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“Rotten wood panelling.” I try an experimental cough to clear my throat better. “Was trying to…”
“DIY?” she asks, her smile widening.
I nod.
“Maybe get some builders.”
“They’re coming in an hour. I’m just impatient. Always have been.”
There’s a hazy unreal feel to the moment, like just after kissing someone for the first time when everything else fades and you can only see each other’s faces. I drop my head to break the spell because… I shake my head to clear it. Because it’s her. A LeFevre.
She gets up and starts walking around what used to be the dining room. It’s empty now. “This must have been a magnificent house once.” She traces a hand over the wallpaper. “Wow, you don’t see these flower patterns anymore. Victorian decorative arts, I think.”
Why is she talking about the house?
She keeps walking around touching things, the window frames where my grandmother used to polish the wood until it gleamed. “You have gorgeous windows.” Then she moves on to the mantel piece. Where the Lalique figurines used to sit.
Elodie runs her hands all over the now-empty surface. “Beautiful original features. Can’t you just imagine this room all lit up with chandeliers, floors waxed to a high shine?”
I have to grit my teeth very hard, so I don’t tell her to stop touching our home. After saving my life and everything, it would be supremely ungrateful to kick her out.
She examines the spaces on the wall that once held paintings. “They must have had lots of amazing antiques.”
I never saw my father cry; he was always too proud. So, Mum telling us about his reaction to the loss of the figurines is a new wound. A pain that drives me up on my feet. “Why were you knocking on my door?” my casual voice is a lie to my own ears.
“Oh.” She spins round to face me. “I wanted to drop off these.” She walks back to the door, picks up a paper bag and hands it to me.
Inside are three screw-top jars.
“My grandfather makes honey. And I wanted to bring you a sample of …erm…” she hesitates, perhaps picking up on my inner mood. “I took some to all the neighbours. My grandad makes wonderful honey. This,” she points to the first jar, “is thistle honey, and this one is—”
I return the bag to her. “I don’t like honey. Never eat sweet things.”
She just stares at me as if I’m speaking Norwegian. And she doesn’t look ready to leave.
“Anyway, I must get on.” I look around for my shirt. Being naked from the waist up in February isn’t going to do my recently abused lungs any favours.
“It’s just that we’re moving my grandfather’s honey shop next door, soon, and I wanted to be neighbourly. Anyone living on the lane can have a discount. It’s going to be—”
“Excuse me, Miss LeFevre?”
“Elodie, please.”
“Miss LeFevre,” I repeat. “Thank you for helping me earlier, but I’m not the neighbourly type. All this going round with a basket of food and having cups of tea is not my thing. I have a lot of work to do, then I’m leaving the island. So, if you don’t mind, no more visits.”
Finally, the penny drops. Her smile vanishes and a hint of affront flares in her eyes.
“I’ll leave these.” She puts the honey on the floor. “If you don’t like them, you can donate them.”
And she walks out, back very straight and head held very high. Her steps click on the floor like short, hard, angry words.
Chapter Seventeen
Elodie
I resist the impulse to slam the door behind me. Instead, I leave it open, so he has to come close it for himself.
Childish, I know.
