The Runaway Bridesmaid (12 page)

So, ignoring a sledgehammer of emotions and marshalling her last breath of energy, she trooped down the path, her stilettos sinking low into the gravel. As she heaved and pulled at the wooden post, the curtains of the neighbouring cottage twitched.

Rosie giggled, and then laughed out loud at the image she must present. There she was, in the twilight, in her Louboutin heels, black Armani skirt suit riding up her thigh, golden hair flying in the mounting breeze, attacking an unyielding wooden post like a demented banshee.

At last the post gave way and, with a wave to the curious onlooker and as much dignity as she could muster, she marched back towards the front door with her placard. But pride often goes before a fall. Her spindle-like heel caught in a crack in the step and she tripped over her feet, leaving the heel stuck in the crevice. Reaching the sanctuary of the hallway, she slammed the front door on the scene of her humiliation and laughed and laughed until she wept.

Chapter Fifteen

As a symphony of larks tuned up on the window ledge and the sun cut through the gap in the curtains to chase the darkness from Bernice’s spare bedroom, Rosie was roused from her slumber. She had no idea what time it was, but for the first time in years she had slept uninterrupted. Throughout her life insomnia had been a constant companion, winding its vicious tentacles around her whirling mind night after night, chasing her thoughts through catacombs with no exit. But that night had been blissfully devoid of such nightmares.

Maybe if she concentrated on the immediate issues of smartening up Thornleigh Lodge and its garden and involving herself on the periphery of village life in Brampton and Carnleigh, she could shut out the implosion of her life over the pond. But perhaps she could do more than that. She could sleep here and, she had to admit as she stretched her limbs en route to the powder-pink bathroom, she felt energised for the first time in months.

She wallowed in a hot bubble bath and then sauntered down to the kitchen, goosebumps pressing against her apricot silk robe in the chill of the April morning. As a brisk wind whistled its melody through the branches of the cherry tree, her eyes lingered on the monstrosity that was the only source of heat and cooking in the cottage – the ancient cream Aga.

One thing at a time. She clicked on the kettle and brewed herself a pot of English Breakfast tea. She hooked her fingers through the handle of her favourite china cup with a single pink rosebud painted on the side and opened the kitchen door into the garden.

The dew-drenched grasses and ferns slashed at her naked ankles and knees but, even that early in the morning, the garden offered a kaleidoscope of colours, vibrant with awakening life – green shoots thrusting their presence into the sunlight, tulips interspersed with highly scented freesias. The faint breeze tickled their velvety petals, an invitation to spread their glory as the bourgeoning cherry tree projected its grandeur over all it surveyed, dispersing shafts of warm spring rays.

Whilst Rosie recognised very few of the shrubs and flowers in the garden, her abiding memory from her previous visit was of her aunt’s herb garden – her proudest achievement and an ever-evolving work of art. As she brushed past the meticulously laid-out chequerboard of herbs, their fragrant aroma of lavender and rosemary, of oregano and thyme, wafted up to her nostrils and, in that moment, she determined that if she did nothing else with her time here, she would spruce up the herb garden to its former glory in honour of her aunt and she would start the task today.

She trotted back upstairs to dress for the day. Of course she had brought nothing with her from New York that could possibly scream ‘a horticultural day out in an English country garden’! It was her Armani skirt suit that she had worn to her aunt’s funeral or a pair of black, DKNY jeans. Well, that prevented her from prevaricating.

However, as she returned to the back door, the bulbous clouds had turned to a menacing shade of pewter and were playing a game of celestial tag. The deluge of the previous night had resumed. Well, she supposed, the meteorological gods were sticking to their advertising slogan at least. She hoped that April showers would bring May flowers.

Never mind. As gardening was off the agenda, she would attempt one of her aunt’s recipes from the journal. She’d just have to learn how to tame the Aga. She replenished the huge brown teapot and settled down to study the recipe journal. But she didn’t have to go beyond the very first page to know exactly what would be her debut in the baking arena.

Strawberry Tarts for Broken Hearts

Strawberries are often referred to as the fruit of love. When the strawberries in this recipe are sliced as directed they appear heart-shaped, bursting with sweetness and zinging with a luscious rich red, the colour of love and passion. They are nutrient-rich and packed with healthy antioxidants, especially if grown in your own garden! Some believe they possess healing qualities and can alleviate melancholy. And if that isn’t enough to tempt you, darling Rosie, the strawberry plant is part of the rose family.

Her aunt had always possessed an uncanny ability to predict the precise treatment for any emotional ailment. She must have known Rosie would find use for the opening remedy. Strawberries were her favourite fruit, too. Not only that, but there was an abundance of the sweet scarlet berries in the garden. And when sliced they
did
resemble a perfect heart shape.

The illustration accompanying the recipe was exquisite. The runners meandered around the text like a Christmas wreath, the verdant foliage interspersed with a smattering of white, daisy-like flowers and the rich red of the ripe fruit which burst from the page.

She checked the recipe, scribbled a list of the ingredients on a piece of scrap paper, and slotted her feet into an old pair of Hunter wellies waiting to be press-ganged into service by the back door. She made a run for it to Susan’s shop before taking a trip to the strawberry plot at the bottom of the garden. The spiky straw surrounding the plants was sodden from the persistent rain, but as she lifted the leaves gently with her fingers, the big, fat, juicy fruit hung like pendulums ready to be harvested. She couldn’t resist popping one into her mouth. The acidic tang crashed against her taste buds and she reached for another and then another. Why did fruit you picked yourself always taste so much better?

She took her bounty back to the kitchen and rubbed her hair free of rain droplets on a tea towel before scrutinising the beast of an oven. She could delay their tango no longer. After fifteen minutes of lifting the hot-plate lids and exploring the internal mechanisms she was still not nearer to igniting its fiery passion. As she was about to give up and adjourn for a rejuvenating cup of tea, she found the instructions in a plastic envelope in a cupboard. And following instructions was something she was an expert at. She was surprised to learn that it ran on oil, but, considering it was more akin to a small family saloon, she shouldn’t have been. At last the kitchen began to benefit from a spurt of warmth and she set about weighing out the ingredients for her strawberry tarts.

But the whole process of binding the ingredients together was so unfamiliar. The last label anyone could attach to her in New York was Domestic Goddess. In fact, the white polystyrene blocks were still in her oven in her apartment. She had never used it. Sure, she had used the microwave to heat up her carry-out coffees, or the odd cinnamon roll, but she had never actually
baked
anything since she left home to go to college where she had lived on takeaways and coffee.

The kitchen was beginning to resemble culinary Armageddon, with a liberal dusting of flour and icing sugar, and splodges of butter and strawberry jam littering the counter tops. After half an hour of wrestling with the sweet shortcrust pastry, which had taken on an unappetising grey tinge, and whipping up the cream, she was ready to slot her culinary masterpieces in the oven.

She couldn’t face another minute in the kitchen so, as it had stopped raining, she sauntered out into the garden, leaving the washing up until later. She stopped at the herb garden and crouched down to break off a sprig of lavender. The aroma floated to her nostrils and sent a blast of nostalgia to her chest. She knew her aunt would be proud of her attempt at baking one of her recipes, if not the chaos she had brought to her otherwise pristine kitchen.

She selected a second herb, rubbing its wide, jagged-edged leaf between her fingertips and taking a sniff. Mmm, she knew this one. Mint – its clean fresh fragrance so reminiscent of the gum she chewed through high school to help alleviate bouts of anxiety. Sprouts of grass had sprung between the plants so she knelt down, arching her back to the sky to remove them. It was so satisfying to see even that small square of soil in her aunt’s beloved herb garden cleared of debris that she spent the next half hour enlarging it.

Eventually, she sat back on her heels, massaging her aching shoulders and wiping a trickle of perspiration from her brow with her forearm. That was when the waft of burnt caramel reached her nostrils and she realised she had forgotten to take the pastry tarts out of the oven.

Oh God!

With some difficulty she unfolded her stiffened legs and sprinted back into the kitchen as tendrils of grey curls began to snake from the Aga door. She had no idea what to do. She frantically searched the kitchen drawers for a pair of oven gloves and, with her arms outstretched, tentatively cracked open the door to release a mushroom of black smoke which floated up to the ceiling before dispersing, like the aftermath from a nuclear explosion.

Slowly she removed the evidence of her first foray into baking. A splutter of mirth erupted from her chest as she recalled her intention to take a few snaps of her works of culinary genius to upload to Twitter and Instagram, tagging Lauren and Toby and telling them that she was well on her way to mending her ‘broken heart’. The tarts were now circular blocks of charcoal ready for the barbeque. It was entirely possible that if she
did
publish the results of her baking skills she’d not be getting a visit from Julia Child or Mary Berry, but from Homeland Security.

She slumped down at the pine table, her face buried in one of her aunt’s tea towels, which was unfortunately covered in film of strawberry jam and stuck to her hair when she tried to remove it. Her personal ‘Bake Off’ odyssey had been an unmitigated disaster. Clearly she was not destined to have her broken heart fixed by a batch of strawberry tarts any time soon. Not only that, her hair was sticky and reeked of burnt pastry and her body felt as though she’d gone five rounds with a hyperactive Thai masseuse.

If this was what it took to ‘
Bake Yourself Better
’ then she was a lost cause.

Chapter Sixteen

When Rosie woke the next morning her muscles screamed their objection to the unfamiliar brush with physical exertion they had been subjected to the previous afternoon. After she’d soaked her aching bones into a hot bubble bath, Rosie felt slightly recovered. She considered raiding her aunt’s wardrobe, looking for clothes more suited to a sortie into the wilderness, but before she had even brewed her morning pot of tea, Emily rang.

‘I’m not cross with you, by the way, for sharing my deepest, darkest secrets with my aunt.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Emily, calling to Ethan to keep the noise down. After listening in silence to the synopsis of Rosie’s discoveries in the old toy box, and the contents of Aunt Bernice’s letter, she continued, ‘Well, that certainly isn’t the way I would have wanted you to be staying on here in Devon. A guilt trip from your aunt about dating your boss! But the outcome is the same, I suppose. Welcome back!

‘I hope you will use the time to heal your wounds, protected from the ferocity of your corporate world and the tigers that prowl in its corridors. And that you will take your aunt’s advice seriously and start socialising. Take advantage of the space and detachment from your former life.

‘We’ll see you at the village show later, then. The boys have spent the whole morning baking chocolate crispie cakes, butterfly buns and scones. If there are any left, we’ll bring them along to the Refreshments tent, where I know your aunt’s annual contribution will be sadly missed. We’ll collect you on the way. Is two-ish okay?’

Groan. ‘Not my idea of fun, Em. Susan’s already mentioned it and I passed.’

‘Refusal is not an option. And anyway, what is your idea of fun, Rosie? I hear you’ve spent all this year organising the wedding of the decade for your sister or at the beck and call of that cheating loser, Giles, when you are not chained to your desk amassing riches for clients who are already rich enough? I don’t call that fun, madam!’

Silence. How could she argue? It was true.

‘What else do you have planned, anyway? Making a start on the garden?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact…’

‘Oh, and I see you don’t hang around either.’

‘What?’

‘The For Sale board. I saw it when I collected Ethan from school yesterday. I checked with Nick and he confirmed what I thought. When the vicar left the Old Rectory the property was sold for £350,000. So Thornleigh Lodge should at least be in the vicinity. Why not get a second opinion?’

‘Okay, okay, Em. I’ll look into it.’

‘Good girl. See you later, then. And a batch of scones, like your aunt used to make, wouldn’t go amiss!’

Rosie returned the old-fashioned phone receiver to its cradle and sauntered to the kitchen, eyeing the Aga as though it were a monster in the corner of the room ready to pounce as soon as she approached. Maybe she should take to wearing a matador’s red cape, just in case it decided to charge.

Had Emily been joking about requiring a batch of scones for the village fair that day? Would it be rude of her to turn up at such an event empty-handed, or worse, with a shop-bought offering? Would her shoddy culinary skills have an impact on her aunt’s memory?

Devon was famous for its cream teas, Rosie knew that. But could she risk another baking catastrophe? She grabbed her aunt’s journal and swiftly flicked over the Strawberry Tarts page and there it was – the very next recipe – ideal for the way her body had felt that morning after her horticultural madness the previous day.