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‘Exactly. Many common garden herbs possess potent healing properties, as I see your aunt had recorded. But it’s the therapeutic associations that blow me away. By focusing on the activity of an indulgent afternoon of baking with these ingredients, it’s like getting a session of free therapy. Just like art therapy. Baking takes your mind off your thoughts and feelings whilst you concentrate on the repetitive tasks of weighing out ingredients, whisking eggs, kneading dough, folding flour into batter. It’s almost meditative.’
Rosie smiled as she watched Charlie’s excitement bubble to the surface. Clearly cooking and bakingwerehis passion.
‘Baking has other advantages too, though. It forces you to take things slow; you can’t rush a rising cake. It is nourishing – provides home-prepared food made with oodles of love which makes others happy. It satisfies any craving for creativity, too. Did you know that curiosity is the mother of all invention, not necessity? Wondering what will happen to the taste buds if you add a sprinkle of cinnamon to a cappuccino soufflé or a tablespoon of grated beetroot to your chocolate muffin mix? Then decorating the end product with panache. I adore a sprinkle of edible glitter as much as the next patisserie chef!’
Charlie smiled at her and she felt the last icicle in her heart over his direct delivery of home truths defrost. ‘You make it sound like a day out at the spa!’
‘Oh, it’s much better than that. I’ve saved the best until last. Baking stimulates every single one of the senses.’ He gave her a look suffused with such raw sexual desire she had to avert her eyes as her stomach tumbled with a medley of emotions. ‘There’s the symphony of the blender and the mixer, the aromatherapy of the myriad tantalising smells – vanilla, nutmeg, caramel – that release feel-good endorphins. Then there’s not only the taste of the final product, but also the feel of the flour as it cascades through your fingertips, the rhythmic caress as your palm massages the dough.’
Rosie didn’t trust herself to speak for fear of breaking the spell. Were all these avenues into a world of magic contained in her aunt’s simple recipe book? The kitchen clock ticked the seconds by as Charlie held her gaze, then his eyes widened with excitement.
‘I’ve had an idea! Let’s test out one of the recipes now!’
‘Oh, I don’t…’
‘Which one do you think we should try? There are so many to choose from it will have to be a random selection. Agreed?’ Charlie clamped the journal shut, balanced it on its spine and let the manuscript fall open.
Rosie’s eyes fell on the choice made by the roulette wheel of luck. She smiled and a giggle erupted from her lips. Charlie joined in and they ended up laughing until they had to wipe their eyes of tears. It was the first time that year that Rosie could remember laughing until she cried.
‘Fig Delights for Passion-Filled Nights’
‘Or should that be Knights,’ teased Charlie as he ran a practised eye over the ingredients and the instructions before reading aloud Aunt Bernice’s pearls of wisdom.
‘It will come as no surprise to you I’m sure, Rosie, that figs have been associated with passion for centuries. In certain cultures, the fig is the symbol of fertility. They are even credited with possessing aphrodisiac qualities by some. I suppose it must be their voluptuous shape, but I adore their rich, sweet taste and their sticky succulent texture. It is difficult to get fresh figs, but dried figs are fine – in fact they contain the omega essential fatty acids so beneficial to health. I’ll let you into a little secret, Rosie. Emily swears by them! Tread carefully!’
Alongside Charlie, Rosie rolled up her sleeves and launched into one of the best afternoons she could remember. As they worked in companionable silence, the kitchen filled with the aromatherapy that Charlie had promised. Then, during thetasting session, presided over by Bernice’s huge brown teapot, they shared the produce of their afternoon’s healing session along with the exchange of gossip from their recent history – mainly hers. She had for the first time managed to be honest about her obsession with caring for people, with putting others first all the time, and how she now intended to follow her aunt’s advice to work on her own happiness when she went back home to New York.
And Charlie had missed one therapeutic benefit from his list.
The activity had brought back crystal-clear memories of her childhood before Hannah had arrived in the world, when she’d stood on a tiny wooden stool next to her mother and performed the role of sous chef as they whipped up one of her father’s favourite Victoria sponge cakes. Nostalgia wrapped its downy arms around Rosie’s chest and squeezed in a feeling of such warmth and gratitude that she had been fortunate enough to experience such a happy childhood.
Even if her mother had been taken too early, she had been blessed to have known her.
Chapter Twenty Three
Rosie had enjoyed their baking sojourn so much that, in a moment of madness, she had agreed to Charlie’s invitation to spend the following afternoon with him in return. Charlie’s spontaneity was rubbing off on her, the queen of extreme organisation and list-making. She would never have believed it if Lauren had told her she would be spending an afternoon with a guy without first of all arranging a visit to the beauty salon and spending the whole week searching for the perfect outfit. Here, she had no endless choices; it was her black jeans and stilettos and a pale blue cashmere-soft sweater she had borrowed from Emily and forgotten to return.
At least Charlie didn’t arrive on his bicycle this time.
A disturbing mental picture had scuttled across her mind’s eye of the two of them riding in tandem to the next village in their scruffy Barbour jackets and Wellington boots, stopping at the Dancing Duck pub for a pint of ale under the gawping stares of the local patrons.
However, his chosen transport for their afternoon date could only be described as one step up on the transport evolutionary scale, as an ancient, Air Force-blue Land Rover screeched to a halt at her gate. Charlie had obviously begged the vehicle from the Manor’s head gardener, she realised as she peered over her shoulder into the back which was crammed with spades, hoes, and a couple of deathly-looking pitch forks. She fervently hoped he wouldn’t have to brake suddenly.
She was relieved to see he’d not made a huge effort in the clothing department, either, which she took as evidence that he hadn’t misinterpreted their meeting as a romantic date. He still sported his scruffy, olive-green Barbour, its corduroy collar turned up at a jaunty angle, but today his Wellingtons had been replaced by a pair of very old trainers in honour of their afternoon foray into the countryside.
‘There’s no stilettos allowed where we’re going, Rosie,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ve got a pair of old boots in the back for you as I see you don’t own a pair of trainers. It’s two extremes with you, isn’t it? Either skyscraper stilettos or muddy Wellington boots. Taxi or bicycle.’
Rosie scrunched up her nose at the thought of sliding her bare feet into pre-owned boots. Charlie noticed and, with his trademark smirk, passed across a brown paper bag.
‘What’s this for?’
‘Open it.’
She removed a pair of fluffy white socks.
Charlie glanced across at her shocked expression as he dragged the Land Rover at speed around the tight bends of the country roads with ease and experience.
‘They’re from the hotel’s spa. Don’t ever say I don’t know how to treat a girl!’
