Never Too Late (5 page)

“Well, it’s always a delight to see you…” Martin began with a bright smile.

“I have a buyer for Barrowdene.”

Martin’s mouth fell open, and the foreboding in Molly’s chest clenched into a vise of ice.

Martin found his voice again. “That… that’s rather sudden.”

“Yes, I realize.” Francine shifted uncomfortably in her chair and glanced at Molly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you earlier, Molly, but things were finalized only yesterday.”

Molly leaned against the door frame and nodded numbly.

Two years, she’d been dreading this. It hurt to hear, like a final nail being hammered in. She could find a small place to rent for herself and Nan, but Barrowdene with its Rose Cottage was more than just a roof over their heads. It held a lifetime of memories. It was like losing her grandfather all over again, and a deep melancholy settled over her.

Martin frowned. “Finalized? And just who is the buyer?”

“I’ve been in talks with the CEO of Hennessy & Solarin.”

“Hennessy?” Martin roared, and Molly gaped at him.

Bright pink scorched Francine’s cheeks, and her voice wavered slightly. “Of course, you’ve heard of them. I thought they’d be best to take on such a large estate and—”

“That man,” Martin growled, leaning across the desk towards her. “He has a reputation with women, and it isn’t pretty.”

Francine’s blue eyes went wide. “Martin, please. This is business.”

He pulled back. His face beet red. But then, bounding up from his chair, he turned to stand staring out of the panelled sash window behind him, his hands clasped behind his back, and his big shoulders bowed. Molly had never seen him like this. Martin didn’t lose his cool, and never with a client.

Francine nervously cleared her throat. “I’d like you to see to the necessary details.”

He turned back to her. “That house has been in your family for more than two hundred years. How can you trust a big-shot developer, better known for building skyscrapers and glass behemoths, to treat Barrowdene with the respect it deserves? He’ll either raze the place to the ground or turn it into a modernist atrocity that sticks out like a sore thumb in the village.”

“You care so much about this village!” Francine snapped. “Well, I don’t. And it’s never particularly cared for me. But, yes, Jake will treat Barrowdene with all the respect it deserves.”

“Jake? Just how well do you know him?”

Francine arched a mutinous brow. “Well enough.”

“Really?” Martin’s face had become a beetroot again. “And he’s given you a personal guarantee, has he? Well, supposing he doesn’t turn Barrowdene to rubble, he’ll still be looking to slap some paint on it and sell it off to the highest bidder. Hennessy doesn’t care about Barrowdene, Francine. It’s just profit to him.”

“After the sale, it will be his to do as he pleases.”

“Francine… reconsider.” He came around the desk towards her. “Barrowdene is your inheritance, your history. Your aunt wanted you to have a place of your own to—”

Francine leaped from her chair and glared at him. “Eugenie didn’t give two hoots about me. She would have disinherited me on the spot if she could have. It was all about Barrowdene for her, always.”

Martin stared at her, looking as if he was struggling for words, and the room filled with something so intense that Molly suddenly felt like an intruder. 

“But I need you to…”

Francine shook her head. “Things change.”

Molly inched away from the doorway. “I–I’d better go tidy up downstairs.”

“No, it’s okay, Molly,” Francine said. “I’ll be leaving now.”

And with a last sad glance at Martin, she walked past Molly and out of the office.

Ten minutes later, Molly was on the office steps, locking up by herself, a rather forlorn looking Martin having left soon after Francine. 

She frowned as she pulled the key from the lock. How was Nan going to take this news? The bright summer day had suddenly lost much of its enchantment.

Clara Ainsley’s plump, eager face poked out of the post-office entrance next door. “Molly, I heard Francine is selling up and leaving Appleby?” 

Good grief, the woman had supersonic hearing. Only one old wall separated the two properties, but it was still a thick wall. Did all of Appleby know by now?

Molly shot her a polite smile. “You’d really have to ask Martin.”

Clara looked after Nan like her own sister, and for that Molly had a soft spot for her, but that didn’t extend to feeding her rampant gossiping. How someone like Nan, who pretty much kept herself to herself, ended up chummy with a motormouth like Clara was one of the mysteries of the universe. Stowing her keys in her shoulder bag, she made to leave.

But Clara bustled out, pushing her half-moon glasses up her nose, ready to talk. “Not that I’m surprised, mind. She didn’t really fit in here, did she?”

“I don’t know Francine that well, so…” Molly shrugged.

“Oh, I always thought her a classy gal, but there’s talk you know.”

Molly glanced around for an out. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Well, we never heard that she married or settled, yet she was rich even before Eugenie left her Barrowdene.”

“Perhaps she worked and earned the money? It’s not unheard of.”

Clara chuckled. “If you can call it work.” She leaned closer. “They say there was a Maharaja, and she was the jewel in his harem. He was so besotted with her that he had her set up for life.”

Molly only just stopped her jaw from hitting the floor.

She’d heard some of the tattle passed around about Francine, but this blew everything out of the water. “I think
they
may be rather wide off the mark there, Clara. Francine’s always kept to herself. It doesn’t feel right to be making such wild guesses about her.”

Clara sniffed. “It’s always the quiet ones you need to watch out for.”

“I’ll remember that.” Molly smiled. “Nan will be expecting me. I’d better get along.”

“Ooh, you and your Nan will be looking for somewhere to stay now, won’t you?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Well, you’re welcome to my spare room. It’ll be good to have company in the place. Tell Lucy I said so.”

“Thank you. I’ll let Nan know.”

But her mind was already made up to a resounding no. Nan and Clara Ainsley may get on fine, but she couldn’t stomach waking up to a daily morning cup of village gossip and scandal.

“Now, there’s a sight for sore eyes,” Clara said, her eyebrows shooting up as she looked past Molly.

Molly turned to see Brian sauntering towards them, and her stomach sank to her shoes.

“Isn’t he looking dapper?” Clara gave an appreciative click of her tongue. “The city air’s done him good.”

Brian did indeed look as if he’d just stepped out of an executive magazine, with his well-cut dark trousers, his berry-blue shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and his dark hair slicked back. 

Molly resisted the sudden urge to run a tidying hand through her ragtag curls, resigning herself to the fact that she must look like a hot mess at the tail end of a busy day.

Clara grinned at him. “How’s your new young lady, Brian?”

Molly flushed at this coarse reminder she’d been replaced.

“Doing fine.” Brian’s cool expression didn’t change a jot, but his clipped tone warned Clara not to overstep her boundaries.

“And when do we plebs get to see her?” Clara ploughed on.

His smile was condescending. “I don’t think that’s so important, do you?”

“I really should get going,” Molly said, bounding down the few steps.

But Brian strolled up to her. “I’ll walk with you.”

“No! I mean, there’s no need. It’s out of your way.”

“It’s not.” And he jerked his head towards the road, signalling for her to come on.

Molly glanced at Clara, who stood watching them with popping eyes. This was going to make the evening news in Appleby. And with a silent groan of dismay, she hurried after Brian.

She rounded on him as soon as they were out of sight of the post office. “You shouldn’t be doing this, Brian.”

“Doing what?”

“Walking with me! People will talk.”

He shrugged. “Why do you care what a bunch of busybodies say?”

“That’s so typical of you. As long as it doesn’t affect you, it doesn’t matter. I live here. I have to face these people every day.”

He laughed. “You’re such a prude, Molly. Too prim and proper for your own good.”

She fumed silently as they walked. Of course she was a prude, that came with being boring, didn’t it? How could she forget?

“Actually, I wanted to apologize,” he said, glancing at her.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Apologize?” All of a sudden it became important to get this closure on their dead relationship.

“For kissing you.”

She stared at him.

“Back at the vicarage,” he said with a grin. “Though, to be fair, you kissed me too.”

Embarrassed heat rose in her cheeks. Had she really expected he would apologize about Abby?

“I never should have allowed that,” she mumbled. Then resolve straightened her spine, and she stopped and looked straight into his eyes. “And it’ll never happen again.”

They had reached the place where St Mary’s Lane joined Main Street. The roads were empty, the blue sky cloudless, and only the quiet church stood, tall and proud, as a witness behind them.

Brian reached out and stroked her cheek with a gentle thumb. “That’s a shame.”

Her eyes widened at his touch. “What do you mean?” she whispered.

“What is it about you, Molly?” His eyes searched her face. “I shouldn’t be here, but I can’t leave well alone.”

“You chose Abby.”

“But maybe I need you more.”

She gasped.

He stroked his thumb over her bottom lip. “You’ve always completed me, Molly. Remember what we were like together?”

“How could I forget.”

He’d been her one and only lover, the crucible in whom her innocent, wide-eyed fantasies had melted into love, caught fire, and then crumbled to dust. Now only a hole remained where her heart had once stood, and his words weren’t filling it as she’d once imagined they would.

She stepped back from his touch. “What about Abby?”

“What about her? This is about you and me.”

So that was it. Need, not love. He wanted her, but not enough to give up Abby. It was a slap in the face, and cursing her own errant feelings, she glared at him. “There is no you and me, not anymore.”

“You don’t mean that.” He stepped closer. “Once, you promised me love until death. You don’t let go that easily, Molly.”

“I did love you once. But I…” His knowing gaze drilled into her and though she searched for the words to deny it, the painful truth lurking inside whispered out. “I… I still do.”

His eyes glittered and his lips curved into a small triumphant smile.

“But I’m a fool to do so, Brian.” Self-disgust ripped into a fine anger that forced her head high. “And no matter what I feel, I won’t demean myself for you.”

He reached for her. “It’s not like that. We can be the same again.”

“No!” Evading him, she turned and sprinted across the road towards the safety of Barrowdene.

“Molly.” His mocking voice called after her. “I don’t let go that easily either.”

The anger fuelling her drained as soon as she ran through the open gates of Barrowdene’s driveway, leaving her trembling in disbelief.

How dare he? 

And how could she still love him? Was she begging for punishment? If at any moment he’d said he loved her, she’d have been in his arms, Abby or no Abby. 

Blinking back tears at her own miserable neediness, she hurried on, yearning for the calm of Rose Cottage.

She passed the stables at the side of the house and the field where the children’s riding lessons were still taking place. As she came around the back, Francine’s red Mercedes, with its black soft-top folded down, was parked in front of the double garage.

Oh no, Nan would have heard about Barrowdene’s sale by now.

But Nan wouldn’t complain, even though out of all of them Nan’s memories of Barrowdene were the deepest: her first and only love, marriage, family, a grandchild, and loss. 

So much loss. 

For Nan, laughter and tears were etched into every tree and stone in Barrowdene.

They should have left two years ago when Eugenie died, but Francine had taken a liking to Nan and asked her to stay on as housekeeper. No such hope this time. They had to start new. But what if her Nan sat and withered away without Barrowdene to give her the memories to live for?

Rose Cottage came into view, standing beside the kitchen garden which overflowed with a rich green profusion of vegetables and leafy herbs. Nate may love his drink, but he was a skilled groundsman who took pride in his work, and like the rest of Barrowdene’s grounds, the kitchen garden stood as a beautiful testament to that.

Even in her distress, she looked at the neat rows of plants with pride. Her grandfather had cleared this land and planted the little garden here. Many of these plants still bore his touch, and Nate had maintained his legacy better than any of them had hoped.

She was just steps away from the cottage when the back door opened in the main house on the other side of the kitchen garden.

“Molly,” Francine called, coming out into the garden. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Molly shot a longing glance at Rose Cottage, but dutifully turned and made her way over to Francine, carefully watching her step between rows of runner beans that climbed up tall, thin bamboo poles on either side of the narrow path. She looked up when she passed the bean rows and slammed to a halt as a tall man followed Francine out of the house.

Instant recognition flared in his amber eyes and hot blood scorched up her cheeks.

“This is Jake Hennessy,” Francine was saying, coming closer as Molly just stood and goggled at him. “Jake, this is Molly, Lucy’s granddaughter. She’s quite the historian. She knows absolutely everything there is to know about Barrowdene.”

His gorgeous features came alive with amused curiosity. “A historian?”

He was dressed several degrees smarter than she’d last seen him. His overlong golden hair was neatly brushed back, and his biker gear had been swapped for a tawny blazer and dark brown chinos.