Chapter 1 - A Walk in the Park
She had earned that sandwich. Up with the birds, packing her gear and making a lunch, driving to the park and climbing the middling route to the peak. She had an inverse bucket list for this new life: things she had to do before she could revert to her preferred routines - ones that didn't involve exercise in the early morning. A hike in Crarrog Peak park and a picnic with a book after were on the list. "Find out what the locals do and try them - you won't turn Harrogate into London," her brother had advised, "so you have to find out how to be at home in Harrogate. He made her sound like a cosmopolitan princess plopped into the far back of beyond desperate for jazz clubs and tapas bars - which wasn't true at all. She'd gone to Durham for university and learned to love hikes with friends on the weekend. Not camping mind you, but a good stiff hike with some scrambling over rocks was well within her abilities. Of course in Durham, she'd always done the hike with friends - now and then with a lover - once or twice with Richard.
When she got back to the car, she was tired and sweaty, but with some pictures she hoped were good and an appetite. She quickly switched boots for trainers, the gear bag for the picnic bag and wandered into the park in search of a quiet tree with a lovely view. The spot discovered, the blanket spread, the containers with sweets, salad, sandwich and drinks opened and set before her, she stretched out on her side, one arm propping her head up as she read. She became quickly absorbed in her book and the noise of parents and children playing in the park around her fell into a low hum of background noise. She had to make herself stop reading and consciously enjoy the first and second bite of her sandwhich - prosciutto, basil, olive oil, thin slices of tomato and thinner slices of mozzerrella on a ciabatta roll. It was delicious. She set the sandwich down and turned back to the book. Again, quickly absorbed.
She began her summer holiday every year by rereading Dumas' the Count of Monte Cristo. It was the first novel she had ever read. She had been a precocious child and an avid reader, but she was not a fiction reader except for what they made her read at school. David, her brother, her hero, four years older and the font of all wisdom had warned her off story books. "They're not serious. Stick with history." She worked her way through every childrens' biography of prominent Britains by the age of 10 and found herself asking the librarian at the town library if she might read books from the adult section because she had finished all the children's books. The librarian, a bit skeptical looked up the record of books she had checked out and then looked at her, puzzled.
"Well Kate, you have read every piece of children's non-fiction that we lend - but you haven't read a single novel."
"Oh, I know, Miss Mickleby," Kate had answered quite earnestly. "My brother Davey says fiction isn't serious, so I've concentrated on the non-fiction."
"Well, Kate," much as I hate to challenge the great Davey McKenzie, I have to say, in this, I think he's wrong. Completely wrong." But her eyes were twinkling. "Still, I think you're up for a challenge. How about vengence and honor, betrayal and revolution - serious enough for you?"
Kate would never risk offending Miss Mickleby and so had returned home with the Count. She barely moved from her bed for a week till she had finished it. She fell in love with reading and novels reading that week and Dumas stood the test of an annual rereading every summer since.
Every summer, especially this summer in a new town and a new life, began with the Count and his fearsome tragedy and more fearsome revenge. The ritual comforted her as she made the transition from the highly structured, breathless pace of teaching to the seductive and frightening empty space of summer holidays. Eight weeks without papers to grade, tests to make and mark, reports to write. By December the list of things she hoped to accomplish the following July included world peace and a cure for cancer. She'd be in despair at all that she had failed to accomplish every August, if it weren't for the Count. Rereading the book the first week of holidays reset her clock to summer time and quieted the anxious voice that always wanted to know why she hadn't done more.
Giving herself over to the book, tired from the hike, it was no wonder that she had not heard the commotion that dog made, rambling through the park, scattering children, summoning laughter from bystanders. It was not until the Golden, six months old if that, leash trailing, had bounded on to her blanket, snatched her perfect summer sandwich, with only two bites gone, and run off to the tree line - joyously devouring in seconds her very well deserved lunch, meant to be savored over chapters, that she heard his master's voice.
Oddly enough, it was her master's voice as well - well Head Teacher's, anyway. Staring in disbelief at the dog, she heard Caroline's distinctive command voice - the voice that at school reduced hundreds of hormonal youth to shattered silence in seconds - carry to and past the dog with absolutely no effect.
"Caesar, Caesar! Put that down." Caroline Elliot shouted, mortified and furious. The dog finished the sandwich in a swallow, and considering Caroline's anger and the obvious good will of Kate, who had provided the sandwich without even being asked, quickly decided that Kate merited further investigation.
Caesar came running back to her blanket, almost knocking down Kate, who'd risen to her knees and broken into a laugh that moved from rueful to delighted in seconds. He stopped to lick her face quickly and then turned to the rest of picnic containers. The fruit salad looked uninspiring. The hobnobs, however, merited further investigation. Wagging his tail excitedly in her face, he snatched the container with the cookies and ran back to the trees.
"Caesar," are you asking for a trip to the pound? Stop! Sit! Put that down!" He ignored her. "I'm so sorry," Caroline said, flustered and out of breath, as she reached Kate's now disordered and disrupted idyll. "Oh dear, God! Kate! Kate McKenzie! Oh, I am so sorry."
Kate laughed. "Morning, boss." She said, tipping an imaginary cap.
"Oh, Lord, Kate." I am so sorry."
"Caroline, it's too funny. Don't worry." Caroline, looking from Kate to the dog and back again, shook her head and began to laugh. And Caesar, now that Caroline had put off her anger, trotted over to the two women, stopping once again to lick Kate's face.