left the hotel to her, but it hadn’t made a profit for years, so far as she could see. She hoped she’d misunderstood the accounts. She could barely afford the funeral director’s bills, even with the commission from Haselbury House.
She joined Councillor Smith, her father’s best friend, his bulbous nose even redder than usual as he mopped his eyes with a giant snowy handkerchief.
His short, plump wife stroked his hand and peered round the room with beady eyes that registered every guest. ‘Lovely service,’ she remarked to Imogen. ‘I don’t see your husband here. Your father spoke so well of him.’
Imogen stitched a smile on her face. ‘I’m afraid Greg couldn’t come. Work commitments, you know.’ It sounded lame. She hadn’t contacted Greg, not since they split up, but surely he’d known about the funeral – it had been a headline in the local paper. She’d expected him.
Mrs Smith sniffed. ‘Such a pity. Still, a lovely service, don’t you think, Eddie?’
Councillor Smith nodded. ‘Aye, he deserved a good send-off, did Horace.’
Smith and Jones, Imogen’s late mother had called the two men. Their sixty year friendship ended abruptly when her father’s car skidded, landing in a shattered pile of glass, steel and chrome, upside down on the road just outside Camilton.
Should Imogen have visited her father more often, checking he was safe to drive at his age? It would have been a waste of time. When had her father ever listened to his daughter’s opinion?
In recent years, she’d only visited the hotel at Christmas, to exchange wine and chocolates.
A discreet cough sounded close by. Imogen smiled politely at Councillor Smith and excused herself.
The man from the pub over the road – Hennessy, that was the name, Adam Hennessy – grinned and held out a laden serving tray.
‘What are you doing here?’ She stopped. That was rude. ‘Sorry. I thought the hotel staff were serving, today.’
‘I’m helping out. Your manager begged me to. She sounded desperate.’
And somehow forgot to mention the arrangement to Imogen.
Emily hadn’t exactly welcomed her recent arrival with open arms.
Adam Hennessy’s round, cheerful face beamed. ‘I come free of charge.’
A hot blush started at the back of Imogen’s neck and spread across her face.
‘Not the right thing to say at a funeral. Come now, we’re both in business. Weddings and funerals, all good for trade. Christenings and bar mitzvahs, not so much. Religion seems to be dying out, although our vicar seems to thrive.’
It was hard to resist the man’s nonsense. He was… well, the word that sprang to mind was merry. The top of his head barely reached to Imogen’s chin and his eyebrows sloped, like an imp’s. Pale blue eyes twinkled behind thick horn-rimmed glasses, and his hair, white and sparse, stood in tufts, as though surprised to find themselves still attached to his scalp.
He could be a leprechaun, although a very English one. The idea made Imogen smile.
‘Now, that’s better.’ He beamed. ‘I always think a funeral should be a celebration of life, don’t you?’
‘Well, yes. I suppose it should.’
She added, ‘Councillor Smith was in excellent voice in church. He’s Welsh, of course.’
‘And one of the local choir’s best tenors. Not that I know much about singing – I have a sandpaper voice – but the choir’s thriving. They drink in The Plough after rehearsals, and what a thirst they bring – they’ll keep me from going bust.’
Imogen’s self-control gave way with a crack of laughter.
Across the room, the mayor glanced her way, eyebrows raised. ‘Lovely service,’ he boomed, repressively.
‘Lovely,’ she muttered, choking back another chuckle. ‘I’m sorry,’ she told Adam, embarrassed. ‘It’s not funny. I mean, my father’s dead. I think I’m getting a bit, you know…’
‘Hysterical? Nonsense. You’re having a normal human reaction to the funeral. That’s why a wake’s important – to lighten the load after the burial.’ He looked closely at Imogen; eyes bright. ‘Your father was famous around here. Quite the businessman.’
Was that a compliment? The glint in Adam Hennessy’s eyes didn’t entirely match his words.
‘Anyway,’ Imogen regained her dignity, ‘thank you for helping out. It’s much appreciated.’
He raised one of his peculiar eyebrows. ‘The great and good of Camilton are here in force.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the mayor, who stood four-square in the centre of the room, legs akimbo, telling his usual jokes to an appreciative audience of councillors.
‘So I see. And enjoying themselves enormously.’
At last, stomachs full, heads awhirl with gossip, and cheeks glowing from the effects of wine, the guests raised a final toast to their old colleague and drifted away.
The sole female councillor, a rising star with hopes of moving into national politics, had allowed herself only one small glass of white wine. She kissed Imogen warmly on the cheek and patted her arm, but their eyes didn’t meet.
‘Your dear father set an example to us all. Let’s do lunch. I’ll ring you.’
Imogen smiled, hiding a twinge of cynicism. She doubted that phone call would ever materialise, for she had none of her father’s clout in the area.
Adam Hennessy passed close by, winked, and whisked a tray of glasses off to the kitchen. Imogen followed.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he said as he loaded the monstrous dishwasher. ‘I should have said that, earlier.’
She tried not to squirm. He’d lived in Lower Hembrow for a year. He must know she’d hardly ever visited. The village grapevine would make sure of that.
‘Mr Hennessy, please don’t do any more work. You’ve already done far too much.’
‘Call me Adam.’ The grin transformed his face. He’d make a wonderful Santa Claus at the next Christmas party. If Imogen hadn’t sold the hotel by then…
She nodded towards the grounds. ‘Come and have a drink in the garden. It’s stopped raining and the sun’s come out at last. I could use some fresh air. Let’s take some of my father’s champagne to the orangery.’
‘Do you grow oranges? Or maybe pineapples, like wealthy Victorians?’ His eyes twinkled.
‘Oranges, pineapples, limes – you name it and my father’s grown it. He had green fingers and the grounds were his pride and joy. He loved gardening.’
‘And you’ve
