Chapter Seven

My morning run had become my saving grace. Dark hours of sleepless nights, butted up against long, hard days of meetings, chasing people up, pleading with heritage boards and wrangling with Amos Rutherford over more problems with the deer. An hour, at dawn, with nothing but the scenery whipping by and the freezing wind in my face was somehow very therapeutic. It drove everything out of my mind, just for a bit. Christmas was fast approaching, but I was determinedly not thinking about that: the combination of the first year without Dad, not to mention working out the infinitesimal labour-intensive elements that had always made up our Christmases was sending a rising panic up my throat. Ed and Lucy loomed at the corners of my mind, but I squashed it away. I had only allowed myself one night to actually think about it. I had more than thought. I wallowed. My stomach had heaved, and my throat felt close to snapping it was so tight. Once Mari had turned out her light, I had got up again, gone to the bathroom, turned on the light, locked the door, then slumped against the wall. Jokes about our love lives, proddings against leaving marriage until it was too late, and quips about 'child-bearing years' had been flung across the room that night, batted at either side by Cliff and Ruth. Nancy and Mags had enjoyed it all immensely. Mum and Diana had both looked a little embarrassed for us. Tom looked downright terrified. Lucy, however, had sent meaningful glances my way at every comment. It had been a twist of the dagger, every time. I had made myself breathe slowly, deliberately trying to calm myself and not give in to the wrenching sobs that were hovering. Finally, just about to give in, and wallow like a pig in mud, there came a rap at the door.

"You nearly out?"

I stood up. I splashed my face with cold water. I opened the door, and found Maggie looking back at me, frowning a little.

"Are you all right?" she asked, showing uncharacteristic concern.

"I'm fine."

Her frown deepened at my automatic lie.

"I'm tired," I amended, "and I'm not really sleeping, but I'll be fine."

She nodded slowly. "Sometimes," she said, "when I can't sleep, I read a bit to stop all the things from joggling about in my mind."

I smiled, involuntarily.

"You want to borrow something?"

I was already feeling fragile. Maggie's thoughtfulness nearly took me out, right behind the knees.

"Oh I know," she said before I could answer. She disappeared into her bedroom, and reappeared, a few seconds of scuffling later, holding a book. The book Ed had sent to her. I gulped. "It's really good," she said. "I think you'll like it."

My automatic, daily answer of 'no, no, I'm fine, I can do it myself, I don't need that' failed on my tongue. I swallowed it. "Thank you," I said, and took the book, albeit gingerly. I had no intention of opening it. Anything that Ed had chosen would no doubt send arrows of self-doubt and deep Dawson's Creek-esque introspection through me, and any hope of sleeping would be dashed. Maggie had given me a quick, hard hug, then shut the bathroom door in my face. I stood there for a moment, baffled, then finally returned to my room, complete with matching rickety cabin bunks and a sister, snoring softly. I had slept badly. Eventually, when the sun struggled up, I gave up lying there and went for a run instead. Somehow, it left me feeling better. Like the Brontes, escaping up onto the moors, like Catherine Earnshaw with them, I too could escape and just run. Whether brilliant sunshine or driving sleet, I could still go. Whatever happened to me, the sun would come up every morning, and the tides still turn, and I could pound along the beach, fingers frozen, hair whipped in the salty wind, legs like jelly. Some days I found myself at the boat-house, and on some of those days Brandon came out to meet me, coffee and pastries in hand, like a burly, unlikely Saint Lucia. More often than not, we sat in silence. He didn't want to talk about Mari. I didn't want to talk about Ed. Both of us just needed each other and somehow, we got through those four weeks. Lucy, then, went home for Christmas, as did Marc. Neither of us said anything about it, but the first day after they had left, whilst Cliff was bemoaning the loss of someone who would not only listened to his stories, but also took notes, and Mari was sloping around looking morose, both of us, independently, started humming Christmas carols.


Christmas itself was raucous, to say the least. Tessa and Max were home, bringing new-found decibels to family meals. Ollie, somewhat wisely, remained away in Tibet, sending presents in lieu of a visit, much to his mother's disapproval. We, as well as Tom and his family, were all invited from Christmas Day right through to Boxing Day. From church on Christmas morning with Nancy and Maggie giggling with Max as they sung inappropriate words to the carols, to the loudest Christmas lunch I have ever known, right through a walk to the beach, and a chaotic present exchange, the day itself was not one for quiet introspection. I was grateful. I didn't want time to stop and think about Dad, or Ed, or Ed and Lucy, or any of the other thoughts that had been circling for weeks. We slunk back to our flat, turned the Christmas lights on, and sat in relative silence in front of The Snowman before going to bed. The next day, Boxing Day, was equally insane. Tessa organised us onto something of a force march, five miles across the fields, picking up the younger Morlands along the way, and then back along the coast, sustained by rations of mulled wine in thermos flasks and half the Christmas cake. We arrived back just in time for lunch to find Diana scolding the dog for stealing and eating the Christmas cake. We instantly agreed to never speak of our walk again. Brandon's parents and grandmother had arrived by this point, so we all sat down to a feast of baked potatoes, bubble and squeak, and tons of cold Christmas left-overs, after which we lay in various vegetative states in front of Muppet Christmas Carol. It was weird, to say the least, but there was something incredibly comforting about the whole thing. The Middletons disappeared off a few days later to celebrate the coming of the New Year with Cliff's sister in Edinburgh. We were left with the rest of the left-overs, a Christmas hamper from the Morlands largely comprising of Brandon's Christmas cake and mince pies, and a massive stack of Christmas movies. With nothing to do, and work absolutely forbidden, we spent several days in complete relaxation, walking the Middleton's ageing dog across the beach, watching It's a Wonderful Life and Die Hard, and eating until we nearly burst. It left a little more time for thinking as well: it wasn't such a scary prospect when I had several empty days ahead of me and a newly acquired massive tin of hot chocolate in the cupboard. By New Year's Eve I had battled it out with myself. My New Year's resolution was set: I was going to stop thinking about Ed, stop obsessing about Ed, and stop contemplating how to kill Lucy and make it look like an accident. He had made his choice even before he met me. Whatever there had been between us was a misunderstanding, and he had probably done the right thing. Given the looks that Fifi had been throwing at me before we left, I could understand why they had kept it a secret: clearly she would disapprove, and clearly Ed didn't want to upset them. Not yet, anyway. So, my mind was made up, and as New Year's Day ticked into being, I took a deep breath of the New Year's air. I was now fine with Ed, fine with Lucy, and fine with the whole thing. I let out my breath into a misty cloud. I looked up to the stars and marvelled. Marvelled, that is, at my new found ability to lie to myself.


Winter came and went with disappointingly few frosts, and even fewer flakes of snow. There was mud and freezing rain from one end to the other. Tom was spending day after day slowly freezing out in the gardens, marshalling a team of eager volunteers who turned out, in spite of the weather, to fulfil Cate's detailed plans. Tom, however, had more than gardens on his mind. Charlotte had started the New Year as she meant to go on: with a modest but beautiful ring gracing her left hand. Diana was beside herself. Ruth, thankfully back in her own home, had sent letter after letter, complete with the family veil, a much flashier possible engagement ring and brochures to many honeymooning destinations. Charlotte had thanked her for the veil, taken a long, appraising look at the ring, and decided that hers was better, and put the brochures away. She, like her fiancée, was facing a busy spring. While her mother and step-father remained blissfully unaware of her occupation (having worked through several different professions already, they had given up trying to keep up) I, however, had weaselled it out of her. With Tessa's help, she had set up a small graphic design business via the internet. Her talents, therefore, were immediately indispensable. Within days of my discovery I had sketches of possible logos for the estate covering my walls.

"That horrible peacock?"

Charlotte grinned. "His name, as well you know, is Tavas."

"He has also taken against me."

She shrugged. "He hates everyone except Nancy. He is, however, massively photogenic."

I sighed and looked at the sheets in front of me again. The stylised peacock was beautiful. Behind it was the house in its very barest lines. It really would be a lovely logo. I grimaced. "Fine," I said.

"You like it?"

I sighed again. "I love it, despite its evil connotations. He is handsome." I slumped and put it to one side. "Well, good. Thank you. You've worked crazily hard."

She waved it all away. "It's nothing compared to how you work."

"I'm a machine, and I'm not planning a wedding."

Charlotte still blushed at every mention of the big day. It was charming. So much more so that Lucy who still took every opportunity to remind me that she was secretly engaged to Ed. Or Edward as she called him.

"How's it going?"

"All right," she said, slowly. "In fact, there's something that I wanted to run by you."

"Shoot."

"Not here," she said firmly. "It's not business. It's a family thing. I'm inviting you to dinner."

"What?"

She stood up and smiled. "I need to talk to you about the weddin., I don't think we should discuss it either on the clock or in business premises, and you do need to eat, contrary to popular belief."

I had the strangest sensation of being had. "I…" I started to say, but she walked around to my side of the desk and hauled me out of my chair.

"Marvellous," she said, in a stunning imitation of her step-father, and marched me to the door.


Half an hour later I was sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by people.

"This feels like an intervention."

"Nonsense," boomed Cliff. "It's a handy coincidence."

"Really." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of utter disbelief.

He shot me an insincere smile. "Yes."

Mum and Diana walked in at that, dressed in smarter clothes than I had thought Mum owned. "Hello!" she said, all surprise. "I didn't expect to see you here!"

Mari's excellent care of Mum and Maggie had fallen by the wayside between dates with Marc and running the bookshop. I was, as usual, more than useless when it came to either remembering to stop work and eat, or remembering that others also need to eat. After one too many nights of burnt frozen pizza, Diana had taken pity on Mum and Maggie and had issued an open invitation to every dinner at the house. Whilst I had been getting by on Marmite toast and cup-a-soup, Mum and Maggie had found themselves firmly ensconced at the Middleton's table.

"I was ambushed," I said to Mum, and kissed her cheek. For all that it was an ambush, it was welcome. Apart from the week at Christmas I had barely seen her for months.

"Good," she said, and sat next to me.

Lucy and Mari walked in, chatting amiably, before Mari stopped dead. "What are you doing here?"

I smiled blithely back at her. "Being forced to stop work for a couple of hours."

She raised her eyebrows. "Impressive."

"You staying?"

"No," she said, fishing her phone out of her pocket, and checking the screen. "Marc's about to pick me up."

"Oh how lovely," said Lucy.

A muscle in Mari's forehead twitched. She had decided that since Marc and Lucy had bonded over art history and architecture, she should at least make an effort. It was fun to watch. Mari clearly couldn't stand her. Some time, one day, Mari would snap. I hoped, somewhat savagely, that I would be there when she did. I decided that for the moment, however, I would rise above it all. I turned back to Mum.

"Where have you been today?"

She leaned back in her chair and kicked off her heels. "Oof," she said. "The Barton and Knarescombe Historical Society's annual craft fair."

"Oh?"

She smiled. "Yes. It was all very interesting and worthwhile."

"You had a nice time?" I asked. I had a sudden flash-back to my conversation with Mari. I shot her a look. "I mean, all these new social things you're doing."

Mum smiled. "It's certainly nice to be busy again, sweetheart."

I smiled at her, then shot a triumphant look at Mari. Strangely, she was wearing an enigmatic smile. Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at it. She gave me another maddening look. "Marc's here," she said. "Thanks for inviting me for dinner," she added, turning to Diana. "Maybe another time."

She smiled back at Mari. "Bring him along sometime if you like. I know how much he enjoys poking around the house."

"Thank you," she said. "See you all later."

Her looks had been unfathomable. It irritated me. I was still mulling it over a few minutes later when Charlotte put a plate down in front of me.

"Ellis, love?" asked Mum, slowly, and coming to, I realised that not only had I been stewing for long enough for Charlotte to serve up, but also for everyone to sit, and start eating.

"Sorry," I said, and picked up my cutlery. Food has always been more fuel than anything else to me. That, I have suspected, is the reason that there could never be anything between me and Brandon: he finds my eating habits horrifying, in both my scanty meals, and the amounts of processing that the food goes through. Despite his revulsion, it had and has never stopped him from interfering. Soup was regularly left in Tupperware containers on my desk. Servings of pasta bake and shepherd's pie often appeared on the kitchen table. Brownies were shoved at me during meetings. It would appear that even large amounts of chocolate and sugar were, to him, better than packet soup. This all said, it took me a few hasty forkfuls to realise that this was more than just fuel. Heaped spoonfuls of cauliflower cheese oozed parmesan-goodness next to crispy potatoes, a pile of peas and a salad of vegetables of which, I was embarrassed to say, I recognised few.

"This is amazing."

Charlotte grinned. "Good."

"No, really amazing. You should jack in the graphic design business and become a chef."

"She was, briefly," said Diana.

"So," said Charlotte, blithely ignoring her mother, "the real reason we got you here."

"Besides making sure you got a decent meal in you."

I narrowed my eyes at Cliff, tongue-sticking-out being off the menu, what with eating.

Charlotte ignored him, as well. "Tom and I want to set a date."

I stacked myself up a really nice forkful of cauliflower, potato and veg, swirled around in the cheese sauce. "OK?" I asked, too busy with my food.

"We were thinking the first of June."

I nodded, incapacitated by my massive mouthful. Slowly, however, her words sunk in. I started to regret the huge shovelful in my mouth.

"Thish yerr?"

Charlotte looked confused.

Finally, I swallowed. "This year?" I asked again, after wiping my mouth.

"Yes."

I paused. It slowly dawned on me that this wasn't just an ambush to make me eat: it was also a clever way of disabling me from saying no to no doubt organising a wedding for two days before the big opening of the estate, which, handily, also fell on the one year anniversary of the accident. Cliff nodded encouragingly.

"I suggested it."

"Did you?" I'm not sure that he noticed my clenched teeth. Mum, however, laid a gentle hand on my knee.

"Look, Ellis," said Charlotte, passing the peas around again. "If it's a problem, we can go with another time. It just seemed like it could be a really good excuse to combine the wedding and the reception with a party to thank everyone for all their hard work. I mean, everyone working on this will be coming anyway. Why not use this to thank them, rather than taking off a whole other day to organise it, and find a night when everyone's free?"

I winced. Annoyingly, she had a point.

"Also," she said, waving the serving spoon at me, "all the work will be done by then. There's nothing more you can do. You might as well kick up your heels and serve as a bridesmaid."

I started to nod. Except then I actually processed what she had just said.

"Are you kidding?"

She frowned. "About what?"

"Please say you are."

She shook her head, grinning. "Come on," she said. "I've known you forever. And, you knew about Tom first."

Diana's head shot up. "What?"

"Only just before you, Mum," said Charlotte, quickly.

"It was matter of hours," I put. Why I was helping Charlotte, I didn't know.

Diana narrowed her eyes.

"Anyway," said Charlotte. "What do you say?"

I dropped my fork. I sagged in my seat. "You really want that date?"

"And you."

I cursed, silently. Charlotte gave me a winsome smile. I cursed again. "Fine," I said, eventually, "but I get to choose my dress."

Charlotte grinned, picking up the serving dish. "Your wish is my command," she said, and ladled me out another massive serving.


As much as Mari's smiles had been enigmatic, later that night they were downright exuberant. With so much going on, I had taken Tom's advice ("now would be a good time to start drinking") and unearthed the whiskey. Somehow, the combination of alcohol and impossible odds had merged to create a perfect sleeping atmosphere. That was, until Mari climbed into my bed at midnight, and sat on my feet. I thought about kicking her. Instead, I rallied together all of my loving older sister intuition, and said, albeit sleepily, "are you all right?"

She bounced a little. I instinctively grasped the sides of the bed. It was, after all, poorly constructed. "Yes," she said. "I think…maybe…I think he's the one."

"Great," I said, not even managing to feign excitement. "You told me that about two months ago."

I heard her scoff in the darkness. "The one, Ellis. The one I can give myself to completely. The one who…"

"Are you talking about sleeping with him?"

Silence replied to me.

"Mari, are you serious? What happened to waiting until you're married and it being the most special thing ever, and…"

"Why wait?" she asked. "Why bother, when I know we'll be together forever?"

I struggled to clear the fog of sleep. I snapped on my bed-side light to help. I squinted in the sudden brightness, but seeing her face, a bright map of hopes and expectations, helped enormously.

"What are you saying?"

She shrugged.

"Are you engaged?" Clearly my tone was a little too scolding for her. She frowned a little.

"What is it to you? You're never around these days anyway."

"Are you?"

"Around?"

"Engaged!" I replied, exasperated.

She smiled slowly. "No. Not yet. Although we are all but…" She smiled again.

I passed a weary hand over my face. "And you're planning on sleeping with him?"

She pulled a face. "I'm not some teenager making plans to get it off at prom."

"You know what I mean."

She shrugged again. "It could happen."

I slumped against my pillows.

"What?" she asked, looking at me, hard. "Are you jealous about my doing it first?"

"Doing it?" I cringed. "No. I'm just…" I took a breath. "Worried, I suppose. You will be careful?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes Mum. I learned all about it at secondary school."

I tried to kick her. She, unfortunately, was still sitting on my feet. "I meant with yourself. With your heart," I amended.

She began to roll her eyes again.

"Don't," I said. "It's a big thing. Don't treat it lightly."

She smiled a little. "I won't," she said. "I thought you'd be clinically practical about it all."

I pulled the duvet tight around my shoulders. "There's no point. Love isn't practical. Neither, I might add," I said, stifling a yawn, "is Heathcliff, so if you're still on that scheme, I'd advise that you get off."

She frowned. "You're so contrary."

I shrugged, further under the covers. "I shouldn't worry. The guy wears reading glasses and is fascinated by architecture. I think he's more of an Edgar."

She threw a cushion at me. "Take it back."

"Let me go to sleep!"

She shook her head, and climbed out of my bed. "Edgar Linton," she muttered as she traversed the maze of boxes to her bed. "Honestly."


"Who is Edgar Linton?" asked Maggie over the Cheerios the next morning. Despite Mari's late night confessional, I had still slept pretty well. My old mantra therefore seemed to be right again: running was all very well, but sleep was better. It was a nice consequence of actually sleeping, that I also got up at the same time as my family, and had breakfast with them.

"I'm surprised you're here sweetheart," Mum had said. "After all of Charlotte's revelations last night I would have thought that today of all days, you'd be already at work."

I had shrugged. "Me too. I think the potential work short circuited my worrying tendencies."

Mari had scoffed. "That, and the whiskey. It was still out when I got home."

"What time did you get in?" asked Mum.

"Yes Mari, when?"

She had scowled at me. "It's ruddy Edgar Linton all over again."

"Mari, language!"

Maggie frowned. "Who is Edgar Linton?"

"A character in Wuthering Heights," said Mum. "He's supposed to be very good looking, and very gentle and loving…"

"All good character traits," I said, over my coffee.

"…although a bit weak and dispirited," she finished.

Mari smiled at me, smugly. "See?" she said. "He's not like Edgar."

"Who isn't?" asked Maggie.

"Marc."

"No," said Mum, "thank goodness. And he's not like Heathcliff, before you try and say that Miz."

Mari scowled.

"He's far too sensible for that."

Mari's scowl cleared a little.

"Bring him round to dinner one night," Mum said. "I don't know him half as well as I'd like."

Mari's expression dropped right into wary. "Really?"

"Yeah, Mari," I said, enjoying myself much more than was reasonable. "He barely knows my name."

She rolled her eyes. "Are you going to cook?"

"Hell, no."

"Ellis," Mum said, warningly.

"You can," I said, back to Mari. "Show him your domestic goddess side."

"Is that the one with big boobs who licks chocolate off her fingers?"

"Maggie!" said Mum, shocked. "Honestly. You girls should be a better example for your sister." She paused. "And yes. It is."


Marc, to his credit, was delightful. He tucked his glasses, which made him more, not less attractive, into the collar of his shirt, and then he skimmed our bookshelves, exclaiming over the books that we shared, asking to borrow ones that he didn't have. He drained the heavy spaghetti pot. He laughed at Maggie's stories of adventure and daring, and defected to Mum over everything. He did appear to be perfect. We were pretty certain of it when, after dinner, he then insisted on doing the washing-up.

"You're a guest!" we said without much conviction.

He had grinned and shooed us away, before taking his place at the sink, Mari leaning in beside him to dry the dishes.

Mum and I exchanged glances then followed Maggie over to the sofas. We weren't ones to complain when not having to wash or dry up. Mari had trained Mags well, but I suspected that she was happy to have a few moments of just them in cosy, domesticated bliss. It all looked very normal. It tugged at my heart. I wasn't jealous about the prospect of her sleeping with him. Despite a good evening, I was still unsure about it. I was, however, incredibly envious of their close, easy comfort. It was how it had felt with Ed, before. I missed it right then, horribly.

Ten minutes of sloshing and clanging and laughter later, Mari and Marc brought over a tray of coffee and the fancy chocolates which Marc had brought with him. For us. Making him rise even higher in our estimation.

"So," said Mum, all fake ease, "how much longer do you have working on your phD?"

"A while longer yet," he said, wrapping elegant hands around a steaming mug, and settling next to Mari on the sofa. "I've got a lot of research to do. A lot more houses to see."

"I'd think you'll be a lifetime if you spend this long at every house."

Mari blushed, but Marc grinned right back at me. "Yes, so would I," he said. "I'd better try not to meet beautiful girls at all of them."

He slung his arm around her shoulders, and, all embarrassment aside, she leant in next to him. "I'd think that you might find more competition in places that had any kind of social life," she said, grinning up at him.

"There was Brandon," put in Maggie, eager to join in.

"Maggie!" scolded Mum, but it was too late. Maggie's slip up hung, silently, for a long moment.

Marc didn't look too perturbed. "Really?" he asked, smirking back down at Mari.

"No," she said, "it was nothing." For all her smiling, shrugging and rolling eyes, her ease did not in any way match Marc's.

"Anyway," put in Mum. "It was quite a while ago. I'm sure that if there had been anything, it is well behind everyone now."

I wasn't sure that Mum was really helping much, but Mari nodded.

"He's older than you though, isn't he?" said Marc. "I mean, maybe you, Jill, should have a crack at him?"

She giggled. I didn't even know that Mum could giggle, but Marc, with his cheekbones and his smile and his charm had drawn one out of her.

"No?" he asked. "I think you'd make a lovely pair."

Mum giggled again.

"I think you're too good for him." He turned to me, raising his eyebrows and, grinning. "Maybe Ellis, instead. What do you say? You fancy a scruffy cook with no discernable sense of style or how to use a razor."

"Oh but we would have made a lovely pair?" asked Mum, laughing.

Marc shrugged. "I thought you could do with slumming it for a bit. Shake it up a bit Jill."

She giggled. Again.

"And it's not slumming," I said, a little indignant for Brandon. "He's a great guy."

"I like him," put in Maggie. "He went to look at those intruders that time. Except, of course, that was Ed…"

"And who's Ed?" asked Marc, clearly in the swing of it. He turned back to Mari. "Not some other spurned lover of yours?"

I took the decision to stand up, too fast, it turned out, for my coffee, which slopped over my hand. I didn't care. "Well," I said, quickly. "I could do with getting some work done before I turn in. It was nice to see you Marc."

He smirked, all too knowingly. "You too."

"You're going to work?" said Mum. "We have a guest, El."

"It's fine," said Marc. "You go."

I turned, relieved, to the door, and had it open and ready.

"We'll discuss who this mysterious Ed is, and how he's pining for Mari."

"Oh, he's not pining for Mari," said Maggie, helpfully. "It's Ellis…"

I slammed the door on my way out for good measure.


"You're working too hard."

I was pouring over spread-sheets and notes, glad of the company but not terribly responsive.

"Ellis?" he said again. "You're looking thin, too."

I looked up and scratched the bridge of my nose, absentmindedly. "You're looking…old."

Brandon rolled his eyes at my smile. "That's fast getting old." He paused. "You're looking too thin."

I put down my fluorescent orange marker. "I really don't know how that could possibly be true," I said. "You force feed me brownies half the day."

He shrugged, then unceremoniously dropped a fudge-coloured slab of cake off the spatula, next to my papers, landing on the wooden surface with an almighty whump. I looked at it. Then I looked at him.

"It's a blondie," he said, then turned away to the sink.


He appeared in my office the next day with a Tupperware box full of the rest of the blondies, too sweet by half for general consumption, but just right for an estate manager already hopped up on caffeine.

"I have news," he said, dropping into a chair

I raised an eyebrow. "And you want to share it?"

He smiled, slowly. "I know. Weird. Just hear me out though."

I settled back in my chair, wrested the blondies from his grasp, and prised open the box. "Go on," I said, through a mouthful of cake.

He shook his head at me, yet again bemused by my eating habits. Then he came to. "I got the house."

"WHAT?"

He smiled a little more, a sliver of pride creeping into his voice. "I sold my flat for much more than I thought I would, so there was just enough to offer it straight out for the house."

"Cash in hand?" I said, contemplating another blondie. "That must have been tempting for them."

"Exactly," he said. "It got sorted out seriously fast."

"And you got the house?"

"With all its six bedrooms and Aga and pond and dodgy wiring." He grinned. "At last, there's somewhere for little Mimi and Bruno to play."

I smiled back. "I think I named your hypothetical son Jasper, but I guess you'll have some say in it. Did you come clean to the estate agent?"

He leaned over and stole a blondie. "What, that you were not in fact my wife, nor were you pregnant?"

I grinned at the memory.

"Yes," he said, dusting off his hands. "She told me to make a play for you anyway."

"Wow. And is that actually why you're here?"

He grinned, albeit briefly. "No. I'm here to invite you to my effortlessly cool house-warming party that Cate is insisting I throw."

"But of course."

He rolled his eyes. "I think my parents have cried off it, but Jim, Cate, will be there, Tom and Charlotte, Lou if she's around, Lucy maybe…"

I winced.

He raised his eyebrows. "Or not?"

"It's fine," I said. "I don't mind."

Brandon nodded. Then he paused, awkwardly. "Is…are…is Marc still around?"

I smiled a little, despite myself. "No, not right now. He finally got permission to go somewhere in Scotland for research, and what he thought would be a week in a holiday cottage is now two weeks in the guest wing."

Brandon nodded. "Wow. So…uh…is Mari still here? She didn't go too?" He cringed.

"No," I said, putting him out of his misery quickly. "She's really crabby about it. He sprung it on her just yesterday and now he's already gone."

He nodded again, slowly. "You think she'd want to come? Take her mind of missing him or something?"

I passed the blondies back to him. "You really are a nice guy."

He smiled a little, shrugging. "Or a pushover."

"Hey, join the club!"

He smiled again. "So you guys will come?"

"Sure."

"OK." He stood up. "No, keep them," he said as I tried to give him the cake back. "See you tomorrow."


"This can't be the right place," said Mari, studying the map. "It must be wrong."

"Nope." I turned off the road and into the drive where, already, several cars were parked.

"But this is…" Mari got out of the car, still entirely disbelieving. She frowned. She looked at the map. Then she sighed. "This is ridiculous," she muttered. "We might as well go back."

I slammed the door. She had been complaining through the whole journey. Twenty minutes of solid moaning, preceded by half an hour of grumbling while I dressed. "If you don't want to be here…"

Mari shrugged. "It's fine," she said. "I'm just not sure that this is right."

"It is."

We spun around to find Brandon walking up the drive, carrier bags in each hand.

He smiled, slowly. "Cate and I had our wires crossed. Thankfully, there's a little shop just down the road." He walked past us. "You coming in?"

"Sure," I said, and followed him past the pond and round the drive. Mari followed, slowly.

In the early evening light, the house looked beautiful. Not the grand old dame of Barton Park, nor the cool elegance of Norland, Brandon's new house was altogether more home than house. Budding creepers twined up the front of the house which seemed to shimmer, the rising moonlight bouncing of the grey wood shingles. Lights shone a golden glow from the long windows. Animals chirruped from the undergrowth and something splashed in the pond. Some soft music was coming out of the house, drowned out at regular intervals by laughter.

"It looks even more beautiful that I remembered," I said, and elbowed Brandon in the ribs. He looked down and smiled at me.

"Good." He looked back up at Mari, who was stock still. "You all right?"

She took a breath. Then she sighed. "Marc's always talking disparagingly about these houses with no symmetry or classical features and…" She paused and frowned. "There's no reason why it should be so…so lovely, but it is." She sighed again, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

Brandon pursed his lips. I thought for a second that he was annoyed: she had, after all not just mentioned Marc, but said that his house had no symmetry or redeeming features, but then, slowly and quietly he said, "There is a road from the eye to the heart that does not go through the intellect."

Mari looked up at him. "Who said that?"

"G.K. Chesterton," he said and then paused, frowning. "Uh…Men do not quarrel about the meaning of sunsets; they never dispute that the hawthorn says the best and wittiest thing about the spring." He paused. "Or something like that."

Mari smiled. "I like that."

He smiled back. "Me too."

Then he led the way inside, and I was left speechless.


Thank you reviewing friends, once again. I greatly appreciate it. You could be forgiven for thinking that I didn't care, given that it's been a month since I last updated, but things have been hectic and then I went on holiday, so here I am. Back, rested, having finished reading Northanger Abbey again and enjoying Wimbledon. This post is deeply un-seasonal. Sorry about that. We'll be back to summer again in a twinkling. Just hang in there.