The Windmill Café

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

HarperImpulse

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2018

Copyright © Poppy Blake 2018

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Poppy Blake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008311025

Ebook Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008285159

Version: 2018-07-12

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Summer Breeze

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Autumn Leaves

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Christmas Trees

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

To Mum and Dad; I know you would be so proud to see my name on the cover of a novel

‘Hurry up, Rosie, they need you outside to cut the ribbon!’

‘But I thought our resident pop star had that honour?’

‘It seems Suki Richards is far too busy scattering her celebrity stardust,’ giggled Mia. ‘Did you see the way Freddie was hanging on her every word? Yesterday he had no idea who she was, and now he’s acting like he’s her number one fan! Come on, someone needs to declare the very first Windmill Café garden party open or there’ll be a riot!’

‘Okay, if you’re sure you don’t want to do it. You’ve put in just as much work as I have – those Stilton and grape scones are to die for, not to mention the raspberry and prosecco cupcakes! Why don’t we do it together?’

‘Agreed! Oh, and by the way, you’d better have your best smile ready. When Dan Forrester from the Willerby Gazette heard Suki and her friends were staying in our luxury lodges, and that she had agreed to be guest of honour at the garden party, he jumped in his little MG and drove up here like Lewis Hamilton’s older brother.’

Rosie hobbled in Mia’s wake across the sweeping lawn at the front of the Windmill Café. She wished she had stuck to her usual preference of putting practicality over sartorial elegance and worn her ballet flats instead of the ivory stilettos with four-inch heels that sunk into the ground with every step she took and made her look like a waddling duck.

‘I’m loving the belted tea dress, Rosie. That apricot-and-cream floral pattern really complements your hair.’

‘Nothing complements my hair! It’s the hirsute equivalent of jazz hands.’

‘Don’t say that. I know lots of people who would love to have your flowing Titian curls. Right. Ready to perform today’s starring role?’ Mia handed Rosie a pair of scissors and pointed to where Dan was lurking like a pugnacious paparazzo. ‘Smile for the camera!’

Rosie forced a smile onto her lips whilst simultaneously cursing the Windmill Café’s owner, Graham Clarke, for skipping off to his villa in Barbados as soon as the date for the first annual Willerby garden party was announced. His abandonment meant that not only had she been left with organizing everything for the party, but she’d also had to step into Graham’s muddy Wellies to manage the holiday site in the adjacent field, and she had been battling her rising stress levels all day.

When Dan had eventually declared himself satisfied with his snapshots, Rosie picked up the microphone and tentatively tapped the end with her fingertips, producing a screech of bounce-back which caused every single guest to pause in their conversation and swivel round to stare at her and Mia. She ignored the pirouette of nerves that had appeared in her chest and cleared her throat.

‘Hello everyone, and a warm Willerby welcome to the Windmill Café. It’s lovely to see so many familiar faces. I hope you all enjoy the afternoon tea we have laid on for you, and that you indulge in a few glasses of the Windmill’s own speciality punch made by my wonderful friend and baker extraordinaire, Mia Williams. So, without further ado, it gives us both great pleasure to declare the very first Windmill Café garden party open!’

Rosie grabbed Mia’s hand and together they snipped the pale green ribbon to a smattering of appreciative applause, followed by an almost indecent stampede across the lawn towards the linen-bedecked tables that held the pretty three-tiered tea plates and china cups and saucers. The whole place looked exactly like any other garden party taking place in lots of villages up and down the country on a warm afternoon at the end of August. Triangles of pastel-coloured bunting and paper butterflies fluttered in the hedges, whilst wooden planters and terracotta pots, crammed with geraniums, had been dotted around the gardens. Tiny hand-crafted windmills in their signature peppermint-and-white colours rotated serenely in the breeze to add to the picturesque scene.

‘I hope there are enough sandwiches to go round. Do you think I should make a few more of the salmon and cucumber?’

‘Stop fretting, Rosie. Everything’s perfect!’

Rosie didn’t share her friend’s optimism. Life just wasn’t like that – or rather, hers wasn’t. She often felt like she was one of those characters from a comic book who walked around with a rain cloud dangling over her head whilst everyone else basked in glorious sunshine.

Nevertheless, it looked like her luck might be changing at last, or maybe old Mrs Faversham, one of the Windmill Café’s regular customers, was onto something. That day’s sunrise had brought a clear blue sky and the barest whisper of a breeze. Perfect for an end-of-summer garden party, but not so ideal if you worked in a kitchen. And a tiny one at that. Well, what did she expect when she chose to earn her living in a café in a windmill? Bijoux was overstating it!

However, apart from the heat, she adored the quirky teashop with its circular whitewashed walls – inside and out – and the most fabulous sails that she had persuaded Graham to paint a cool peppermint green. Only, the colour choice wasn’t doing its job today. Temperatures had soared during the last week and it was on course to be the hottest August on record.

Since moving to Willerby, Rosie had become an expert on the weather. She had to be. It was a skill required of anyone in charge of a café in the Norfolk countryside that was frequented by tourists, ramblers, and most of the patrons of the outward-bound activity centre on the outskirts of the village. What the meteorological gods had planned for any given day was a favourite topic of conversation and one she usually enjoyed discussing – except when the mercury recorded thirty-two degrees and she was melting like a discarded ice cream. She knew her cheeks were glowing – not an attractive sight alongside her amber curls.

‘Do you think it would be rude to ask Suki Richards for her autograph?’ asked Mia biting into a cucumber sandwich, her pinkie fingers sticking out at right-angles.

With her long mahogany waves held back in an Alice band of daisies and dressed in a flared summer cotton jumpsuit, Mia looked every inch a Sixties flower child – despite the fact that she hadn’t even been born then. As slender as a shop mannequin, she bounded through life with a smile on her face and a song in her heart. Her talents were many; not only was she famous for the lightness of her cheese scones, she also designed her own wide selection of aprons. She showcased a different one every day, mostly made from fabric she bought from market stalls. Only that morning, as they prepared to whip up a batch of the mini-Victoria sponge cakes for the garden party, Rosie had been forced to perform a double-take when Mia tied her apron strings around her midriff – only heaving a sigh of relief when she worked out that the pattern was, in fact, links of sausages and not something altogether more risqué.

‘Maybe you should wait until later when everyone’s finished eating, when the wine is flowing, and the vibe is more relaxed?’

‘Good idea. Oh, hello there, vicar. Are you having fun?’

‘I am indeed, Mia, thank you,’ smiled the vicar, smoothing his palm over his comb-over before turning his attention to Rosie. ‘The flower arrangements are absolutely wonderful, my dear. I particularly like what you’ve done with the bamboo. Very creative, I must say. In fact, the whole afternoon is an absolute triumph!’

‘Thank you, Reverend. I am hoping that if the inaugural summer party is a success, Graham might be more inclined to change his mind about the Hallowe’en and Christmas parties I’ve got planned.’

‘Gosh, you are a busy bee!’

‘I just want to give something back to the village. I’ve only been here for a few months and already it feels like home. I want people to know how much I love Willerby and how grateful I am for their unwavering support. But tell me one thing. Is it always so hot here? I know I asked for sunshine this afternoon, but this heat is bordering on tropical!’

‘Best be careful! If the weather gods hear you criticizing them, they may decide to take their revenge. We don’t want a wash-out like we had at the church fête last month, do we?’

‘Definitely not! I had visions of the holiday lodges floating out of the field like miniature houseboats on a tidal wave!’

As Reverend Coulson strolled away in search of a cup of his favourite camomile tea, Rosie glanced over Mia’s shoulder at the upmarket holiday site behind the windmill where six luxury lodges – along with a gorgeous shepherd’s hut painted peppermint-and-white – could be hired by affluent holidaymakers who craved a taste of the English countryside but refused to ditch the luxury lifestyle. Each lodge had been crafted from the best Scandinavian pine to produce a hi-spec home-away-from-home, equipped with SMEG appliances, Gaggia coffee machines, thousand-thread-count sheets and fluffy white Christy towels that were changed every day irrespective of whether the occupants had used them.

She sighed. How wonderful it would be to live in one of those wooden cabins, to be able to relax in the outdoor spa after a long, hard day slaving away in the café, gazing up at the stars with a glass of prosecco in one hand and a cookery book in the other.

But she couldn’t complain; she loved the tiny, perfectly circular studio that came with the job of café manager, baker, waitress, and reluctant washer-upper because Graham steadfastly refused to install a dishwasher. From her kitchen sink, she had an uninterrupted view of a patchwork of fields and woodland, stitched together with emerald hedgerows, and if she spun around one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, she could feast her eyes on an endless stretch of silver-blue sea sparkling with a sheen of iridescent pearls.

When she had walked out of her life in London, she had never in her wildest dreams thought she would be fortunate enough to live in a converted windmill. The flat was the ideal retreat for a heartbroken ex-florist who had left behind all the hurt and recriminations and, against the odds, managed to get her life back on track in a tiny village in the Norfolk countryside. She still sent up regular missives of effusive thanks to her guardian angel for returning to duty in the nick of time.

‘So, Mia,’ giggled Rosie, ‘which of old Mrs Faversham’s suggestions for a sun-filled afternoon did you try out in the end? Did you dance naked under a silver moon with marigolds in your hair? Or maybe you decided to go with rustling up one of her herbal recipes as a peace offering to the “rain nymphs”? Both are ridiculous, if you ask me.’

‘Well, whatever your opinion of the dark arts, her magic seems to have worked! Come on, let’s grab Matt and Freddie before they disappear. Maybe we can persuade them to help us with the tidying up and then we can all go for a celebratory drink in the Drunken Duck afterwards. I’ve noticed how well you and Matt have been getting on recently,’ Mia added, an impish glint in her eye. ‘Just say if the two of you would rather be alone.’

Rosie rolled her eyes at her friend and shook her head. Whilst she was grateful for Mia’s easy acceptance of a new arrival in her friendship group, if she thought she was setting her up with the local Action Man, she would be sorely disappointed.

She’d had it with love.

Chapter 2

‘Hey, Rosie, great party!’ declared Freddie, hoovering up the leftover desserts like he was on a gastronomic safari. ‘Did I ever tell you that you make the most amazing cakes?’

‘Oh, but Rosie is a woman of many talents, Freddie,’ said Mia, casting a surreptitious glance in Matt’s direction to make sure he was listening whilst she listed her friend’s numerous attributes. ‘Not only is she a brilliant baker, she’s a fabulous café manager, a demon organizer, and don’t forget she used to be a super-talented florist in London. She was even commissioned to design the bouquets and bridesmaids’ posies for the weddings of several TV stars.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to…’

Rosie paused, uncertain about what to say. She didn’t want to embarrass Mia by correcting her in front of an audience – and anyway, maybe Mia counted a radio weathergirl and a Sky Sports cameraman in her definition of ‘stars’. But she was saved from having to decide by the arrival of the real-life celebrity in their midst who was clutching a bottle of champagne as if her life depended on it.

‘Hi, everyone! Rosie, this is the best garden party I’ve been to in years. It’s really kind of you to invite us all. I’m sorry I got side-tracked and wasn’t around to cut the ribbon. I really must start honing my rapid extraction skills as well as my networking skills!’

‘Thanks, Suki, that’s very kind of you. I had a lot of help though, from Mia, from the vicar’s wife Carole, and the ladies from the Willerby WI did help with the sandwiches. Can I introduce you to Matt and Freddie? They run Ultimate Adventures, the outward-bound centre in the village.’

‘Hi there!’

Suki tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder and held out her slender fingers to an awestruck Freddie, before turning her attention to Matt, her gold-flecked manicure glistening in the sunshine, her pink lips parted to reveal a perfect Californian smile.

‘I hope you and your friends are enjoying yourselves in Willerby,’ said Matt.

‘Oh, we are! It’s a fantastic start to a week away from my frazzled work schedule. When my boyfriend Felix suggested a luxury countryside break before the onslaught of all the hard work of a record contract, well, let me tell you, I leapt at the chance. The lodges are absolutely gorgeous, but next time I’m going to insist on staying in that little shepherd’s hut. It’s so cute! Anyway, excuse me, got to circulate!’

Rosie watched Suki make her way to the terrace in front of the café where her friends lounged on the peppermint-and-white painted benches, drinking champagne straight from the bottle, laughing raucously, and generally enjoying the sunshine and relaxation.

‘So, Rosie, I notice we still haven’t seen you over at Ultimate Adventures yet. What’s the matter? Allergic to mud?’ Matt laughed, cute dimples appearing in his cheeks.

With muscular shoulders and toned biceps from his daily involvement in the activities on offer at his outward-bound centre, Matt possessed that healthy outdoors kind of charm that attracted admirers and Rosie understood why Mia considered him to be perfect dating material. His spiky blond hair, the colour of honey, had been teased into surfer-dude tufts with a smidgeon of gel, but, when she took the time to look more closely, she could see a shadow of sadness lurking behind his dark blue eyes and she wondered briefly what had caused it. She had meant to ask Mia about Matt’s relationship history but hadn’t had the courage for fear her friend would interpret her questions as romantic interest. However, there was no way she was going to let him believe the reason she hadn’t visited Ultimate Adventures was because she was some kind of pristine princess, even if it was true.

‘Actually, I’m quite capable of getting down and dirty with the best of them.’

Rosie cringed when she realized what she had said and heat whooshed into her cheeks at the amusement she saw flicker across Matt’s expression.

‘So, you’re a florist, are you?’ said Freddie, oblivious to Rosie’s discomfort. ‘Did you design all these fabulous table decorations for the garden party?’

‘I did.’

‘And all the planters,’ added Mia, proudly. ‘Rosie’s a floral maestro!’

A curl of pleasure meandered through her veins at receiving a second accolade in ten minutes. She had loved flowers and plants since she was a child, learning their Latin names from her father. Their demands for regular attention had become her therapy at the most difficult time of her life, then it had turned into her passion, and eventually it had become her livelihood. She had adored the little flower shop she used to run in Pimlico with her ex, Harry Fellows, especially creating the intricate bridal bouquets and bridesmaids’ posies.

Sadly, her long-held ambition to become a celebrity wedding florist had morphed into a nightmare, and Love Lies Bleeding had become her flower of choice until she arrived in Willerby with only a suitcase to her name. The little Windmill Café had gently unwrapped the mantle of misery from her shoulders, and the warmth of the friends she’d made here had helped to plaster over the cracks in her heart so that now she greeted every day with a smile on her face. She was so grateful to have her life back on track at last and she would never do anything that would jeopardize that.

‘Ah, now I understand your ‘getting down and dirty’ comment!’ grinned Matt, a flicker of mischief appearing in his eyes. ‘If you’re interested, perhaps you can let Freddie take you on a guided walk through the grounds of Ultimate Adventures. There’s lots of flora and fauna, but I don’t think you’ll find anything suitable for your table decorations, though.’

‘Sounds like a great idea,’ said Rosie, thinking it was a much better proposition than going all Tarzanesque on a zip wire through the treetop canopy. ‘I might take you up on that, Freddie.’

‘No problem. You might be the go-to girl for upmarket bridal flowers, but I’m your man when it comes to wild flowers. Wild flowers can be just as beautiful as any other, but you need to be careful what you touch. Some are toxic, not just to animals, but to humans, too. Laburnum, foxgloves, oleander, belladonna, ingesting just a small amount could kill you.’

‘Is that true?’ Mia’s eyes widened and she ran her palms up and down her forearms to eradicate the goose bumps that had appeared.

‘Deadly!’

Unlike Matt who had stuck to his work attire of figure-hugging black jeans and matching Ultimate Adventures logo-ed T-shirt, Freddie looked positively jaunty sporting a pair of smart navy trousers and a lime green polo shirt which accentuated the colour of his eyes – a prophetic choice as it did not clash with his hair, the colour of a fox’s tail. He looked like he had just stepped from the deck of his luxury yacht.