busy stalls, realizing she could have easily lost the entire day just here, before finding the equestrian supply store she was looking for.
It was clean inside. The carpet was an appropriate racehorse green. The display cabinets were made from wood and brass. There was a calming uniformity to the place.
Lacey approached the counter and introduced herself to the woman behind it, whose curly brown hair was pulled back into a bushy ponytail.
“Belinda?” Lacey said, offering her hand. “We spoke on the phone yesterday. I’m Lacey, the auctioneer from Devon.”
“I remember,” Belinda said with a grin, as she shook Lacey’s extended hand. “You’re from Wilfordshire where they host the Summer Equestrian Festival.”
“That’s right. Do you know it?”
“Of course! I’ve gone a few times in the past to set up a stall, but the cost of a hotel, petrol for the car, and the table fee for the market all adds up. I can turn a bigger profit keeping the store here open. It’s a shame to miss it though. Always such a fun time.”