get out of the back door and Luke’s hand fell companionably upon his shoulder. They walked in silence towards the garage where Luke gave him a hand to swing open the rusty up-and-over door and then to lift the silver mountain bike from the hooks on the wall.
‘Everything okay?’ The edges of Luke’s eyes crinkled in concern.
Aaron nodded. ‘Yes, Spud. Just need a bit of air, that’s all.’ He glanced over his shoulder towards the kitchen door. ‘Those two…’
Luke squeezed his shoulder. ‘Happy as pigs in shit. Nothing like true love to make a man feel hopelessly inadequate.’
Aaron tossed his brother a wry grin. ‘You, too?’
A cloud of sadness wiped the sunny smile from Luke’s face. ‘You have no idea, mate.’ He shook himself like a dog after a dip in a stream. ‘Don’t mind me. Enjoy your ride.’ Tucking his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, Luke strolled away. The casual pose might have worked better had his shoulders not been stiff with tension. Aaron frowned. It wasn’t like him to keep secrets. Pondering not only what Luke was hiding from him, but the best way to get him talking, Aaron peddled down the twisting driveway.
Blooms of white cow parsley and shiny yellow buttercups decorated the long grass verges on either side of the country lane, and the fields behind were a sea of pale-green wheat stalks. Reaching the crossroads to the main road, he paused to consider his options. Left would take him along the familiar route towards the main village of Orcombe Sands and the train station. Madeline and Richard lived somewhere towards the right. They’d likely be piling into Richard’s sleek Mercedes with Bill and Pat, ready for another day of toil in Mia’s garden. Not wanting to get caught skiving, he checked both ways then crossed the road to follow the lane into unexplored territory.
Muscles suitably warm, Aaron flicked the gears a couple of notches higher and increased his effort. A welcome burn began in his thigh muscles. He drew in a deep breath, letting it out on a happy laugh. Who would ever choose the gym if they had this on their doorstep? Cycling in London took a level of bravado he didn’t possess, and the car-choked streets around his flat would have filled his lungs with dirty fumes, not fresh air.
Fields gave way to trees, dappling the road with leafy shadows. Weeks away from their full thickness, the boughs offered glimpses of houses tucked a few feet away from the road. Old-fashioned wooden gates bearing carved nameplates told their stories: Willow Rest, Journey’s End, Honeysuckle Cottage. He squeezed the brakes and pulled over in the entrance of the last property. A sweet perfume floated on the air, proving the name to be more than a flight of fancy. The corner of a thatched roof was visible, crouching low over whitewashed walls and dark-framed square windows. Trellis covered part of the lower walls, thick with greenery and white-pink flowers. A proper chocolate-box cottage.
A loud thud and a sharp curse shattered the idyllic illusion. ‘Bloody hell, Karen. Be careful!’ Not a local accent, more the drawn-out vowels of the Midlands.
‘I told you it was too heavy for me. We should have got a proper firm in, instead of trying to do it ourselves.’ The woman’s protest carried a similar twang.
Curious, Aaron rested the bike against the open gate and hooked his helmet over the handlebars. A few strides down the drive brought him face to face with a sweating, frowning man about the same age as him, struggling to hold one end of a heavy-looking chest of drawers. The other end rested on the ground in front of an exasperated blonde. A white box van stood behind them, the tailgate down. He gave the couple a grin and a friendly wave. ‘Hey. Sorry to intrude. I was cycling by just now and it sounded like you might need a hand.’
The blonde cast him a tired smile. ‘Thank you. We’ve bitten off a bit more than we can chew here.’ She held out her hand. ‘Hi, I’m Karen. D’you live around here?’
Aaron stepped forward, shook her hand, then offered his own to the man, who’d placed his end of the dresser down. ‘Aaron. My friends live a couple of miles down the road, at Butterfly Cove.’
‘Dave.’ They shook hands. ‘Never heard of it. We’re down here trying to sort out Karen’s great aunt’s place.’ He gestured with his head towards the cottage. ‘She passed a couple of months ago, left her the cottage and all its contents in her will.’
Karen folded her arms across her chest and rubbed her biceps in a self-soothing gesture. A frown creased between her brows. ‘I didn’t really know her. She was my nan’s sister and I hadn’t seen her since I was a kid. She never married, some sad story about a lost love in the war, I remember nan telling me once. Turns out I’m her only living relative so it all came to me. Not that we can do anything with the place. There’s a few things we want to take, but we don’t have room for it and we can’t keep two houses running.’ Colour lit her cheeks and she gave an embarrassed little laugh. ‘Not that you want to hear our life story.’
Aaron stared at the cottage. Weeds had claimed the flowerbeds beneath the windows, and the paint was peeling a bit in places, but it looked sound enough. His mind started whirring. Luke would need to take a look, of course, and a proper surveyor. He could ask Richard for details of a local solicitor; Dave and Karen could use the one who’d handled her great aunt’s will. The flat in town had a two-month clause on the lease, but he was pretty sure he could find someone to take it off his hands quicker than that. Interest rates on his cash ISA were in the toilet, so it wasn’t like he’d be losing any interest if he withdrew it for a deposit…
A rushing sound filled his ears and he could feel his heart thumping in his chest. He didn’t do impulsive. Steady, solid, the man with the plan. A house martin swooped past and disappeared into the eaves. Feeling light-headed, light-hearted and thoroughly unlike himself, he turned to the couple. ‘So, you’re looking to sell the place then?’
Tap, tap, tap. ‘Hellooo? Mizz Sutherland, are you there?’ Mia closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer for patience. They’d been open for guests for two weeks now and their grand-opening weekend had been such a success, it had spoiled her into believing running Butterfly House would be a doddle. Then the Chivers had arrived on Thursday for a five-night stay. Ten minutes of Mrs Chivers’ pointed disappointment in, well, everything had poured cold water on Mia’s cocky confidence. From the supposed inferior quality of the sheets on their bed in the beach room… ‘One expects at least five-hundred thread count from a quality establishment’… to the disdainful sniff given to the homemade chicken pie Mia had served for the previous evening’s supper… ‘It’s so hard to get an even, thin crust, isn’t it, dear?’… Mrs Chivers had picked and poked until Mia was ready to offer a full refund if she would just leave.
‘Bugger that,’ had been Daniel’s response to her suggestion. ‘Make the miserable old bat pay.’ She would have laughed if he hadn’t said it almost loud enough for her awkward guest to hear it. By contrast, Mr Chivers couldn’t have been kinder, and Mia wondered if he spent so many hours exploring the little beach behind the house as an excuse for a bit of peace and quiet.
Fixing a smile on her lips, Mia tugged off her washing-up gloves and turned towards the closed kitchen door. ‘It’s not locked, Mrs Chivers, please come in.’
Looking immaculate in a camel-coloured blouse and matching cords tucked into a pair of spotless walking boots, she looked as fresh as when she’d come down to breakfast that morning. Her highlighted hair, just a shade too perfect to be natural, swung around her face in a millimetre-perfect bob. ‘It’s such a pleasant afternoon, we thought we’d take tea on the patio.’
‘Of
