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Bree breaks into a beaming smile, and I realize she was joking after all.
“Gotcha,” she says, beginning to laugh.
My tea arrives with the teabag in a cup, not a pot, and a tiny jug of milk. “Thanks,” I say to Cathy, who nods before readying her pen and pad and asking what we all want to eat.
After our orders arrive, Bree asks about London. She wants to know what it’s like to live there, how it differs from here, the food, the weather, all sorts of things. In the end, she asks so much about it that I’m curious if she wants to move there, and I say so.
“Oh, no,” Bree says with a smile. “I made the biggest move I’m going to make when I moved out of New York City and bought a cottage here in Sharon Springs. That was just over a year ago, and I haven’t looked back.”
“Well, it wasn’t just the cottage that made you stay,” Sylvie says with a huge grin.
Bree tilts her head and gives Sylvie a knowing smile.
Sylvie then turns to me. “Bree and Jackson only met after Bree moved here,” Sylvie explains. I assume Jackson is Bree’s fiancé and don’t interrupt Sylvie as she continues, “It wasn’t exactly love at first sight.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Bree laughs. “He caught my attention from the minute I met him.”
“You mean, hit him,” Sylvie corrects.
“Hit him?” I exclaim. My mind goes to her physically hitting him, but I dismiss that thought as quickly as it arrives. Bree just doesn’t look like the violent type. Then I think of a car crash. Maybe she had hit him with her car. I could only hope that Jackson had been in another car and not a pedestrian.
Both Sylvie and Bree are now laughing. Bree nods, then says, “I hit him with the kitchen door. He was standing on the other side, and I didn’t know he was there when I barged through it.”
“Oh,” I say, realizing I was miles off with my guesses. I never would have come up with that one.
It’s not long before the conversation turns toward the wedding and all the preparations that have been going on. While I don’t exactly switch off, my mother’s words are once more in my head.
“Men will take what they want from you and then discard you. They’re selfish beings who only care about themselves. God will judge them all.”
While her sense of justice where God is concerned has always been a little bit over the top for me, I couldn’t really disagree with her other sentiments. She was badly hurt by my father. He had not just cheated on Mum with one woman, but with several. All at the same time.
She had been completely humiliated when she discovered it, especially as it appeared that everyone in the town apart from her had known about it. They had divorced when Kerry and I were very young, and to escape the shame, we moved to Harefield. Dad never bothered with us after that. Another thing that frustrated Mum immensely. He had betrayed her as his wife, and then abandoned his duties as a father. For most of my life, I have heard Mum speak nothing but bad about men. The only man she does not speak badly about is her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. But I think we can conclude that’s not quite the same.
Eventually, our lunch comes to an end. We veered off the wedding at some point and talked about other things after Bree stated that she did not want to monopolize the conversation. It’s been a pleasant couple of hours, and I can’t say that I haven’t enjoyed it. Bree is lovely, and I can totally understand why she and Sylvie are friends. She seems more worldly-wise than Sylvie, and perhaps that’s what gives their relationship such a good balance.
We all say our farewells and promise to meet up again soon. Sylvie drives us home, chatting on the way about how she thinks me and Bree are going to be just as good friends as the two of them are.
The journey is short. A mile and a half doesn’t take very long in a car, and soon enough, we’re in the driveway. Sylvie slips her key into the lock and opens the door wide, letting me go first. I can hear rock ballads coming from the Den, and I can’t help but poke my head through the doorway to see what Finn is up to.
The room is once more covered in large white sheets. Finn is on a stepladder with a roller in one hand and a paint tray in the other. He’s painting the ceiling and singing to himself. I don’t tell him I’m there straight away. I’m too busy admiring his form, in his tight tank top and denim cut-offs. Clearly, he doesn’t miss leg day, because his thighs and calves are as toned as the rest of him. Behind me, Sylvie slams the front door closed, which must catch his attention, because he looks over to the doorway where I’m standing.
He smiles when he sees me. There’s a small bit of paint splattered on his forehead and cheek. “Ah, the British have returned,” he declares. “A bit late. Now all the hard work is done,” he teases.
Sylvie stands beside me and looks in at Finn. “Well,” I reply, “it helps if you actually paint the ceiling, rather than painting yourself.”
“Oh, but you are full of wit, Miss Bolton,” he counters in an overly dramatic English accent. He sounds more like Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice than any fellow Londoner I know, which makes it all the more amusing.
Sylvie and I both laugh before we continue on into the house.
