Love Notes from Vinegar House (6 page)

I wondered if she meant Julia and Rumer were very close. I felt Luke watching me.

“Oh, that’s right. Wasn’t she the one who came to Ocean Side with you? You remember Rumer, don’t you Luke?” Mrs Hart asked pointedly.

Luke scowled.

“She was such a pretty girl. Nothing like her cousins at all,” she said.

Luke snorted.

“Not that you’re not pretty, Freya,” Mrs Hart continued quickly, looking at me. “You have such nice … eyelashes.”

Luke snorted again.

“Two summers ago,” said Mum, absently.

“Was it that long ago?” Mrs Hart sighed. “We must have you over for dinner when you come back, Erica. Life just has a way of getting away from you.”

“Don’t I know it,” Mum agreed. Then the tears began to leak down her cheeks again, and Mrs Hart pressed some tissues into her hand.

I filled the tea orders, then said, “I need to pack.”

To be perfectly honest, I’d been packed for hours, but I just needed a quiet space with no crying or penetrating stares.

“Wait, how are you getting to Florence’s house?” Mrs Hart asked.

It took me a moment to realise she was talking about my grandmother.

“Dad?” I said. We hadn’t really talked about it.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs Hart. “Your father doesn’t have time for that. I’ll drive you.”

“No, it’s too far,” said Mum in a voice that meant yes.

“I insist,” said Mrs Hart. “It’s such a lovely drive. There’s a darling little antique shop on the way. I wonder if it’s open today? Anyway, Erica, it’s one less thing you have to do. Really. It’s fine. And of course we’ll feed the dog for you.”

I left them to their plans and didn’t bother looking up when Luke said goodbye.

In the study I took a chance and logged on to Facebook. There were a few people online. People were taking sides about what had happened at the party the week before. Everyone thought they knew the real story and didn’t bother to ask me. Somebody called me a name I don’t want to repeat here. I wanted to die. I wanted to melt down into my computer chair until I was just a puddle of shame.

As I turned off the computer, I realised I’d be without the internet while I was at Vinegar House. And I was glad.

Mrs Hart picked me up at two that afternoon. Mum promised to ring Grandma and explain that I would need to keep my mobile with me so that I could contact them overseas. She was counting on the fact that Grandma wouldn’t want to pay for international calls. So was I. Mum seemed to forget that I needed some kind of computer to work on if I was to get my homework done, but Dad was taking the laptop, and I couldn’t see myself lugging the home computer to Vinegar House. I was going to have to hand write my homework. Still, if I didn’t get all my homework done by next term, I’d have a good excuse.

When Mrs Hart bip-bipped her car horn, I dragged my luggage out to the car to find Luke was coming along for the ride.

“Help Freya,” said Mrs Hart, crossly, and Luke unfolded himself from the front passenger seat. He grabbed my bags and threw them into the boot as if they were filled with marshmallows instead of half my wardrobe.

I think he was just showing off.

I didn’t understand why Luke was coming along. I’m sure the idea of more than an hour’s drive one-way, with the possibility of antique shopping would make anyone stay home. Obviously his mother had made him come along. I wondered how she’d bribed him.

I hugged my parents one last time, and Dad slipped me some money, though I didn’t know where I’d spend it.

“Just in case you go to town,” he said, lamely.

I was so busy settling into the back seat that I barely noticed their “take care” and “help your grandmother”. By the time I popped an earbud into one ear, Mrs Hart was taking off at her usual breakneck speed, and I was scrabbling to get my seatbelt on. As I clicked it into place, I looked through the car’s rear window for a final wave, and it felt like someone had invaded my chest and squeezed all the juice out of my heart until it was a tiny dry sponge. My parents looked so sad standing together – my mother leaning into my father’s side – that I couldn’t bear to watch them waving me goodbye.

I spent the next twenty minutes trying not to look at Luke’s profile in the front seat, while Mrs Hart prattled on like an infomercial on late-night TV. In the end I pretended to sleep and Luke turned on some music. Then I really did fall asleep until I realised we’d stopped, and there was sleep dribble on my shoulder. We were parked outside a shop declaring it had
Antiques and Collectables
, but Luke was still sitting in the front passenger seat and he was smirking at me.

“What?” I wanted to smooth my hair, which felt messed up, but wouldn’t do it while he was watching me. I didn’t want him to think I cared about how I looked to him.

“You snore, Shrimp,” he said.

“I do not,” I said, crossly. There was a bad taste in my mouth like I had swallowed a glue stick. “And stop calling me that.”

“Ah, yes you do, Shrimp,” he said, ignoring my request.

I used to like Luke Hart. Idolised him. Felt a warm glow whenever he was around. But this Luke Hart annoyed me, and I was glad we weren’t friends any more.

“I have a cold,” I said, improvising. Then I sniffed a couple of times to make a point. “And you … you have a zit on your nose. I’m surprised you can see past it, it’s so big.”

It was the meanest thing I could think of to say, but it didn’t remove the smirk from his face, and I felt a strong urge to lean forwards and push my hand into that smirk until it went away.

Luckily for Luke, his mobile buzzed and he turned around in his seat to send someone a message. I checked my own phone to see that we were only forty-five minutes into our trip. I texted Isabella and Holly, but there were no quick replies. I needed a drink, then cursed when I realised I’d left my water bottle in the fridge at home.

I spent the rest of the trip squashed up against a bathroom pitcher and basin that Mrs Hart just couldn’t live without. I thought it was hideous, but she seemed very happy with it. When she asked what I thought about it, I smiled and said it was an amazing colour. And this was true. I was amazed anyone could like the salmon-pink colour with baby blue highlights picked out on tiny rosebuds and swirling ribbons. I knew Luke was onto me, so I resisted looking at him and stared out the window instead. Eventually, the car turned down the familiar gravel road, and we crunched along for another five minutes. As we crested the last hill, the grey shingle roof of Vinegar House suddenly appeared. This was always my favourite part of the trip to the house, because one moment you’re surrounded by dry hilly country and the next the sea is laid out before you like a shimmering secret. I cranked down the window a little to sniff at the salty air.

I must admit that the house always looked imposing at a distance. It seemed rooted into the very earth it stood upon, its many tiny windows flanked by shutters and its stone bricks made it look like it was carved straight out of the hill. It was only as you drew closer that you saw the cracks. Mortar crumbled between the bricks in the chimneys, some of the window casements were warped from the weather and the roof looked like it wouldn’t last a minor rain shower. Even the trees around the house looked grey and worn that day, their bare branches rattling in spindly defiance against the sea breeze.

“Here we are,” said Mrs Hart, who was good at stating the obvious.

It wasn’t until Rumer strolled out to the car as we pulled up that I realised, like I’d been hit with an antique bathroom pitcher, exactly why Luke Hart had come along for the ride.

“Well, look who’s here,” said Mrs Hart, her eyes wide with surprise, as if she hadn’t expected to see Rumer. “Here we are,” she sang out again. Then she bounded from the car to grab Rumer in a huge hug.

“Well, look who’s here,” I muttered loud enough for Luke to hear.

I watched his face turn from red to white and back again.

“Come on, you twoooo,” sang Mrs Hart. (I would not pay to hear Mrs Hart sing. If you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.)

I climbed out from under the antique treasure, and Rumer removed herself from her torturer to come and give me a fake hug – the kind where you hang onto a person’s arms, lean in, but don’t make any other contact.

“Hi, cuz,” she said brightly. Then in my ear, “There is nothing to do here. Old vinegar-tongue is driving me nuts.”

I saw Luke hovering behind Rumer, so I said, “Great to see you too. Luke was just saying, he couldn’t wait to catch up.”

Rumer swirled around and Luke gave her a sheepish grin. Then she grabbed him in a non-fake hug that meant her body was pushed so close up against his that you couldn’t get a toothpick between them if you tried. It was probably illegal in over forty-seven countries. She leaned back and looked him full in the face.

“Smile again!” she ordered.

He smiled and I realised that his braces had been removed. In their place was a perfect set of white non-bucked teeth. Maybe that was the difference I’d noticed earlier that day. My childhood hero was gone.

“Well done, you. Grandma said you must come in and say hello. Mrs Skelton cooked a lemon tart this morning. Let’s hope it’s better than her muffin recipe.” She tucked her arm through Luke’s and escorted both the Harts to the front door, talking all the while, as I struggled behind with the luggage.

I had a strong feeling of deja vu.

I shoved my mobile phone further down in my pocket as I stood in the entry hall – just in case Grandma decided I couldn’t keep it with me. I could hear Mrs Hart’s and Rumer’s voices competing against the low murmurs of my grandmother from the drawing room. As I dropped my largest suitcase to the floor, Mrs Skelton appeared at the top of the stairs, a duster in one hand, and a frown on her face.

“Hello, Mrs Skelton,” I said, loudly.

The poor woman was older than my grandmother – probably should have retired years ago. She’d come to Vinegar House ten years before, when Grandma had tripped on the front step and broken her wrist. The family had insisted that Grandma move closer to town.

“This is my home,” Grandma had said gruffly. “The only way I’m leaving here is in a pine box.”

Of course, that idea was ridiculous, a total lie, because Grandma would never settle for anything less than something in mahogany, with shiny brass handles and maroon satin lining. Still, she got her own way. Even the Colonel couldn’t make Grandma do something she didn’t want to.

The compromise was Mrs Skelton, who was supposed to be a live-in companion, but who also cooked most of the meals and kept a tidy house. This suited Grandma Vinegar who always walked about as if she were the Queen of England. Much better than just having a house cleaner come in once a week. She probably bragged about it to her friends.

Mrs Skelton was a tall woman with silver hair which she wore pulled back severely across her head. Her face was the colour of the calico at Miss Maudy’s Quilt Barn and was highlighted by cheekbones that reminded me of the Jolly Roger’s flag (which features a skull, if you don’t know). I’d caught her napping more than once in the afternoon sun in the drawing room or the library. Grandma had found Isabella and I giggling one day as Mrs Skelton sat in one of the library’s huge leather chairs, her head tipped back, and a snore rising from her like a motor.

“Mrs Skelton deserves a rest, don’t you think, girls?” Grandma had asked, her tone low and icy. “Perhaps you could help lessen her load?”

My sister and I spent the rest of the day cleaning the silverware until our hands were black from it and fingers sore from the rubbing.

“Hello, Mrs Skelton,” I repeated even louder.

She gave me a little wave, peering down through the gloom.

“Is that you, Erica?” she said.

“It’s Freya,” I told her, horrified that she would think I was my mother.

“Oh, yes.”

She told me to take my things to the Yellow Room, grumbling loudly as she polished at an errant mark on the staircase handrail.

“I don’t get paid enough for all this upset,” she said as I slid past her into my room.

Knowing my grandmother, she was probably right.