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He eyed her for a moment. ‘You are a beautiful young lady, Amelia. A man who makes you cry is not worth anything.’ He gestured to the bay outside, which was glittering in the sunshine. ‘Focus on the positive things in your life and do what you enjoy. Life is too short to waste.’ His face clouded over briefly as his mind went elsewhere. It brightened when he looked back at her. ‘I would like very much if you tried this. That is sure to cheer you up.’
Amelia smiled gratefully at him for dispensing wise advice and festive treats.
‘You tuck in and I will get you another coffee, if you would like?’
‘I would love that. Thank you.’ She took a bite of the sweet, buttery, crumbly biscuit and closed her eyes. It was delicious. She opened her eyes to see Cano looking at her nervously. She gave him a thumbs-up. ‘Wonderful.’
He beamed with delight.
Amelia once again said a silent prayer of thanks for circumstances bringing her to this place, and the kindness of strangers who were helping her realise shecouldrebuild her life.
Chapter Eighteen
Edie usually loved the weeks leading up to the Christmas fair, and she had a long-held tradition of counting down the days with her creative calendar pinned to the back of the kitchen door. On it she had an intricately detailed plan of what needed to be done and when. She would busy herself for hours making small clay Christmas trinket dishes shaped like leaves of holly. Then she would leave them to dry for a few days before painting or varnishing them in shades of rich green. Sometimes she made beautiful star-shaped Christmas tree decorations, which were painted bright gold and studded with costume jewels. Thea would sell them in her shop and they sold very quickly. However, this year things had not gone to her usual plan. To start with, her regular clay supplier hadn’t been able to fulfil her order so she’d bought a different type.
She based herself in the kitchen, cosy, thanks to the wood-burning stove, and spread old newspaper all over the table. She gathered everything she required to get going. She placed a sharp knife next to her along with a damp cloth for her sticky hands. Having Classic FM on quietly in the background always set the scene, and as soon as she put on her old, oversized shirt to protect her clothes she was ready to begin. She loved the process of picking up the clay and getting started, losing herself in shaping and moulding it. Today, however, the scissors kept snagging on the packet, which was a real nuisance to open. When she did start warming it in her hand, it was rock solid and non-malleable. She reached for the knife and cut a small chunk off, focusing on exploring its consistency and temperature, and she closed her eyes, using her fingers to press and manipulate. As her thumbs pressed down and explored the texture, her mind wandered once again to her sister.
Christine had been married once, long before Edie had met Jim, but the wedding had been short-lived and she’d moved to London to pursue her career as a lawyer. She’d lived in a lovely apartment in Bloomsbury and had led a busy and full life. She’d travelled extensively with her work and loved exploring different parts of the world. After her brief marriage, she’d always vowed she would never wed again and, true to her word, had never shown any signs of settling down with anyone, despite Edie’s protests that she should give love another chance.
Noticing the clay becoming dry in her hands, Edie gently dipped her fingers into the small cup of water on the table and rubbed it into the clay to moisten it. But she added too much and it soon became sticky. Frustrated, Edie threw it down, cut off another piece from the block and started again.
Her mind flitted back to Jim and she glanced over at the framed picture that sat on the window ledge. It had been taken in the Botanic Gardens in Edinburgh, one of their favourite places to visit, on a sunny summer’s day. Jim stood beside the glasshouses, beaming at the camera. That day had been glorious. She remembered how they’d strolled around the beautiful, landscaped grounds, stopping to admire the city skyline and the castle. She’d laughed at Jim as they’d wandered through the steamy palm houses and he’d kept mopping his brow. They’d admired the tree collection before having vanilla ice cream at the café. Looking at Jim in that photo was exactly how she wanted to remember him and their marriage. In the weeks and months after his death, she’d spent a lot of time there because she’d felt most connected to him in that very spot. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to put the photo away, despite all these years passing. Some days, Jim’s death felt like yesterday and she could still feel the physical pain of her shattering into millions of pieces. She’d visited a counsellor afterwards who’d reassured her that her grief was hugely complex due to the circumstances surrounding his death and the way in which he’d died.
Rolling the clay around in her hands, she wondered if she should be more open to seeing her sister now that Christine’s life was drawing to an end. Was she a bad person for not immediately wanting to rush to her bedside? She certainly felt guilty although technically she knew she had no reason to. Focusing on her breath, she tried her best to work out how she felt about Christine right at this moment in time. Sorrow? Hurt? Pain? Loss? But it was a futile exercise as the same thoughts came back into her head and feelings of resentment and anger started to surface.
She looked down when she realised that she had balled the clay up in her hands. It looked nothing like it was supposed to and she attempted to flatten it out by pulling and folding it. But it was no use, it just didn’t want to be shaped the way she wanted to mould it and she threw it down in yet more frustration. Her sister made her cross. She was angry that the onus was now on her to do something about their relationship, and if she didn’t she would have another burden to live with. Standing up, she gathered up the remaining clay, walked over to the bin and dumped it in. She slammed the lid shut.
Molly barked.
‘Sorry, Molly,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
The dog jumped up and came over and sat at Edie’s feet. ‘What would I do without you, my precious girl?’
Molly wagged her tail and licked her owner’s hand.
‘Right, well, this isn’t working out so good for me today, Molly. Which is most annoying. How about we sort the labels on the jars?’
She pulled off the shirt and went to the sink to scrub her hands, which were chalky and sticky. She knew the best thing to do at the moment was to distract herself with a simple task, which would allow her to feel a sense of achievement. The mundane job of labelling all the jars seemed to calm her mind, and after an hour or so, all were boxed and ready to deliver to Doris. She smiled and ticked it off her list.
She turned and started pulling out ingredients for her famous festive tablet, a Scottish version of fudge. She needed condensed milk, butter, milk and sugar, cranberries, ginger, orange zest and red and green sprinkles. Opening the cupboard, she took out her large heavy-based saucepan and the sugar thermometer from the drawer.
She started melting the butter with the milk and slowly added the sugar, bringing it to the boil. Then she stirred in the condensed milk, mixing it so it wouldn’t stick to the bottom of the pan. As she brought it back to the boil, she kept the wooden spoon swirling through the mixture until it turned thick and honey-coloured. It was her mother’s recipe and she could vividly remember the days when she and Christine would sit in the kitchen, on high stools, watching their mother stir and stir. It had taken around twenty minutes until they could help with the best and most magical bit of all. Edie would hold the bowl of ice-cold water at the ready and Mother would drop a small amount of the hot mixture in.
As the older of the two, Christine would get to pick it up and try to form a soft ball with it in her fingers. If she could, then it was ready. They would leave it to cool and her mother would beat it again before pouring it into the tin and leaving it to set.
Checking it with the thermometer was much easier, though not quite as much fun. After Edie poured it into the prepared trays, studding each one with the festive ingredients, she put them aside to cool.
This was just getting silly, she told herself. There was no option other than to call the hospital and find out the truth. She washed her hands at the sink, glancing at Jim again, and went to the hall. She picked up the phone.
Chapter Nineteen
Amelia opened her eyes. It was 2 a.m. and the temperature in the hut felt as though it had dropped below zero. She heard a rustling noise at the door . . . Her heart raced as she gingerly sat up, pulling the covers around her.What on earth was that?She shivered as she watched the handle turn.Oh God ?had she locked it? She couldn’t remember. Her imagination started to work overtime and her eyes flicked from left to right as she wondered what to do. Thank God she’d had the sense to draw the curtains last night. At least nobody could see in. Whoever was behind the door depressed the handle and tried again. She sighed in relief. But the locked door didn’t make her feel much better. Reaching for her phone, she wondered whether to dial 999. It was hardly an emergency, was it? She also couldn’t alert Edie in case that panicked her. She had two choices. She needed to go and confront the person attempting to break in. Or she could call Fergus. She was more concerned about Edie and hoped that she had locked her door last night. She tapped out a text.
Someone is trying to break into the hut. I am worried about Edie!
She tried to settle her breathing while she waited for a reply. What if Fergus was a deep sleeper? She didn’t dare move out of the bed in case the floor creaked. Her heart thudded and she stuffed her fist into her mouth at the loud bang against the door. As her eyes accustomed to the dark, she wondered what she could use as a weapon. A mop? A knife? But would she actually be able to use it?
She steeled herself to move and then blinked when her phone screen lit up.
