And that’s when I caught Guy very definitely ‘doingsomething’ – or rather, doingsomeonein the van. Namely, Lucinda, thenewly-divorced mother of the bride.
I could have kicked myself for being so stupidly naïve. Ithad turned out to be a classic case of the chaser losing interest once thequarry was snared.
Dick Pic Man now seemed like a dream by comparison. He’dkilled romance stone dead with that poster of a killer, but at least my hearthad remained intact...
*****
I’m not exactly in the best of moods, driving back to myB&B.
I spent an hour or so, after Mr-Know-It-All left, walkingaround the house and making a list of all the jobs I’ll need to do myself toget the house looking saleable – clearing out the clutter, painting anddecorating in every room, and adding all those little touches that make aproperty appealing.
But now, driving along, I’m wondering what on earth I’mgoing to do about the wall, which is still standing firm – but with a gapinghole in the middle of it!
I suppose I could keep the kitchen and dining room separate.I could patch up the hole and maybe try out my plastering ‘skills’ (if you cancall them that, after that intensive one-day course I did when Dylan and I wereconsidering doing up a flat together).
Or I could phone that annoying bloke’s friend, who’sapparently some kind of odd-job man. I’m not exactly enthused by either courseof action, but I need to dosomething...
And then it happens.
A movement up ahead to the right attracts my attention andsomething appears from the hedgerow. Braking, I watch in astonishment as abeautiful mallard duck – with a beak the colour of egg yolk and feathers of palegrey and gleaming bottle green – waddles into the road. Then, as I slow rightdown to a crawl, a brown-feathered duck and three tiny ducklings appear,following the male mallard across the country lane in a perfect, film-worthyprocession.
I glance in my rear-view mirror and switch on the hazardwarning lights. With a big smile on my face, I watch the little family’sprogress until they disappear into the long grass on the other side of theroad. Laughing, I sit back, shaking my head with the sheer joy of such anunexpected gift. Life really is so weird. You can be feeling like your wholeworld is falling apart, and then something like this happens and suddenly,miraculously, the sun comes out again!
My encounter with Mr and Mrs Mallard and their brood hascalmed me right down, and as I drive into Sunnybrook, feeling more relaxed, Isuddenly realise I haven’t consumed any caffeine today. Not even my usual cuppafirst thing. That’s obviously why I overreacted earlier, back at the house,when Mr-Tanned-Muscly-Know-It-All dared to question my wall-smashingcredentials.
It’s a good excuse to find a café, anyway, and next moment, mystomach produces a long, surprisingly ferocious growl of approval at the idea.
Then, like a mirage appearing in the desert, I glance acrossthe village green and catch sight of a pretty pink-washed building with a stripedawning fluttering in the late summer breeze. It wasn’t there last time I was inSunnybrook, which was literally years ago, but I’ve heard good things about it.
The Little Duck Pond Café.
People from around here are always singing its praises. Andit’s definitely beckoning to me. As I turn into the road that runs alongsidethe green, thoughts of irritating, know-it-all men, semi-naked exes in the backof vans, and photos of male appendages have been replaced by baskets of mouth-wateringpastries, chocolate chip cookies melting in my mouth, and moreish cupcakes withsoft pink icing. And the perfect cup of coffee, of course.
I draw to a crunching stop at the end of a gravelly track inthe café’s makeshift car park. I’ve been trying to count carbs to keep mywaistline in check. But on a day like today, when comfort is in short supplyelsewhere, carbs have ceased to exist in my world.
Bring on the cupcakes!
CHAPTER SIX
The aroma of fresh coffee and home-baking greets me,and a cheery woman with blonde hair makes me a cappuccino while I run my eyesover the Danish pastries, the delicious-looking scones, bursting with plumpsultanas, and the tempting array of cakes on display.
‘I can’t decide,’ I murmur, genuinely confused.
She turns with a smile. ‘What’s your gut telling you?’
‘It’s saying give me one of everything.’ I grin at herruefully. ‘It’s that kind of a day.’
‘Ah. Right.’ She nods in sympathy. ‘I find chocolate’s alwaysa good choice when things aren’t going well. The chocolate and cherry cake is verypopular with our customers. Moist.’
I nod. ‘Good word. Chocolate and cherry cake it is, then.’
‘I’m Ellie, by the way,’ she says, as she cuts me a largeslice, making sure to transfer the chocolatey shavings that have fallen off thecake onto my plate.
‘Lottie.’ I smile. ‘That looks melt-in-the-mouth deliciousand I’m going to thoroughly enjoy it and forget all about my rubbish ex and thehouse renovation that’s turning out to be a large pain somewhere crucial.’
She nods approvingly. ‘Sounds like a plan.’ She glances atthe cutlery holder. ‘Oh, we’re out of teaspoons.’ Leaning back, she calls,‘Maddy, can you bring some spoons?’
The girl called Maddy emerges from the back a moment laterwith a container, just as Ellie is asking me about the house I’m renovating. Maddylooks at me in surprise as she offers me a spoon from the caddy she’s holding. ‘SycamoreHouse? The place that’s haunted? That belongs to you?’
