The Runaway Bridesmaid (21 page)

‘You chose a great day to venture out to Dartmoor, Charlie boy. This storm’s set for the night. They’re saying the level of rainfall that has fallen in the last hour is unprecedented and the damage it’s causing is immense. They’re advising against all travel unless absolutely necessary. Where’s your transport?’

Charlie explained its abandonment.

‘Ridiculous choice of vehicle anyway, Charlie. You want to get yourself a decent four-wheel drive instead of that big girl’s blouse you usually drive. Got a spare room if you want it? Reckon you should grab it before someone else does. We’ve suffered terribly this year with the floods. I reckon you won’t get your car moved until morning. Can’t ask Mike to liberate the tractor in this weather.’

‘Thanks, James. We’ll take it.’

‘Be careful with him, Rosie.’ James set down two drams of whiskey. ‘This’ll warm you straight to your bones. I’ve got pheasant stew tonight. Think we’ll be short on diners. I’ll bring it over to the fireside for you.’ James disappeared to the tiny galley kitchen.

Rosie wrinkled her nose in distaste as she sipped at the proffered glass of amber nectar.

‘You’ve got to drink it like this.’ Charlie knocked his back in one.

Rosie watched him and then, not to be outdone, repeated the action, which culminated in a coughing fit as the alcohol fumes shot up through her nose. Charlie laughed and shouted to James to bring over the bottle, which he obligingly left on their table.

What strange customs they have in these isolated rural English pubs
, thought Rosie. Leaving a full bottle of single malt for their customers to help themselves? But the medicine performed its cure just as James had promised. Warmth spread its smooth caress across her chest and scorched down to her extremities, after which a soft, mellow glow invaded her bones.

Their meal arrived and, even though Rosie had not sampled pheasant before, she decided she had never tasted such delicious cuisine in her entire life. Every mouthful was accompanied by a slug of neat malt whisky. Even the French bistro Austin had taken her to couldn’t compete with this home-made hunter’s fare.

‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s the most scrumptious casserole I’ve ever tasted!’

‘Thanks, it’s a family recipe.’

Rosie met Charlie’s eyes in puzzlement. Her brain felt befuddled as the alcohol worked its way through her veins. But her body wasn’t at all confused about what she wanted – a jolt of intense desire chased all immediate questions from her mind when she saw the way Charlie was looking back at her.

The spell was broken when a bunch of rowdy rugby players spilled into the bar, chased by a roaring wind and shower of rain. The volume on the jukebox was unceremoniously turned up and one of the guys grabbed what Rosie hoped was his girlfriend to perform a twirl to Abba’s Dancing Queen whilst their audience jeered and wolf-whistled.

Rosie laughed, joining in with the clapping, the whisky obliterating any inhibitions, and she was helpless to refuse when Charlie dragged her from her seat for Waterloo.

As the last bars of the music faded, Charlie pulled her into his arms and lowered his lips to hers, testing for any objection and, to his surprise, Rosie dragged the front of his shirt towards her and kissed him as their audience whooped and called for more. They then staggered back to their table in the corner by the fire and polished off the bottle of whisky.

Chapter Twenty-Four

‘God, my head feels like an anvil that has taken up residence at the Blacksmith of the Year awards,’ Rosie groaned, turning over to block out the shafts of pale light filtering through the red velvet curtains which she didn’t recognise. She stretched her toes but met an outstretched leg. She sat bolt upright, grasping at the flower-patterned duvet.

‘God! Charlie! God! What’s going on? Why are we here?’ As her eyes landed on his bed-dishevelled hair, her stomach was invaded by a restless colony of butterflies. He truly was gorgeous.

‘Nothing’s going on, and will you stop shrieking like a banshee. You drank a whole bottle of James’ single malt whisky last night. Then you forced me to dance to Abba songs with you, in front of an audience of the local rugby team I would add, and then you seduced me!’ He smirked at the look of horror his final words had produced on her freckled face.

‘I did not seduce you!’

‘Well, you managed to get me into your bed.’

‘I never seduce people!’

‘I can hardly be described as “people”, Rosie. But don’t worry; I was able to resist your drunken advances. Nothing happened. James and I had to carry you up to bed, you were comatose. Give me some credit for preferring my lovers to be compos mentis. If you don’t believe me – take a look beneath the duvet. You are still fully clothed, Rosie. My reputation is intact.’

She took a peek before expelling a sigh of relief. Swiftly followed by what she was horrified to discover was regret. ‘I never do this.’

‘So you said.’

‘Well, I don’t!’

‘Okay. I get the message. You are mortified at sharing your bed with a “person” whom you have known for five months and with whom you spent the whole day yesterday. Nothing happened, Rosie.’

‘Right. Good.’
Didn’t he fancy her?
a little voice asked.

‘And I won’t tell Austin you spent the night with me, either. Although James might, they play cricket together. In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t recognise him from all the games you’ve been attending, watching his game and cheerleading from the side-lines.’

‘Austin is not my boyfriend, Charlie. He’s just a friend.’

Rosie crushed her rising irritation and threw Charlie a glance he could have framed as she locked herself in the bathroom. She leant her back against the door. What had she done! She was returning to a new life in New York and here she was starting to have feelings for Charlie – no, more than that. If she had to be completely honest with herself, she was starting to fall in love with this handsome but snippy guy. He seemed to know everyone, too. And she wouldn’t put it past his friend James to convey the juicy piece of gossip to Austin. But did she care?

She groaned. She really was an idiot.

The journey home to Brampton, after Mike had delivered their mud-splattered transport on the back of his tractor to The Dog and Gun, was one of the most uncomfortable Rosie had ever endured. Her options rotated through her mind until she became so nauseated she had to ask Charlie to pull over so she could gasp in some fresh air and pull her thoughts together.

‘I was planning on going back to New York in a couple of weeks. But I really do love it here, Charlie. I love the clean, sharp air, the spectacular countryside, even the weather. Most of all I love the lodge. After everything I’ve done to the cottage and in the garden, I feel like it’s part of me. Does that sound stupid?’

‘Not at all. I love my home with a passion that you wouldn’t believe. So what are you going to do?’

‘I really don’t know. The US is my home, where I earn my living, where my family live. I have to go back, I can’t see how I can stay.’

‘Only you can make the decision about what you want your future to hold, Rosie.’

‘Yes. I know that now.’

When they arrived at Thornleigh Lodge, she still had no idea what she was going to do. She may be falling in love with Charlie, but she was still attracted to Austin who was much more her kind of guy. Wasn’t her director of fates tired of throwing grenades in her path? Why had she been sent two completely different men to tangle with – no, not different, diametric opposites.

Her head throbbed and she turned to her aunt’s trusty tome for inspiration and maybe a hangover cure. She knew she’d find it.

Oat and Honey Cakes for Self-inflicted Headaches

Oats are a morning staple. A bowl of porridge doused in honey is one of my favourite breakfasts. But oats are packed with fibre, vitamins and nutrients that can help ease the pain of a night of over-indulgence. They are said to line the stomach and regulate blood sugar levels. Give these little crunchy cakes a try and you will be as right as rain.

Anyway, thought Rosie as she began to weigh out the ingredients, surely her vacillations over Austin versus Charlie were mute. They both lived in the UK and she had to go back to launch her new life in the US.

Didn’t she?

Chapter Twenty-Five

It was Ollie’s last visit to Bernice’s garden. End of September and his services were no longer required, but as he and Rosie stood back to admire their handiwork, they agreed that what they had undertaken together was nothing short of miraculous. However, in Rosie’s opinion, freed of its tangled chaos the garden had lost a little of its romantic aura.

‘How’s your own garden coming along, Ollie?’ Rosie enquired whilst they worked side by side in a companionable rhythm, Ollie brandishing his secateurs to deadhead the roses like a French executioner.

‘It’s just how I want it, especially the vegetable plot. You know I’m more adept at persuasion in plants than in humans.’

Rosie studied Ollie’s features as he gathered together Bernice’s ancient gardening tools and implements and secured them in their allocated place in the shed for winter. Whilst he couldn’t be said to be movie-star handsome, he had integrity and honesty, and a passion and work ethic few young people possessed these days. He locked the summerhouse with its rusty key and smoothed back his silver hair from his forehead. Then, after hugging Rosie awkwardly, he secured his trouser cuff with a clip and cocked his leg over his bicycle.

‘Bye, Rosie. I’ll miss our chats, you know. From what I’ve heard, I’m not the only one who’d love it if you could stay here in Devon and live in your aunt’s cottage,’ his pewter eyes twinkled. ‘I’ll be available next year. Let me know?’

Rosie smiled as a surprise gulp caught in her throat. ‘Thanks for everything, Ollie. You’ve been brilliant. Indispensable.’

As Ollie’s arched back disappeared around the corner, the insistent shrill of the landline sprang from the hallway of the cottage and she shot off to answer it.

‘Hi?’

‘Hi, Rosie, it’s Charlie.’

‘Oh, hello, Charlie.’ Charlie couldn’t fail to catch the change of tone in her voice, but ploughed on. ‘I just wanted to say goodbye. I’m not required at the Manor now so I’m debunking back up to London. So, if you fancy a trip to the bright lights of the big city you’re more than welcome to stay over in Pimlico. London can give New York a run for its money, you know.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Thanks Charlie, but I don’t think so. I’m going home soon.’

‘Oh, well, can’t blame a guy for asking. What I was ringing for was to let you know that my publisher in London adores your aunt’s book and her illustrations. He’s certain there’s a ready market for it. What with all the baking programmes on the TV, there’s a real revival of home-cooking sweeping the nation right now. He wants to discuss terms. What do you think?’

She sighed. ‘Okay, Charlie. I’ll speak to him but that’s all. I don’t want any pressurised sales pitch and I’m only agreeing to this because of Freya. If it was only down to me, then…’

‘Yes, here comes the old doormat behaviour.’

‘I am not a “doormat” as you persist in labelling me. Freya is happily married to a great guy and has no need of my advice or even money from my aunt’s estate, as it happens,’ Rosie retorted, although she wasn’t sure either statement was entirely true. ‘Happily’ married might be stretching it and if that wasn’t the case, Freya would most certainly be in need of any independent income available.

‘Oh, climb down, Rosie. It’s lonely up there on the high plateau of righteousness. What’s happening with the sale of Thornleigh Lodge? When is the sale scheduled for?’

‘Contracts are ready. Brian Dixon wants to complete on the last day of October for some tax or accounting reason. I don’t object. It’ll work out okay for me to return to Manhattan then.’

‘I’ll miss you, Rosie. Is there anything I can do or say to persuade you to stay in the UK? Another sporting challenge, perhaps? Mike and James have both been asking after you. You made a lasting impression on them both.’

‘Can they distinguish me between the myriad of girls you take to their establishments?’ Why was she being like this with Charlie? What was the matter with her, why was she pushing him away? Hadn’t they called a truce?

‘You are the first girl I have taken to Mike’s farm, or down to James’ pub for that matter, since Lucy. I don’t have a string of girls on the end of my arm, as you suggest.’

‘But they’ll be queuing up in London when you arrive there, won’t they?’ What was she saying? She knew Charlie had a profound effect on her, that if she was staying on in the UK she would love to continue with their quirky days out.

Charlie paused. ‘Maybe, but…’

‘Bye, Charlie.’

Rosie felt bereft when she dropped the phone back into its cradle, as though one of her limbs were missing or the lights had been dimmed. Had Charlie’s friendship been a mirage, an oasis of fun in the problem-strewn desert of her life? So Charlie
did
have a coterie of girls desperate to linger on his arm in the swanky establishments of Covent Garden, or wherever the trendy frequented.

She needed to get out of the cottage. She grabbed her Barbour from the banister and wheeled the silver bicycle down the weed-free, gravel path to the road and slung her leg over the saddle, pointing the straw basket in the direction of Susan’s village shop to deliver a brown paper bag crammed with still-warm scones for her tearoom. These would be the last batch of her weekly offerings as, like Brampton Manor, Susan closed the tearoom for the winter at the end of September.

The shop was empty and Rosie found Susan perched on top of a short step-ladder wiping down the wooden shelves, her ample hips swinging to an imaginary tune.

‘You knew I would find my aunt’s journal and diary didn’t you, Susan?’

‘What do you mean, Rosie dear?’ Susan’s face was blank. She’d make a great witness for the defence under pressure, Rosie thought but she persevered.

‘Did you also know about Aunt Bernice’s enduring love for a man she couldn’t be with?’

Susan reversed her bottom down the steps, waddled to the shop door, and turned the sign to Closed, even though it was only three o’clock in the afternoon.