Page 105 of The Sugar and Spice Bookshop Bakery

‘No?’

‘No. She wanted to be a writer.’

Louise stares at him. ‘What? She did?’

‘Yes. She was published, you know. Years ago. One of the big London publishers. She thought she’d made it.’ He shifts his weight, leaning against the doorframe. ‘But it didn’t sell well. She became a teacher, but she carried on writing. She tried for years to get another one published, but nothing ever came of it. Broke her heart, I think. She’s been bitter about it ever since.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘She doesn’t talk about it. I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but I think it might explain why she was so hard on you. You probably reminded her of what she’d lost.’

Louise feels something shift inside her. Not quite sympathy, but… understanding, perhaps.

‘Get yourself inside, into the warm,’ she says gently, pressing the key into his hand.

‘Thank you, dear. And good luck with your opening. I’ll be there if I can find my way.’

‘I’ll come and fetch you,’ Louise says impulsively. ‘If you’d like.’

‘That would be lovely.’

She walks back to the bakery.

Miss Anderson, a failed novelist. Well, that explained a lot. Didn’t excuse it though.

And she knew who’d kicked over her A board, and the flowerpots, too now. That just left the mystery of who’d sent that stuffed dog, and maybe they would never know that.

Thirty-Five

Jack is waiting for her inside the bakery, the A board propped up against some shelves.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Fine,’ Louise says. ‘It was just an accident.’

‘Told you!’

‘Yeah, poor Mr Grundy’s sight isn’t so great, and he knocked it over. May I borrow your phone?’

He looks puzzled, but reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile, unlocking it before handing it over. She sits down at one of the tables. Her fingers hover over the search bar for a moment, then she types: ‘Geraldine Anderson author’.

And there it is. The book.

The Silent Garden by Geraldine Anderson. Published 1975. The cover is dated – a watercolour illustration of a Victorian house with roses climbing the walls. The blurb isn’t bad.

Margaret returns to Hartley House after her aunt’s death, expecting only memories and dust. Instead she finds letters that reveal a truth kept hidden for twenty years – a truth that will reshape her understanding of her family, and herself.

‘What are you looking at?’ Jack peers over her shoulder.

She holds up the phone so he can see too.

‘A truth kept hidden for twenty years. Sounds familiar.’

‘Look at the author’s name, Jack.’

‘Geraldine Anderson. Not the Miss Anderson?’

‘The very same. She wanted to be an author, but her first novel flopped, so she became a teacher instead. Mr Grundy just told me. Should we read the reviews?’