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‘Emily…’
‘Okay, okay! But you do need to ring Angus today at least; to delay the exchange of contracts or you’ll be out on your tail. What did you say the purchaser’s name was?’
‘Brian Dixon.’
‘Mm, that name rings a distant bell. Maybe I’ll mention it to Nick. It’s a shame a family aren’t buying the cottage, or a retired couple who will appreciate the garden. Look at it, bursting withlate summer glory. September is my favourite month, you know, the kaleidoscope of colours defy description.’
As she lingered with Emily on the patio outside the back door munching on slices of fresh, sweet focaccia, olive oil dripping down their chins, Rosie had to admit the cottage was pure paradise – its neat thatch, its cheery scarlet door with late ivory roses climbing over the porch sending out a fragrant welcome to all who called by.
But the garden was Willowbrook’s crowning glory.
Maybe it wasn’t up to her aunt’s exacting standards, but she and Ollie had worked like Trojans to tame nature’s evolving canvas. Whilst she would not be flinging open the gate to the public and enthusiastic gardeners any time soon, she’d experienced the deep satisfaction of achievement in her horticultural life, if not in her personal life. It was a truly fitting tribute to her aunt.
‘Gosh, Em, don’t say that. Angus will freak out if we lose this buyer. He was right; there’s been no other interest in the cottage over the summer.’
‘That’s only because you’ve taken down the For Sale sign, you moron!’
Chapter Twenty Two
As she had expected, Charlie had been magnanimous when she’d apologised profusely for abruptly showing him the door when they’d last met, admitting that what he had said was entirely true – she was a doormat when it came to her sister. She had gone on to assure him that she was working on her personality issues and making some progress. He’d also been delighted when she had agreed he could show her aunt’s journal to his publisher friend, and he’d offered to call round to collect it.
Charlie arrived at Willowbrook Lodge on the back of his bicycle. Rosie was relieved that at least this time it wasn’t raining. He was astonishingly handsome, she admitted to herself for the first time, and to add to his attraction, he seemed totally unaware of this. She certainly didn’t want a repeat of his first visit to the cottage when his white cotton shirt clung to his rippling stomach muscles and his ebony hair had curled just above his thick, dark lashes as though he’d just stepped from the shower.
Nevertheless, as he turned one of the pine chairs round to sit astride, she had to kerb the urge to run her fingers through his tumbling tresses as the lemony tang of his cologne sent an erotic shiver through her body.
For heaven’s sake, Roseannah Hamilton, pull yourself together!
Unfortunately, to her dismay, Charlie had noticed her expression and the corners of his soft, pink lips curled in acknowledgement and mischief. She turned her back on him and made an effort to look busy making a pot of tea for them both.
‘So, what changed your mind?’
‘Erm, what?’
Charlie laughed. He knew exactly what she had been thinking.
‘About publishing your Aunt Bernice’s recipe journal? Is this it here? May I?’ Charlie pulled the manuscript across the table and flipped open the front cover. ‘Bake Yourself Betteris a great premise. My publisher loved it.’
‘Yourpublisher?’
Rosie set the brown teapot on the table, handed Charlie a china mug painted with a blue periwinkle, and took a seat across from him, leaning her elbows on the table as he turned to the first recipe.
‘Oh, just a friend from London. I love this recipe – is this the one you tried to poison the village with at the Somersby village fair back in April?Cherry Scones for Aching Bones? Oh, oh, no. I bet the very first recipe you tried is this one –Strawberry Tarts for Broken Hearts. Am I right?’
Rosie knew her expression had given her away, not to mention the fact that her cheeks had flooded with heat, but instead of his usually pithy sarcasm, she saw Charlie’s face soften as he continued to flick through the beautiful, art-filled pages.
‘Your aunt was a true maestro with the paintbrush – and, it seems, with the spatula! Look at this one –Gooseberry and Thyme Sorbets for Bad Hair Days. I’ve really got to try that one out!’
Charlie laughed as he shook his wayward curls from his eyes in a practised gesture.
‘Did you know, Rosie, that there are experts in the mental health arena who advocate the use of cooking and baking activities to improve emotional and psychological wellbeing? This is exactly what your aunt is trying to illustrate in her journal – in more ways than one. Yes, the artwork is exquisite, there is no doubt that she is a professional illustrator, and the recipes are all mouth-wateringly delicious. But it is the premisebehindthe book that had stirred Jasper’s juices.’
‘What do you mean?’
Rosie leaned in closer to scrutinise the branch of gooseberry bush entwined with a garland of thyme running around the recipe. When she looked up, her eyes met Charlie’s and a coil of desire snaked through her stomach.
‘Well, to Jasper, and to me, the journal’s concept is multi-dimensional. There are the stunningly beautiful illustrations and the recipes as I’ve said, but also the use of not only baking as a tool to heal, but herbs too.’
‘Like this camomile tea soothes stressful situations?’ She swore it wasn’t the reason she had selected it from the many tea varieties in her aunt’s cupboard.
