a nutshell.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘After a while that kind of life can pall. I found I was longing for rural England and the changing seasons. Daffodils and April showers, the smell of summer and new-mown hay, October frosts and decaying leaves, November fogs and log fires… There was nothing particular to keep me in California—my business interests had diversified and become international—so when circumstances gave me the opportunity, I decided to come home.’
He hadn’t mentioned a wife, but such an attractive man was almost certain to be married, or at least in some long-term relationship…
Collecting her straying thoughts, she asked, ‘And you regard Rymington as home?’
‘I was born and bred here.’ With deliberation, he added, ‘At Hartington Manor, to be exact.’
While keeping her eyes on the road, Anna was aware that he was watching her intently, as though he expected some reaction.
‘Hartington Manor? Isn’t that where Sir Ian Strange used to live?’
‘That’s right. I’m Gideon Strange, his son.’
Sir Gideon Strange, and presumably living at the Manor now.
His continued regard made her even more self-conscious, and her voice was jerky as she said, ‘I was sorry to hear of your father’s death last year.’
‘Did you know him?’ The question was casual.
‘No, not personally. But he’s always been well known and highly respected in the town. He did a great deal for charity and local good causes.’
‘Yes, he liked to be regarded as a philanthropist.’
There was a suggestion of bitterness in the words.
‘I’d half expected him to leave his entire estate to some deserving charity. I could picture the Manor being turned into a home for abused women or stray cats and dogs.’
Then with a quick, sidelong, mocking smile, ‘No, I’ve nothing against either abused women or dumb animals. But though it’s too small to count as a stately home, the Manor is a beautiful old place. It would have been a pity to let it go out of the family. There’s been a Strange there since Elizabethan times.’
So why on earth would Sir Ian have left it to a charity, rather than his own son?
As though in answer to Anna’s unspoken question, Gideon Strange went on, ‘I’m afraid my father and I never quite saw eye to eye…’
The judicious wording convinced her that that was an understatement.
‘His carefully nurtured public image was somewhat different from the private reality, and I’m afraid he could never forgive me for pointing that out.’
Not knowing quite what to say, Anna kept silent.
After a short pause her companion changed the subject to ask, ‘Do you belong to these parts?’
‘Yes. In just a minute we’ll be passing where I was born and brought up… There… If you can see for the snow? The row of cottages on the right of what used to be the old village green… Ours was the second from the end.’
A lump in her throat, she added, ‘I always loved Drum Cottage.’ Then swallowing hard, ‘Cleo, the friend I’m going to spend Christmas with, used to live next door.’
‘No family left?’
‘No. My parents and my younger brother died four years ago in a train crash.’
After all this time it still had the power to hurt.
As though he knew, he said, ‘Tough.’
Then, after a moment, ‘So you’re planning to spend Christmas with a friend?’
‘Yes. At first I refused the invitation. You see, Cleo’s husband isn’t fond of company, and I thought I might be intruding… But she said the spare bed was ready and she had enough food to feed an army, so if I changed my mind I was simply to turn up…’
Finding she was babbling again, Anna resolutely closed her mouth.
By now they had reached the outskirts of the town and were bypassing the new estate where Cleo and her family had a neat, semi-detached house.
Leaving the last street lamp behind them, they started to wind their way up Old Castle Hill, the headlights making a tunnel between the trees and picking up the driving white curtain of snow.
‘So where do you live now, Anna?’
‘I have a bedsit in Grafton Street… What made you call me Anna?’ she asked sharply.
There was a barely perceptible pause, before he queried, ‘Do you prefer Savanna?’
‘No… It’s always been shortened to Anna. I mean, how did you know my name?’
‘It’s on the board above your shop for all to read. Savanna Sands. Very alliterative.’
‘How did you know that was my shop?’
‘I walked past earlier this afternoon and caught sight of you through the window.’
She frowned. ‘What made you presume I was the owner? I could have been anyone.’
‘The shop appeared to be empty of stock, and you were wielding a hammer with great determination.’
Before she could point out that he hadn’t really answered her question, he went on, ‘I rather got the impression that Savanna Sands is due to close down?’
‘It’s closed,’ she said flatly.
‘The end of a business, or a dream?’
His percipience was uncanny.
‘The latter. Since I was a child I’ve dreamt of running my very own bookshop.’
‘So what happened? Not enough customers, or not enough cash?’
‘Both. Tourist trade picks up in the summer, but I couldn’t wait till then. My overdraft was stretched to the limit, the lease was up, and the new owners of the building had doubled the rent.’
‘What will you do now?’
It was the same question Cleo had asked.
Anna gave the same answer. ‘As soon as Christmas is over, start looking for a job.’
‘An assistant in a bookshop maybe?’
Stung, she said, ‘I’m a qualified librarian.’
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him raise a well-marked brow, before he murmured, ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘In
