Never Too Late (3 page)

The kitchen was straight ahead, but avoiding it, she bounded up the wooden staircase and sped to her bedroom, one of two in the tiny cottage, and just large enough for her single bed, wardrobe, a dressing table and a chair. 

Closing the door, she leaned back against it, letting her racing heart calm down.

This was home, and here she wasn’t lost. She belonged.

She kicked off her shoes and sank down on to the pale oak floor, stretching her legs out before her over the thick-pile wool rug that covered most of the square room. Muted lavender walls and misty-blue wooden furniture surrounded her. She’d chosen these colours as a child and helped her grandfather paint her room. This was who she was, but it wasn’t what Brian wanted.

Surging to her feet with renewed anger, she unzipped the turquoise dress, and not caring if it ripped or not, dragged it off her body and threw it to the back of the wardrobe. It could stay there and rot. She never wanted to see it again.

She pulled on a white cotton sundress patterned with scattered red roses, and stood regarding her rather ordinary self in the long mirror beside the dressing table. Too short. Too slim. Too pale. She was no match for Abby and she never would be. Tears threatened, but a small part of her refused to cave and she pushed her chin up.

So what? So what if she was boring? This was who she was and she was going to be happy with it. She’d had it with relationships. She would never put her heart out there to be trampled on ever again. 

The cottage’s little kitchen, with its bright yellow walls, white wood cabinets, and worn oak flooring, glowed with a herb-scented warmth that hugged Molly as she entered.

Nan glanced up from the soup pot she was stirring. Her long, curly white hair was piled up in its usual messy bun, and despite the warmth, she wore her favourite pink wool shawl over a simple beige dress. Pink suited her, giving her soft plumpness a comforting look.

She dropped the ladle into the pot and came over to catch Molly up in a fierce hug. “I heard. He’s back, and he’s not alone.”

It was hardly surprising. News in Appleby travelled faster than the speed of light.

Hugging her back, Molly rested her head down on her grandmother’s shoulders. “I’m leaving well alone, Nan. I want nothing to do with him.”

“Well, of course you don’t,” Nan said, stroking back Molly’s unruly curls. “He was never right for you. I told you many a time over the past year that you needed to move on. Still, it’s better late than never. At least I’ll be spared the spectacle of seeing you as Mrs Wilkins and married into Kathleen’s side of the family.”

With a giggle, Molly kissed Nan’s cheek. “When you put it that way…” 

She stepped back and scrutinized her grandmother’s slightly swollen left leg. It was encased in compression stockings, and had been for a couple of weeks now following an operation to remove a varicose vein. 

She pulled out one of the oak chairs from under the round kitchen table. “Why don’t you sit down and take it easy on the leg? I’ll finish the soup.”

“Fiddlesticks. I’ve been taking it easy all day.” Ignoring the chair, Nan returned to the soup pot on the stove.

One glance at the table, however, told Molly there had been no taking it easy. Two large shopping baskets overflowing with a rainbow of fresh fruit and vegetable stood on it. “All day, huh? Then who bought all this stuff?”

“Clara. She sent it along with Nate.”

Molly raised her eyebrows. Clara Ainsley, Appleby’s nosy-parker post-mistress, having anything to do with Nate, Barrowdene’s cranky groundsman, was newsworthy indeed. “And she didn’t skin him alive in the process?”

Chuckling, Nan came to rummage though one of the baskets. “He was sober in the afternoon. Here, she sent your magazine.” She handed Molly the latest edition of
Period House
. “It came early.”

Molly flipped through the profusion of eye-catching photos of old and stately homes, instantly absorbed.

“It was Clara who phoned me about Brian. According to her, the girl’s quite a catch and Kathleen is over the moon.” Nan’s voice from the stove brought Molly back to the kitchen. Trust Clara Ainsley to know everything everywhere immediately. 

She put the magazine down on the table. “Her name’s Abby. I didn’t hang around to find out her history, but no doubt, Clara will be an Abby expert come tomorrow and everyone will know more.”

Nan regarded her. She never wore glasses. She didn’t need them. Her glacial blue eyes, darker than Molly’s own, always saw more than what was there on the surface. “I don’t need her history. I need to know this isn’t a passing fancy of Brian’s and you won’t be reeled back in.”

“It isn’t. They’re hellbent on getting married at St Mary’s sooner than soon, and Brian and I are more than finished.”

“With that lad, I’ll believe it when I see it. And I hope you told him exactly where you stand.” She turned back to her soup pot with a frown. “You’re too giving for your own good, Molly. Always at his beck and call, and he couldn’t even make up his mind whether he wanted to stay with you or not.” She looked at Molly then, her frown deepening. “He’s gone around with the impression he owns you long enough, but that stops now. You are off-limits to him.”

The memory of that kiss seared through Molly’s mind, and she couldn’t meet Nan’s steady gaze, glancing down at the table instead “Brian and I are over, Nan. You needn’t worry. Why do you have enough food here to feed the whole village?”

Nan sighed. “Francine’s coming home tomorrow and she may have guests with her.”

Molly looked up at that. Francine Lamont owned Barrowdene House and the several acres of land surrounding it, but she rarely stayed here, preferring her townhouse in South London. The infrequent visits suited Molly. It made Nan’s job as housekeeper that much lighter.

“Guests? How many?”

“No idea. But knowing Francine, I’d say only one or two. Still, I thought it best to be prepared.”

Molly sped through a mental checklist. “The house will need airing, new linen… I’ll ask Martin to give me the morning off tomorrow.”

“You’ll do no such thing! You get on with your job. I’m perfectly capable.” Molly opened her mouth to protest but Nan held up a silencing hand. “I’ve asked a couple of girls from the village to drop by in the morning and help.”

“That’s a relief. You really shouldn’t be tiring yourself.”

“And what would I do sitting around on my backside all day? What my leg needs is exercise.” Her expression became wistful. “It’s a shame Francine never stays longer than a day or two. Barrowdene is a family house, it needs people in it. When I was first here, you could feel the heart of the place whenever the little ones came to visit. It was the same when you used to toddle after me wherever I went in the house. You always cheered up Eugenie.”

Molly smiled, remembering Eugenie Thomas, Francine’s strict maiden aunt and the last in a long line of Thomases to own Barrowdene. Eugenie had employed a sixteen year old, inexperienced Nan, hand-selected her from a host of hopefuls. The sour old lady had suffered no fools and demanded perfection in all things, but Molly had grown up seeing her as family. She’d spent many a childhood evening listening to stories of Barrowdene and the past at the foot of Eugenie’s rocking chair in front of a cosy fire. A faint sadness crossed her. Everything had changed two years ago. She’d watched the fortunes of the big house shift after Eugenie died, just six months before her own beloved grandfather took his last breath.

Nan tasted the soup and gave a satisfied nod. “That’s ready. Did you see Nate on your way here?”

“No, the gatehouse looked empty.” 

Nan tutted. “That man. He’ll be down the pub soaking up more than the sunshine, I bet. Go find him, child. I need him at least half-sober to see to the gardens before Francine arrives tomorrow. Promise him a hefty serving of the best beef soup he’s ever tasted.”

“That should get him.” With a grin, Molly turned to go.

“And, Molly,” Nan said, making her look back. “Keep well away from Brian, child. You deserve better. Let him lie in the bed he chose.”

* * *

She reached the King’s Head Pub ten minutes later, and people were drinking and chatting in small clumps out front. It looked like nobody wanted to sit inside the building while the sun still beckoned. 

Appleby was a rabbit warren of small nooks and byways spiking off from the wide central Main Street. The King’s Head, Appleby’s one and only pub, stood outside the cluster of small shops lining Main Street, on the curve where the road turned to pass St. Mary’s church and Barrowdene, before racing out of the village altogether. The village itself, had existed since medieval times, knocked down by various conquering armies, built again, and later expanded higgledy-piggledy as the armies disappeared and families thrived. It was a beautiful snare for tourists, who usually wandered off Main Street and ended up going in circles, oohing and aahing at the large orchards and cream limestone cottages with thatched roofs. And it was only after they’d passed the same limestone cottage three times that they thought of knocking on a door and begging for help.

As she neared the pub, a group of men, pints in hand, were clustered around three motorbikes parked to one side of the pub’s entrance. 

The King’s Head was a favourite pit-stop for tired and thirsty bikers hailing from the city and its outskirts. Appleby’s wide main road was well-maintained but quiet, much adored by those who wanted to exercise the legal limits of their inner speed demon through the lush green English countryside. 

One of the bike’s caught her eye. It stood out against the two silver ones on either side of it, with black leather seats and a sleek gunmetal-grey body that glinted with futuristic malevolence in the evening sunlight.

“Triumph’s the best,” one of the men pronounced to his companions as they scrutinized the bike. “It’s a beast, it is.”

Beastly expensive too, no doubt. She slowed as she neared the bike. It wasn’t entirely shiny and brand-new. The wheels and base were spattered with mud and dust as if it had been well-ridden that day. The owner had to be from the city, most likely a young financier or banker who wore smart suits to the office and poured himself into tough-looking bike leathers on his days off. She’d seen plenty of them, charming and insincere from the ends of their perfectly coiffed hair to the tips of their polished boots. They seemed to think any woman in the village below the age of thirty would jump on the back of their bikes at the mere flash of their wealth.

Seeing her, the men smiled and nodded their hellos before returning to their once-over of the bikes. Molly breathed a small sigh of relief as she passed them. There had been no trace of knowing or pity in their eyes. News about Brian and his new fiancée hadn’t reached as far as the pub yet. It was only a matter of time though, but at least she’d be left alone today.

“Molly! I was about to call you.” 

Anna, Sophie’s younger sister, rushed out of the pub. Anna had Sophie’s colouring, but the similarities ended there. Her dark hair was pixie cut and shot through with electric-blue streaks in the front, and her bottle-green eyes sparkled with a fierce independence nowhere to be seen in Sophie’s softer ones. The fact that she worked as a bartender in the pub exasperated Kathleen, and it seemed as if that was exactly why Anna had taken the job.

Molly quickened her steps. “What’s wrong? Is it Nate?”

“Yeah, it’s Nate.” Anna wiped her hands on the black bar apron wrapped around her gamine hips and grabbing Molly’s arm, pulled her into the half-empty pub. “He’s going mental out there with some customers. You’d better get him off their backs, or the lads here are going to get involved.”

She didn’t release Molly until they’d reached the pub’s crowded back garden. 

The smokey smell of barbecued meat rose and mingled with the dull sweet notes of beer and cider, and every round wooden table with its four chairs was occupied, and all the colourful parasols open.

Nate stood beside a nearby table where three men and a woman were seated, all staring at him like he was a giant slug that had just crawled out of the greenery and threatened to dive into their drinks.

“Yer all talk, yer type,” he slurred to a broad-shouldered man who sat with his back to Molly. “If you got the guts, let’s show the li’l lady who’s the real man she’ll be wanting to spend the night with.”

The man shot to his feet and towered over Nate, and catching sight of his face, Molly could only stand and gape.

He was beautiful, like a golden Michelangelo statue come to life. His chiseled features, sharp cheekbones, and straight nose, even his lips looked like they’d been lovingly carved from living marble. Honey-gold hair swept overlong across his brow, nearly to the base of his neck, and the same gold reflected in the hint of beard covering his strong jaw. Ensnared, her gaze continued on down wide shoulders in a fitted white t-shirt tucked into rugged, black leather trousers, and ended at heavy, dusty biker boots. She had no doubt that she’d just found the owner of the mean machine outside.

The man moved slightly, glaring at Nate, the corded muscles in his arms flexing and bunching as he clenched his hands into fists at his side.

Nate teetered into a fighting stance, waggling his scrawny fists in the air. “Come on then, pretty boy. I’ll rearrange yer face for you.”

And Molly snapped out of her trance. 

“No, Nate!” She flung herself between them, landing in the firing line of an amber-green laser stare that threatened to strip the flesh from her bones.

Jake was ready to pummel the little weasel-faced man deep into the ground, when a fairy appeared.

He stared. Bloody hell!

She was tiny, no taller than his chest. A mass of light-blonde curls rioted around an exquisite face with delicate features and full pink lips that cried out to be kissed. Hard.

She was staring back at him, a rose flush to her pretty cheeks, her blue eyes wide.

No, not just plain blue. He looked closer. Her irises were filled with so many pale radiating rays, the colour was closer to white. Pure ice-blue.

“You stay out of this, Molly gal.” The weasel placed a hand on her slim waist in an effort to push her out of the way.