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‘Who is the lucky fellow, then?’
‘It’s really none of your business. But, since you ask, it’s the lawyer handling my aunt’s estate. Angus Meadows.’
‘Ah, the handsome Mr Meadows, the sol-ic-ci-tor! Well, best let you start getting ready… if you haven’t already?’ Charlielaughed as his eyes indicated the recipe. She prayed that he hadn’t read her aunt’s footnote. He leapt up from the table. ‘Oh, and you might like to remove that second batch of biscuits from the oven. I can smell burning!’ His black eyes glinted as she flew to wrench open the oven door, spluttering as a billow of smoke escaped into her face.
Rosie turned towards him and narrowed her eyes. Charlie took the hint and beat a hasty retreat. ‘I’ll grab the mint on the way out, shall I?’
She watched from the front door as Charlie cocked his leg over the crooked bicycle saddle and ploughed into the interminable drizzle. A mix of emotions swirled around her chest. Obviously he was unable to afford proper transport, and for that she sympathised. But why did he have to be so irritating? She sauntered back to the kitchen and found the room drained of its recent vitality. Without Charlie’s light banter and jovial, energetic presence to bolster the kitchen’s warmth, her spirits waned.
After calculating the time difference, she worked out that her father would be home before setting out for his weekly visit to the local Archery Club with Dot and Arnie, and she craved hearing a friendly voice.
‘Hi, Dad. How’re things in sun-drenched Stonington Beach?’
‘All’s well here, darling. Arnie and I are planning our annual trip up-state with the other Archery Club guys. Should be a blast! But Rosie, ring Hannah, will you, please? I know she misses you.’
Yeah really, thought Rosie. Only because I’m not available to organise her life.
To change the subject from the murky waters of discussing her sister’s life, she spilled out the whole story of herforthcoming date with Angus and her verbal sparring with Charlie, much to her father’s delight.
‘Go for it, Rosie! A date with a Darcy-lookalike lawyer should be right up your street. I like the sound of Charlie, though. Did he ask you out on a date, too? Your mom would have loved to know that you are dating an English guy!’
‘No, of course not. Charlie’s really not my type, Dad; all sultry black curls and infuriating banter – and yes, he’s very attractive, but in that “I’m-handsome-and-I-know-I” of way,’ she giggled, feeling so much better for her chat with her beloved dad.
‘Mm, those well-honed Victorian manners and dulcet English tones discussing bottom lines. It does seem Angus is right on the button, darling. But haven’t you had your share of the sanitised corporate shark? If you want my opinion, maybe this Charlie would make you happier. He certainly sounds like you could have some fun with him. I’m really pleased you’ve decided to take some time in the UK to figure out the rest of your life, Rosie. Don’t rush home.’
Charming, thought Rosie as she depressed the call button.
She returned her phone to her pocket and sighed. She missed New York and her previous jam-packed life, especially now after her chat with her father. Life in Somersby was so dull. Four weeks and the only thing she had to look forward to was a date at a local French bistro with her aunt’s lawyer. She was homesick and maybe it was time to return, especially after she’d received a text from Lauren telling her that the first round of IVF had failed and that she and Brett were currently discussing whether to wait or delve straight into a second. She wanted to be there for her.
As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom under the eaves, she realised that freedom from the beck and call of Hannah, and the high-octane demands of Harlow Fenton, only served todeliver a sharp slap of loneliness and the unpalatable message, particularly via father, that her presence in their lives was not as essential to their happiness as she had previously thought.
Life went on despite her absence.
She slid into bed and, under the golden glow of the bedside lamp, she drew her aunt’s diary into her lap and started to read. Within minutes, tears coursed down her cheeks as the spidery words revealed the reason Bernice remained a spinster all her life.
Chapter Nineteen
Anxiety swirled around Rosie’s abdomen and chest as she pulled on the short, belted summer dress Emily had insisted on lending her for her date with Angus. To Rosie’s embarrassment, her friend had taken much too keen an interest in her love life, especially as she knew how much she enjoyed embroidering gossip.
She slid her feet into her trusty stilettos and immediately experienced the whoosh of confidence they delivered. What was the matter with her? She’d dated good-looking, sharply dressed, corporate guys before. Angus came straight from the mould of most of her previous dates – except Carlos; he’d been a diversion from the norm, and his Italian heritage had set her heart aflame.
Maybe there was a lesson there.
A toot from the garden gate broke her reverie. Perhaps English custom did not require the guy to collect the girl from her front door, she mused before rolling her eyes. She was a thirty-two-year-old woman, not a high school prom date!
She performed a final check in the age-speckled hall mirror, happy with the way her usually out-of-control hair cascaded in smooth, tamed waves between her shoulder blades. She was also relieved that she had chosen to stick with the understated makeup she preferred and had refused point-blank Emily’s suggestion of false eyelashes and a shimmering golden eyeshadow. Despite the minimal effort, she felt attractive for the first time since arriving in the UK.
She pulled open the front door and all-but skipped down the garden path to where Angus was waiting for her. With his arm resting nonchalantly on the open, tinted window of his black Mercedes sports car, he gave her a smile good enough to grace any toothpaste advert, obviously enjoying what he saw.
As Rosie slipped her stocking-clad legs into the passenger seat, she inhaled the pungent aroma of wood-spice cologne mixed with the tannin of the car’s leather seats and her spirits edged up a notch. She chanced a glimpse at her date for the evening, appreciating the effort Angus had gone to. Whilst his profile was still sharp, clean-shaven and handsome, his blond hair had been teased into a trendy surfer-dude style in honour of a Friday night out. His attire was immaculate: black designer jeans and an immaculately pressed pale pink shirt with its cuffs turned back to reveal a hint of paisley fabric.
They drove in silence until the Mercedes flashed by the majestic entrance gates to Somersby Manor Hotel and Spa. Its driveway snaked endlessly towards the Italianate-style, formal front terrace, lined with old-fashioned lampposts – each one emitting a soft peach glow.
‘It’s a beautiful place, isn’t it?’ Rosie offered to break the silence. ‘I wish I could afford a day’s pampering in the spa.’
‘Yeah, it’s a real shame the family had to take in paying guests. I’d have suggested we eat there but I don’t like the head chef.’ Angus smirked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
They drove swiftly, the powerful car swallowing the miles with ease, and a mere ten minutes later they arrived at Cranbury, the village where Emily lived. Rosie smiled; it really was one of the prettiest villages in the Cotswolds, with chocolate-boxcottages, a pristine village green, and there was even a duck pond in front of the Dancing Duck pub. The bistro they had come to dine in sat opposite the pub, displaying a beautifully painted sign informing the hungry diner that it was calledBistro Angéliqueand offered the best French cuisine in the area.
