A Cottage in the Country

LINN B. HALTON

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HarperImpulse an imprint of

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015

Copyright © Linn B Halton 2015

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the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

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Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

MADDIE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

LEWIS

CHAPTER 3

MADDIE

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

LEWIS

CHAPTER 9

MADDIE

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

LEWIS

CHAPTER 16

MADDIE

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

LEWIS

CHAPTER 24

MADDIE

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

LEWIS

CHAPTER 29

MADDIE

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

LEWIS

CHAPTER 32

MADDIE

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

LEWIS

CHAPTER 37

MADDIE

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Linn B. Halton

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

MADDIE

CHAPTER 1

The queue of traffic inches forward slowly as I glance at the clock on the dashboard for what seems like the millionth time. Ahead of me someone honks their horn in sheer exasperation. The farmer seems completely oblivious as he slowly rounds up the stragglers to rejoin his large flock of sheep. If I wasn't so stressed, I'd probably enjoy this quaint little scene that's a million miles away from the bustle of city life. However, I'm nearly fifteen minutes late for an appointment to view my dream cottage, which has literally just come on the market. Life without a love interest is going to be simpler, I've decided; no more having to pander to the whims of a man, and at least bricks and mortar can't break your heart.

I'm the first to view and if I don't get there before the next couple arrive, well, I simply can't let that happen. The truth is that cottages in my price range are few and far between. I glance at the property details lying on the passenger seat and grit my teeth. Ramming the gear stick into reverse I edge back a little, sending the driver behind me into panic mode. He's safe enough – I'm sure there are inches to spare. It's not exactly a three-point turn, but after a series of manoeuvres I finally manage to turn the car around and leave the queue of traffic behind. My satnav goddess kindly informs me that in two hundred yards I should turn around, even when I explain to her, very politely, that I have to find another route.

"Drive two hundred yards and turn around," she reiterates for the third time.

"But I need you to recalculate and find me another route," I plead. She ignores my request, so I stab my finger at the screen while trying to negotiate the narrow country lane.

"Take a left and turn around," her perfect and calm voice fills the car.

"Please, just recalculate and find me another route before I have a total meltdown!" I'm mortified to hear my own voice sounding worryingly unhinged, but it does the trick.

"Recalculating. Drive fifty yards and take a right turn."

I adjust the air-conditioning and reposition the vents until a waft of deliciously cold air sweeps over my flushed and perspiring face. The lane becomes even narrower and steeper, branches flicking against the sides of the car as I speed along as fast as I dare. If I meet someone coming towards me now there is nowhere to go. I have to drop down into second gear as the gradient increases rather suddenly. I wonder if I'm being punished by my satnav goddess for ignoring her instructions. Is this the alternative route from hell and this is how she exacts revenge when someone chooses to ignore her instructions? I had no idea that there were lanes as narrow as this, the hedges either side are barely clearing my wing mirrors. It's bordering on claustrophobic and hard to believe this is going to lead anywhere, other than into a field. I must be lost.

"In one hundred yards turn left into Forge Hill and your destination is on the left."

Unexpectedly, the lane begins to open out again as I approach the top of the hill and take the turning.

"In seventy-five yards your destination is located on the left."

"I find that hard to…" The words die on my lips as I round the corner and am surprised to see a small collection of farm buildings and cottages. As I continue on past a rather sharp bend, the view suddenly opens up as the hillside falls away. There, in front of me, is my chocolate-box cottage.

"Your destination is on the left," my satnav goddess confirms and I respond politely.

"Thank you, thank you and thank you!" A wave of excitement grips me as I pull onto the short drive in front of a rather quirky-looking garage.

Stepping out of the car, I immediately spot an older woman walking towards me. Well, I say older, she's about my age.

"I'm very sorry I'm late," I extend my hand. "I'm Madeleine Brooks." We shake and exchange smiles.

"Sarah Manning. Lovely to meet you. Glad you were able to find it. We have back-to-back viewings this afternoon, but the next couple has phoned in to say they're lost and are running late, so it's not a problem. Have you come far?"

"Only thirty miles, but I've been in the car for well over an hour. I managed to get held up by a flock of sheep," I laugh.

"Ah, country living. It's a different pace of life the minute you get away from the city. If you're looking for peace and tranquility this is it."

As I follow Sarah along the winding footpath that takes us from the road down to the cottage, I can't take my eyes off the view. The valley unfolds gently in front of us, belying any true sense of height or distance. The lower level of the cottage nestles back against an outcrop of rust-coloured rock, with a canopy of leafy-green forest high above it, creating a perfect backdrop. Every window in this property faces out onto the panoramic view. It sweeps down to what looks like a stream in the distance and then across to the other side of the valley. It is, quite simply, breathtaking.

The entrance is via a glazed door into a large conservatory, which runs the entire length of the cottage. As we step inside a mixture of joy, apprehension and knowing, hit me. I've found my new home and it's going to be the perfect place to begin my new life.

"Of course, it's a bit unloved at the moment and requires some work. It's a probate case; the owner, Aggie, died about a year ago." Sarah casts her eyes over my face to see whether I register any concern. "The bank is handling the estate as there are eight beneficiaries. All are distant relatives and tracking them down hasn't been easy. I'm afraid there's no room for negotiation on the price. We've been instructed to market it at five thousand pounds below the current valuation in order to achieve a quick sale. It's sold as seen."

I have no idea what that means, but her words fall on deaf ears. I'm too caught up in the moment to process what I'm being told.

"I'll take it." The words echo around the large conservatory, which looks like the only room in the cottage that can be even loosely described as anything other than bijou.

"The kitchen is small, but very quaint," Sarah throws in, as if reading my mind. My eyes are everywhere, imagining how it will look once it's renovated. Much of the conversation is one-sided. Sarah's voice continues to float over my head, as if I'm surrounded by a force field.

I'm picturing myself at a Belfast sink, gazing out of the window at the sweeping vista below as I wash the dishes. I notice a dovecote on the other side of the valley in the garden of a rather large farmhouse. A flight of doves circle and swoop, diving in formation and landing elegantly on a nearby roof, as if they've been lovingly choreographed. After a few minutes they take to the air again, the stark contrast of their white feathers against the cornflower-blue sky creating a magical moment.

"You don't mind the main bathroom being off the kitchen?" Sarah asks, bringing me back into the moment.

"Sorry? Oh, no. I like quirky. There is a shower room upstairs, isn't there?" I'm sure I saw that on the details.

"Yes, but the only bath is in here." She pushes open a rather narrow door and I'm delighted to see a surprisingly spacious room beyond. The suite is tired and needs replacing, but the proportions of the room are totally unexpected. In the centre of the vaulted ceiling is a large Velux window. It's a window that has nothing to obscure it, filled only with clouds and blue sky, as if it were a framed picture.

"Imagine lying in the bath and looking up at the stars," I murmur, thinking out loud.

Sarah laughs. "Well, that's one way of looking at it, I suppose. You really have fallen in love with Ash Cottage, haven't you?"

"I'm serious about the offer. I'm a cash buyer and I'd like to move things along as quickly as possible. I'm desperately in need of a home."

I see a slight frown cross her brow as her business head kicks in.

"Nothing dodgy," I quickly add. "It's a cash settlement from my ex-husband following our divorce. Ironically, we'd spent many years turning a rundown Victorian house into the perfect family home. I always dreamt of owning a little cottage like this some day, but I always thought it would be somewhere to spend leisurely weekends together."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that." Her voice softens and I kick myself, thinking that this was too much information. My emotions are still raw. I find myself constantly struggling to avoid bursting into tears or letting slip details people simply don't want to hear, particularly strangers. When you're hurtling towards fifty and your whole life is suddenly hanging around you in shreds, it's as if you don't know who you are any more. Sometimes I'm not even aware I'm saying my thoughts out aloud.

"Sorry, and it's fine, really. I just wanted to reassure you that I'm in a good position. I'm in rented accommodation and the cash is sitting in the bank. Please don't sell Ash Cottage to anyone else."

I'm mortified when my eyes begin to fill with tears and Sarah is clearly embarrassed. Damn it! I have to stop making a fool of myself and I utter a silent prayer of thanks that I've finally found a place that feels right. Now, at last, the first step towards the rest of my life is within reach.

We exchange glances that soften into polite smiles and Sarah holds up her mobile.

"Right, I…um, well, I'll ring in your full asking-price offer while you take a look at the bedrooms. If you're sure, that is?"

"I'm sure. Every box on my list is already ticked, it couldn't be more perfect. I have one condition – that they take it off the market immediately. I'm not sure I could face another disappointment at this point in my life."

Something akin to an awkward grimace flashes over her face as she turns to exit; her finger is already on the dial button.

I know it's not perfect at the moment, but the point is, it will be. Our second house was a wreck, literally. So, I know what can be achieved if you are prepared to roll up your sleeves, get a little dirty and make endless cups of coffee for plumbers, electricians and carpenters.

The bank is happy to recommend my offer to the beneficiaries, together with my proviso.

"You won't sell it to anyone else in the meantime, Sarah, will you? I mean, I've heard about gazumping and I can't really afford to increase my offer."

"Don't worry, there's no reason at all why the beneficiaries would say no. The sale price is fair and it's just a formality. Ash Cottage is yours."

True to her word, Sarah rang to confirm just that the very next day and it was a major boost to my confidence. This middle-aged, recently divorced woman felt as if she had finally taken back control of her life.

CHAPTER 2

I had assumed I'd be moving in within a few weeks. Perfect timing, as that would give me a couple of months before winter set in. After all, this was the shortest chain you could possibly have for a house purchase. It felt as though the storm clouds were retreating and the sun had finally decided to come out and shine once more. Life had a master plan for me and I hadn't been simply cast adrift and left to flounder, unloved and forgotten.

Pull yourself together, Maddie, you're made of strong stuff and you can do this, really you can. I feared there was an implied strength of resolve and determination in my thoughts that didn't quite match my actions at the moment. But pride alone wouldn't allow me to sink into depression. Even when your heart is smashed to pieces, you still wake up each morning to face another day. Crawling into a hole and hiding away might sound comforting, but it's never a real option, is it?

The radio flashes, indicating an incoming call and I turn up the volume.

"Guess who is back from his vacation sporting a tan and looking good?"

Ryan's velvety tones seem to fill the car. Bluetooth loves him, for some inexplicable reason. I can't ever recall losing signal whenever he's on the line, which is rather weird because it breaks up all the time when I'm running around town. Is charisma like some sort of invisible power source that coerces everything in life to work more smoothly? If that's true, then I need to get me some!

Ryan could be a radio-show presenter. He has that smooth quality to his voice that oozes charm and sophistication. But then he could be a heart-breaker, too. He just chooses not to be. He is the definitive bachelor and I've known him for what feels like forever. My husband, Jeff, was always wary of him. Oh, I mean my ex-husband, Jeff…

"Men don't have women friends unless there's an element of attraction, or something funny going on," he'd once informed me. With hindsight I can see exactly why my scheming ex would think that. At the time we moved past his comments and he never alluded to it again, knowing full well I thought he was talking utter rubbish. I do remember feeling just the teeniest bit proud that he cared enough to be jealous, but I'd worked with Ryan long enough to feel completely safe with him.

Ryan maintains that he still isn't ready to settle down, despite having recently celebrated his forty-ninth birthday. What he means, I think, is that he still hasn't found that special someone. He would be a dead ringer for Michael Fassbender, if you add a few years, a sprinkling of grey hair and shave off the designer stubble. He's ageing gracefully, I keep telling him, and he has that suave, dependable, look. He went through a phase of pulling out each grey hair he found, until I informed him that they don't always grow back. I was joking, of course, who knows? But he's a man who spends more time looking in the mirror than most women. That's because he hasn't had to pander to children or a partner, or experience the delights of bathroom wars. That's a bit like Star Wars without the light sabers, but involving all the tricks you can employ to jump the queue for that leisurely soak in the tub.

He's used to the luxury of being home alone, other than accommodating the occasional overnight guest. I sigh. It's not that I regret all those years of marriage; I simply thought it was going to last forever. I willingly gave up my freedom for my husband and the two sons who left home as soon as they became young men. It was a future I'd invested in wholeheartedly, because it defined who I was – a wife and mother. It was my raison d'être.

"Are you still there?"

"Sorry Ryan, I'm wallowing a bit today. I'm so glad you're back, I've missed you. I'm guessing you had a good time?"

Of course, I didn't just lose my husband; I also lost my lifelong friend, Eve. Mistress Rat, as I now refer to her. A sob catches in my throat as I try to wind down my wayward thoughts and concentrate on Ryan's dialogue about his fabulous trip to Dubai.

"…and I'm going to plan another visit, meet up with a few of the group again next year. First time ever I didn't want to board the plane and fly home. You know me, I usually get bored after two weeks and pine for my home comforts, but it was amazing. Anyway, enough about me, how are you doing?"

I'm back in the moment, mind clear as a bell, but the motorway traffic is heavy and I'm following the satnav on a route I don't know. It's bumper to bumper and I'm trying to change lanes, indicating and easing forward gently. The driver in the car parallel to me is doing everything he can to keep me out.

"Ryan, I hate to cut you short, but it's really bad timing. I'm in a huge snarl-up on the M4/M5 interchange and the satnav is telling me I'm in the wrong lane. A bit stressed at the moment – can I call you when I get home? A lot has happened since you left and I'd appreciate your input. I'm off to measure up my new home for blinds."

"You found somewhere! Awesome! Well done, Maddie. Has there been any communication from Mistress Rat or Cheating Ex?"

"No, and yes…eek! Sorry, have to go, promise I'll ring you later."

As I bring our call to a premature halt, the guy to my right edges forward another few inches. Now I'm in an impossible situation, half-slewed across two lanes. The traffic ahead of me is starting to move off and the car behind me honks impatiently, but there's nowhere I can go. There isn't enough room to reverse and continue in this lane and Mr Nasty looks as if he'd rather cause an accident than let me in.

"In one hundred yards keep to the right," the satnav goddess reminds me for the fourth time. If I can't get into the right-hand lane now then it will be too late and I'll end up travelling to London instead of Wales.

"I know, I know! Tell Mr Nasty," I mutter. I glance across at his stony face in the hope that he'll graciously give way, but he's obviously seen my lips moving and thinks I'm talking at him. He gives me a hand gesture that is less than gentlemanly, probably assuming a lot of the dialogue consists of swear words.

"In one hundred yards, keep to the right."

"Oh, shut up!" I wail, as someone else starts honking repeatedly. There's a gap that could fit a dozen cars ahead of me and the front of my car is directly in line with the mid-section of Mr Nasty's BMW. Now he's ignoring me and my face starts to flame. The idiot is refusing to move, even though there's a big enough gap for him to pull forward and for me to tuck in nicely. I glance apologetically at the very patient man in the car behind him, who is holding back ready for me to filter in when the BMW finally decides to pull away. I nod my head in grateful appreciation. Chivalry isn't completely dead.

Honk, honk, honk.

"In one hundred yards keep right."

Mr Nasty glances my way and he actually has a smirk on his face. Right! That's it. My nearside front wing is still a few feet away from his car and I slip into first gear and edge forward another foot. I hold my breath, wondering how close I'm prepared to go. If I hit him, how much damage can you do at, oh, all of two miles per hour?

His jaw drops and he looks at me with fear in his eyes, as it dawns on him that he's decided to tango with the wrong woman. Instead of slowly rolling forward he stops completely, allowing the growing gap in front of him to widen even further. I veer the steering wheel to the left and cruise past the front of his car, slipping neatly into the gap, but ensuring I clear the front of his car by a mere whisper.

"Now who's smirking?" I throw the words at him over my shoulder. Well, he deserved that. Suddenly, he puts his foot down and swerves across behind me, and our positions are reversed. He's now alongside me in the inside lane. He winds down his window for a few seconds, shouts out, "Scary lady, are you insane?" and then floors the accelerator. He speeds off, taking advantage of the huge gap that has opened up while we've been dancing around on the motorway.

I'm speechless. He was in the wrong lane all along! As our respective traffic lines peel off in opposite directions, a big smile crosses my face. I pick up speed thinking, hey, I'm a scary lady and maybe it's about time I started asserting myself… it might be rather fun!

When I pull up in the driveway leading down to Ash Cottage, the estate agent who comes to greet me isn't Sarah but a colleague. He's very smartly dressed, but looks almost too young to be anyone's employee. He extends his hand as he introduces himself and I reach out to clasp it and shake, only to feel mortified as my firm grip meets no resistance at all. Goodness gracious, young man, you need to work on that. I keep my thoughts to myself and give him a bright smile.

"I only need to take a few measurements, Connor," I explain, fearful he might burst into tears after the assault on his hand.

"I'll…um…sort out the key, then," he mumbles, digging deep into his jacket pocket. I follow him down the winding path as we head towards the front of the cottage, when, suddenly, a loud, "Hello" makes us both stop in our tracks. Spinning around, I see a guy in his late fifties, sporting a mass of unruly grey hair, ambling towards us with a big grin on his face.

"So glad to have caught you," he remarks, jovially. "I'm Terence Darby. My wife, Joanna, and I live in Bay Tree Barn – the one at the end of the track," he points his finger along the overgrown lane that runs high up behind Ash Cottage.

"Great to meet you, Terence, I'm Maddie Brooks. This is Connor from Cooper and Tate Estate Agents. I've come to measure up."

Terence steps forward and we shake hands, his firm grip reassuring me that I wasn't being over-zealous earlier. I notice that Connor stands well back, no doubt still nursing a sore hand.

"It's going to be lovely having a neighbour again," Terence replies. He's obviously a seasoned walker, his boots have that lived-in look and his stout walking stick has probably fended off many a bramble.

"I had hoped to be in by now, but there have been several delays." I shoot a glance at Connor, who is engrossed in scraping his shoe against a small mound of long grass. He swipes it several times to remove the dust from the lane. Even if he was listening, I think it's unlikely he'd know what was happening anyway, but it was worth a try.

"Ah," Terence shakes his head. "I can only imagine what it's like today with all the paperwork. We've been here for nearly thirty years and the house before that was our first. We do miss Aggie, she was a lovely lady."

I realise that Connor is waiting impatiently, his shoe-scuffing has stopped and he's now sorting through a handful of keys, with purpose. Terence and I exchange glances, his eyes twinkling and a little smirk lifts his lip as he tries his best not to laugh.

"Well, lovely to meet you, Terence, and fingers crossed that Ash Cottage won't remain empty for much longer."

Terence gives a little salute, a brief nod to Connor, who is still head-down and totally oblivious and he walks off down the lane whistling.

"Nice chap," I say out aloud, as I crane my neck to see if I can spot the barn. The track has a turn in it and already Terence is out of sight.

"Is this the only entrance to Bay Tree Barn?" I enquire, assuming Connor will at least have some knowledge of this property.

He shrugs his shoulders, "I don't know". With that, he turns on his heels and heads off back down the path, still sorting through his handful of keys.

"Are they all for Ash Cottage?" I ask, rather surprised there are so many. When Sarah showed me around I'm sure she only had a small ring of keys in her hand.

"Well, I thought they were." He begins trying each one in turn, picking out a few that obviously won't fit and putting them back into his jacket pocket. Several look as if they belong to outbuildings and one is quite primitive, made out of cast iron. He's becoming rather frustrated and the colour is rising in his cheeks, so I wander off to give him space and begin looking around the garden. However, it's hard not to simply stand and admire the view, though I'm also excited to explore. I remember the wooden shed that stands halfway down the sloping garden, raised on a semicircular patio area and with an old wooden bench running alongside it. The view from the bench is at a different angle to the view you get from the house and on a bright, warm, autumnal day like today it's a little sun trap.

The colour of the trees now has an orangey hue, the breeze carrying a few leaves here and there as it teases them from the branches. In a week or two they will be falling by the sackful and it dawns on me that this garden is going to be quite labour-intensive. But the stunning vista is mesmerising, and I'm actually looking forward to the hours I'll be spending taming this garden and getting it back into some semblance of order.

"It's no good," Connor calls over his shoulder. "None of these keys fit. Seems I might have picked up the wrong ones from the cabinet. The problem is," he looks at me with unease, "I'm due at my next viewing in twenty-five minutes. I don't have time to drive back to the office to pick them up."

While I do feel sorry for him, I also feel exasperated. "It's taken me over an hour to get here. Can you ring the office and see if someone else could pop out with them? I don't mind waiting – now that I'm here."

He seems annoyed, as if I created the problem and am being unreasonable expecting him to sort it out.

"It might be better if you make an appointment for another day," he replies, drily, fixing me with a stare. A flash of anger finds me struggling to hold back the first retort that pops into my head. Instead, I take a deep breath and speak slowly, but distinctly.

"I think it might be even better if you ring the office now and have the conversation, so that you aren't late getting off to your next viewing."

Connor looks at me, surprised by the forcefulness of my words and heads off back to his car, mumbling something totally incoherent as he brushes past me.

I wander down to the bench by the shed, fighting my way through one of the overgrown pathways that traverse the garden. A large fuchsia bush is covered in deep, double pink heads, the branches hanging low overhead causing me to duck. On the other side a climbing rose has suckers extending three feet and making it almost impossible to squeeze through without getting snagged. However, I persevere and take the final steps down to the bench. I was right, the view from here is completely different and it feels protected, despite being very open. With the terraced garden rising high above it to the rear, the sloping grassy bank falling away below it and a high hedge to the side, it sits in a hollow.

The sun is warm on my face and I close my eyes for a second, taking in the peacefulness of the setting. All you can hear are the birds and the odd ripple of leaves caught in the breeze. A crack in the overhanging branches of a hazelnut tree, about five feet away, announces the appearance of a young, grey squirrel. He jumps with ease across to a large branch on a neighbouring ash tree. It isn't until this moment that I scan around and really take note of the trees. The variety is amazing; however ash seems to grow particularly well here and is a fitting winner for the aptly named cottage.

"Mrs Brooks!" Connor's agitated voice calls out – a few seconds later he emerges from one of the overgrown pathways.

"I'm here and it's Miss Brooks," I reply, trying hard not to over-react to his faux pas.

He approaches the bench, inspecting the arm of his jacket as he walks.

"I think that rose has pulled a thread," he utters, sounding really fed up and choosing to ignore my comment.

"Poor you," I reply, dourly. "What did the office say?"

"There's no one available. You'll have to ring in to arrange another appointment and I'm going to have to shoot off now." He looks at his watch impatiently and that makes me really cross. I make no attempt to move, despite the meaningful glance he throws my way.

"So, I've driven all this way and I can't get access to the cottage today?"

He at least has the good grace to look a touch embarrassed, but I realise there's absolutely no point in making a fuss.

"Well, just so my journey isn't a complete waste of my time, is it okay if I take ten minutes to look around the garden?"

My request clearly presents him with a new dilemma. He's torn between having to think through the implications of leaving me here to my own devices and, after yet another flick of his wrist to check the time, being late for his next appointment.

"Well…I suppose it will be all right." He looks at me as if appraising whether or not I can be trusted.

"I am in the process of buying the property and contracts have already been exchanged." I throw this in, not to reassure him, but to remind him I'm not some total stranger who is here merely to nose around.

He nods and without another word begins his retreat back through the undergrowth.

"An apology would have been nice," I pipe up, "or a goodbye…" hoping my words will carry and perhaps remind him of common courtesy, let alone good manners.

I wait until I hear his car pull away and then venture down to locate the boundary at the bottom of the garden. The grass is on such a steep slope that it's not easy to walk down without slipping. Thankfully, I manage it without mishap and discover two crowns of rhubarb hidden among a border that also holds a beautiful mock orange blossom shrub. Everything is leggy and overgrown, sadly neglected over the past few years by the looks of it. Behind this is a hedge that runs along the bottom. The other side abuts a large grassy area, belonging to a cottage that is almost completely obscured by trees. Well, it's private, that's for sure.

Making my way slowly back up the grassy bank, I notice that the two large apple trees are badly in need of pruning. Hidden in the branches is a telegraph wire that is almost low enough to touch. Aside from that, the garden needs a lot of weeding and a tidy to take away the debris that has built up over a number of years. However, it is packed full of a whole variety of plants, trees and shrubs. It's enchanting, and a little thrill courses through me. This is going to be my garden very, very soon.

I discover a different pathway to take me back up to the top level that isn’t quite so overgrown. Thankfully, it doesn’t have any thorny branches to contend with. As I emerge, directly in front of me is the garden room. It’s still full of old furniture, although I’m sure it will be emptied before I take possession. It was used as a piano room and that, too, is built into the slope of the hill. Either side of it are storage rooms hewn into the rock face. Both are rather dank and full of cobwebs, but they will be useful. To the left stands the oil tank for the central heating and I’m dismayed to spot a small pool of oil on the floor. A little investigation is enough to confirm that the pipe going into the tank appears to have been vandalised. Well, maybe today hasn’t been a total waste after all. If I hadn’t spotted this it would have been a nightmare moving in to discover the tank was empty. I make my way back to the car to ring Cooper and Tate, thankful that this is one problem I’m not going to have to sort out on moving day.

LEWIS

CHAPTER 3

"Can I speak to Sarah Manning, please, it's urgent?"

"Who's calling?"

"Lewis Hart."

"Hold the line, I'm putting you through."

Clearly, Sarah isn't there. It switches straight to her answerphone and I'm in no mood to leave a message. I'm so angry, my hands are shaking. As if the long drive home wasn't bad enough, when I passed Ash Cottage there wasn't just a For Sale sign outside, but it was almost obliterated by a Sold banner. Now I know what they mean when they say a red mist can descend out of nowhere.

I slam down the phone, desperately trying to regain control of my anger. I can't remember the last time I lost it – the feeling isn't a welcome one and reminds me of my youth. I simply can't believe that Sarah has sold Ash Cottage to someone else.

I try to straighten out my thoughts. The last couple of weeks have been a nightmare; planning a funeral messes with your head and I thought I'd made it clear I had every intention of buying Ash Cottage once it was on the market. Heck, I rang Sarah and left a message!

It dawns on me that I haven't checked my own messages for a while and, sure enough, the flashing icon tells me that was a mistake. There are two messages and they are both from Sarah. I let out a sigh, unable to stop myself from shaking my head at my own stupidity.

"Hello, Lewis, I'm ringing to let you know that Ash Cottage is officially on the market. I have no idea if your situation has changed and whether you are still interested, given recent events. I was sorry to hear the news about your mother, such an awful time for you. I'll await your call."

Damn! That must have crossed with the message I left her. What did I say? My mind tries to replay the phone call, but there was so much going on at the time. Maybe I only asked her to call me back. I meant to give her permission to match the asking price once the bank pressed the ‘go’ button. I listen to the second message.

"Lewis, I'm returning your call as requested. I don't know what you were going to say to me … um … oh, I hope this isn't going to be bad news for you. Ash Cottage is sold. If it makes you feel any better, an offer was made on it before I received the message to ring you. When we finally received the instruction to market it, there wasn't anything I could do without confirmation that the sale price was acceptable to you. I'm honour-bound to forward every offer that is made in a timely fashion, once a property is officially up for sale. This purchaser happened to be in the right place at the right time. Let me know when you are back and I'm sorry if your plans haven't changed, but there was nothing I could do."

It’s not Sarah’s fault, it’s mine. I understand her situation. For me nothing has changed, but she wasn’t to know that. This is a bitter blow I’m going to find very hard to accept. In my head Ash Cottage was already mine and I can’t believe some stranger has stepped in to snatch it away from me.

MADDIE

CHAPTER 4

Popping back to the cottage the following Saturday to finally measure up and have a really good look around, Ryan offers to drive me. He knows how much I hate being behind the wheel and it's a thoughtful gesture. This time Sarah is the one to greet us and, after unlocking the cottage, she very kindly allows us to walk around unaccompanied. Ryan seems mesmerised by her. She's an attractive woman; blonde, quite curvy and a smart dresser.

"Take your time," she smiles, encouragingly. "I booked out a forty-minute slot. I have a few phone calls to make if that's okay with you, but if you need anything, just let me know. Here are the keys for the shed, garden room and store rooms. Enjoy!"

"Lovely woman," Ryan comments as he watches Sarah walking back up to her car.

"Yes. And extremely polite. You should have met her colleague, Connor. Well, what do you think – first impressions?" I'm buzzing and holding my breath to find out what his reaction is to Ash Cottage.

"Well, there's only one word to describe it, really, and that's wow!" Our eyes are, of course, focused only on the view. The valley is now sporting a full coat of autumnal colours; deep reds, oranges and browns, reflecting the drop in temperature early in the morning and late at night. The chill has begun and autumn is making its mark.

"You'll never get any work done. How will you be able to drag yourself away from this?"

That now-familiar little thrill courses through my body. It's a sense of excitement at the prospect of actually living here and waking up each morning to this beautiful picture of tranquility.

"I haven't heard a single car since I've been here. It's so peaceful and so very you." Ryan turns to face me, placing his hand on my arm. He gives it a friendly squeeze, his grey eyes warming as he takes in my expression. "I can see that you love it. I'm excited for you, Maddie – your new start."

In fairness, the conservatory is probably the only part of this property that doesn't need extensive work, but I can see he is caught up in the ambience. As we walk around I talk him through some of my ideas for the renovation and he throws in a few suggestions of his own.

"Who is going to do the work?"

"Well, that's the big question. Christmas is looming and, obviously, I'm unlikely to find anyone prepared to work over the period between Christmas and New Year. But the kitchen is small and even if it isn't finished in time, I hope to have the essentials installed ready for the holidays."

Ryan nods, then his jaw drops when I throw open the door to the bathroom.

"Another wow. That's what I like about old cottages, you never know what to expect. Rather bizarre having the bathroom off the kitchen, but this is going to be amazing."

I'm delighted Ryan can see beyond the current sorry state as I glance around at the very tired, and slightly musty-smelling, room.

"Think slipper bath, white accessories and shaker-style panelling on the walls."

Ryan peers up at the Velux window, watching the clouds floating by as if it's the first time he's ever seen the sky.

"Imagine this at night," he exclaims.

"Soft candles, aromatherapy bubble bath and a glass of wine in one hand – I'm already stretched out in the tub and enjoying the view!" I laugh.

"Well, it's going to be a lengthy project, but this is a diamond in the rough. What did the home survey report say? Any nasty surprises?"

"Um…not exactly. I didn't want to hold things up in case the bank changed its mind and kept it on the market until contracts were exchanged. Ironically, with all the silly questions my solicitor has raised, there would have been plenty of time to…"

"You've buying a house without having a survey? I know that technically you don't need one because you are a cash buyer, but please tell me you're joking, Maddie. Financially, you're putting everything you have into this property and that represents a big risk."

One look at my face confirms I'm telling the truth and he shakes his head in dismay. A little quiver of fleeting doubt enters my head and I shake it off.

"The cottage has been here for more than a hundred and fifty years, I doubt it will suddenly decide to slide down the hill."

Ryan shrugs his shoulders. His expression is enough to make me feel more than a little uncomfortable.

"Let's continue the tour," I say jauntily, pushing back my shoulders in an attempt to reassure myself I know what I'm doing.

We retrace our steps back through the cottage. Climbing the stairs, we walk around the two small bedrooms and poke our heads into the rather dank shower room. Descending back into the sitting room, Ryan remarks on the beautiful old cast-iron fireplace, which is in remarkably good condition for its age.

"An open fire – imagine those winter evenings…"

"There's a dining room through here, too, but I'm thinking I should turn that into a media room. I'm not sure a TV would look right in the sitting room, what do you think?"

The dining room is perfectly square and lends itself to a variety of uses, including a home office. When space is at a premium you have to make the most of every square foot. My eyes sweep the room, imagining the computer in the corner, two comfy chairs facing the TV and an elegant sideboard to house all my paperwork.

"Great idea. Why would you want to eat in here when you only have the one window looking out onto the valley? If this was mine I'd live, eat and probably spend all of my time in the conservatory."

I let out a huge sigh of relief.

"What?" Ryan looks at me with concern reflected in those telling eyes of his.

"I wondered if you'd think I was completely mad taking this on…you know – at my time of life."

He looks at me rather sharply. "Your marriage might be over, but Maddie Brooks' life part two is about to begin. I know you are still devastated and it's dented what little confidence you had, but I think you need this project. Yes, if I'm honest, it is a lot to take on for anyone and it's a pity you don't have the summer stretching out ahead of you. But life, as we know, is never perfect. There are worse things than being on your own." He shoots me a reassuring smile.

"Yes, like living with a love rat."

He cringes, wincing at my words.

"Come here! You need a hug."

I step forward and he throws his arms around me quite casually, as only long-standing friends can. We've known each other for longer than I knew my ex-husband, initially working alongside one another for nearly five years as project managers. Mostly designing re-fits for shops and stores, but occasionally working on the high-end domestic market. I gave up work about a year after I married Jeff to have our eldest son, Matt. Ryan and I lost touch for a while, but following a big promotion he contacted me to see if I was interested in working part time from home as a consultant. By then Matt was three and youngest son, Nick, was four months old. His timing was perfect, as work on our house was eating up every spare penny we had. From there on our friendship continued to grow. When he started his own business, it seemed only natural to take the job I was offered, particularly as it meant I could continue to work from home. Our friendship was something Jeff could never really accept, but I guess the money was an adequate pacifier.

"Do you know what I miss?" I ask, turning to look up at him as he shakes his head. "That struggle to keep everyone happy. I'm not used to making all the decisions without having to accommodate other people's needs and wishes. It feels lonely at times, and scary." A sudden hitch catches in my throat and seems to coincide with a distinctly watery view of Ryan's face.

"It's called freedom, Maddie. You'll get used to it. Heck, it's kind of like a drug once you grow accustomed to it and it's the reason why I'm still single. Being with someone permanently means life is a constant compromise. Sometimes it works out okay, but often it's one-sided and…" He hesitates, obviously in two minds about how honest he can be with me when it's clear I'm still very emotional.

"You can't stop there. You might as well finish off your sentence and get it over and done with."

His frown deepens. "Sometimes one person becomes a doormat."

My chest constricts, forcing me to draw in one long, deep breath. The ache in my heart is becoming less about losing Jeff's love as the days roll on, and more about a bigger loss. I feel betrayed and unloved. I gave everything because I cared, and my reward? People looking in on my relationship could see with a clarity I didn't have. I'd been fooling myself I was loved in return, but the truth was that I was being walked over and used.

"Hey," Ryan moves closer and places a hand on each of my shoulders. "Look at me! Come on, raise that chin! You're a good person, Maddie and you've brought up your sons well. Don't let anything rob you of that fact, because there aren't too many selfless people around these days. You're a nurturer; you simply forgot that there was a person inside there who deserved to have her voice heard. That's what threatens to hold you back now, if you let it.

"Now me, I'm selfish through and through. I'm in total control of my life; it runs smoothly because I don't let other people mess it up emotionally, or otherwise. Am I missing out? In some respects, yes: I'll never have a son, or daughter, of my own. But I'd make a terrible husband and an even worse father. To me it's simple. Understanding who and what you are is fundamental to attaining a life that has the right balance for you. Think of the future as a blank sheet. You get to start all over again, but this time it's all about you."

He draws back, letting his hands slip down to catch mine and give them a reassuring squeeze.

"I know you mean well, Ryan, but you've missed the point." I raise my tear-filled eyes to meet his enquiring gaze. His expression is pained and I know it's hard for him to offer the advice he's so convinced will make me see sense. "What if I don't want my life to be all about me?"

"Then you run the risk of putting yourself through this all over again. If nothing changes, then you'll be like so many others going around and around in the same flawed circle. I don't want that for you, my friend. You deserve more than to let people simply use you."

He walks away from me and out of the cottage, leaving me standing there with my mouth hanging open. In all the years I’ve known him he has never opened up his deepest feelings to me; never offered advice or judged me. To find out now that that wasn’t the case and he held back because he didn’t want to risk destroying our friendship is a surprise. But his words were so raw. That little speech wasn’t just about me – it was also about something buried deep within Ryan. What exactly the root cause is I have absolutely no idea and clearly it’s something he isn’t about to share.

CHAPTER 5

Project managing is what I do, so now contracts have been exchanged and I have a completion date of the nineteen of December, there's a lot to do in a short time. My solicitor is still concerned about a potential boundary issue, ironically to do with the path that runs along behind Ash Cottage; the one leading to Bay Tree Barn. It began when I asked her to check it out after meeting Terence that day, and I now wish I hadn't raised it at all. She's like a dog with a bone and she won't give up. It's hard to believe that the bank don't have something in Miss Agatha Brown's paperwork that will show who owns and maintains the track. Prior to the existence of Land Registry, most of the paperwork was by way of notarised letters people kept with their deeds.

"What's the worst-case scenario?" I ask, trying not to let my voice reflect the frustration I'm feeling.

"Well, Miss Brooks, without clear ownership there is the issue of maintenance – which could raise its head if the owners of Bay Tree Barn feel the track is becoming neglected. If a third party owns that strip of land, then that is another unknown…"

She continues in the same vein, listing a whole host of problems that might crawl out of the woodwork – might being the operative word. I ask her to leave it with me to make a decision about what I want to do next. Her preferred option is to insist the banks get to the bottom of it or, failing that, take out an indemnity insurance policy. The problem is that this is something I should have alerted her to much earlier. Now we've exchanged, we're locked into the deal and she has no real leverage. I was hoping to mention the vandalised oil tank, which is something I feel is much more important to me, but I don't feel I can raise that now. I hadn't realised that 'sold as seen' had such an impact. It's a simple statement and, it seems, a licence to wriggle out of answering virtually any question raised. There's one thing I need to do before I instruct my solicitor to drop her enquiries and hopefully it will give me some peace of mind.

"Sarah, it's Maddie Brooks – Ash Cottage?"

"Hi, Maddie, how can I help?"

"I want to ask your opinion about something. Have you ever met the owner of Bay Tree Barn?"

"Terence? Yes, lovely man. I had a long chat with him the day I was there taking photos, before we put Ash Cottage on the market. He's lived there for nearly thirty years. Why? Is there another problem?" Her voice reflects a weariness we both feel. This has turned out to be the purchase from hell, considering it's the shortest chain possible.

"To be frank, my solicitor isn't giving up on the issue over the track at the rear of the cottage. I've been online and found a telephone number for Bay Tree Barn. I wondered whether you thought it was a good idea, or not, to contact Terence to have a chat about it? Is it too cheeky? I wouldn't like my new neighbour to think I was being pushy or anything."

"To be honest, if I was in your position it's what I would do. He's a genuinely helpful man and if he has any issues with the track then you are better off knowing about that now."

"Thanks, glad you agree. My solicitor is annoyed I left it so late to query it, but the lease on my rental property runs out at the end of December, so it was crucial to ensure everything was tied up before then. At one point I thought I'd actually find myself homeless. So I am relieved, to be honest, but this issue is a little worrying." I can't even contemplate what Ryan would say if he knew.

"Make that call and if there's anything I can do from this end, just let me know."

"Mr Darby? I'm sorry to bother you, but it's Madeleine Brooks, the purchaser of Ash Cottage."

"Hello, Madeleine, lovely to hear from you! Please, call me Terence. Do you have a moving-in date yet?" His voice booms out, causing me to yank the mobile away from my ear. I press speaker phone and set it down on the desk in front of me.

"Yes, I'll be in on the nineteenth. There's one outstanding issue about the track that runs along behind Ash Cottage. I wondered if you knew who the owner was."

"Ah, that's just the sort of issue that solicitors love. We went through this when we were buying Bay Tree Barn and in the end we talked to Aggie. It seems there is no documentation to confirm ownership and the assumption made was that it was a strip of land that was never claimed by anyone. Aggie was perfectly happy for us to use it as a back entrance to the barn, to save us walking all the way around to our front access. That's the other side of the hill. It's not wide enough for vehicular access, which was Aggie's only concern, as obviously the track is level with the first floor of Ash Cottage."

"So it's definitely not mentioned in your deeds, either? What about maintenance?"

"Well, I usually hack back the brambles every summer. It doesn't lead anywhere other than to the barn, so ramblers don't use it. Aside from Joanna and me, Aggie's handyman, Lewis Hart, uses it once a year to clear the leaves out of the gutters to the rear of the cottage."

That is just what I was hoping to hear.

"From your point of view it's not an issue, then? No one is likely to suddenly step in and put a road through there?" I can't hide a chuckle, voicing one of the worst-case scenarios my solicitor had thrown up, and which had sent me into a panic.

"Goodness gracious – no! It would run straight through the barn. You know, it's turning into a world where common sense seems to have become a dirty word. It's a pathway leading to the barn and an access point to the rear of Ash Cottage. It's probably a throwback to the days when it wasn't necessary to tie up every little thing tighter than a drum; jobsworth, I call it."

We both laugh and I'm delighted my new neighbour is as laid-back about this as I am.

"Thank you, Terence, your reassurance means a lot. I'm just relieved to know I'm going to be in before Christmas. As we're chatting, could I trouble you for the details of any local tradesmen you could recommend? I'm going to need to get the work started as quickly as possible."

"Give me your email address and I'll send you a list. It's a busy time for the plumbers of course. Plus most of them take off an extended holiday period, as the icy mornings make parts of the Forest treacherous to drive through at times. If we get snow then everything grinds to a halt, so you'll have to make sure you stock up on provisions. If there's anything Joanna and I can do, just call."

His words aren't exactly what I want to hear right now, but I guess forewarned is forearmed.

"Thank you, that's very kind. If you can also give me the details of your local oil delivery company, that would be great. My email is mbrookspropman@sl1dotcom. Hope to see you very soon!"

With my last real worry put to bed, I am a woman on a mission. First I ring my solicitor and tell her to drop her enquiries, then I do the bit that I’m trained to do: manage this project to within an inch of its life.

CHAPTER 6

Terence's email has a long list of contact names and addresses, which immediately perks me up. I know it isn't going to be easy to get everything sorted, but I'm pretty confident I can at least make a solid start.

I walked away from my marriage with barely enough to fill my car and most of it consisted of the contents of my wardrobe. I felt that everything in that house had been tainted when I learnt that my unbelievably callous husband had entertained Eve there. I was away on a two-day course that Ryan had talked me into, oblivious to what was happening at home. Jeff paid in other ways, of course, and I know he wasn't happy with the size of the cash settlement. But now there's only my income and no safety net I'm going to have to stretch my budget as far as I can.

It's time to make some big decisions about what I can, and can't, afford. I drool over some fabulous kitchens and bathrooms, dreaming of how it could look and then seek out more modest alternatives. The thing I've learnt over the years is that a high price tag doesn't always guarantee you the best, or most practical, design. By the end of day three I have 3D visuals of the new kitchen, bathroom and the shower room. The bottom-line figure is just within my budget, albeit I had to reduce the contingency line to virtually zero. I have lists of the items that can now be ordered, so that's the next task.

The one teeny little problem is that I still can't find anyone to do the work, unless I'm prepared to wait until the spring! Terence's list was comprehensive and what I have found is that people in the Forest are not only friendly, but helpful. My list of tradesmen has now doubled with recommendations, but each call has had the same response. A sharp intake of breath is the first reaction when I say that work must begin in four weeks' time. There were two numbers I called where I had to leave a message, so I'm living on nerves and hope at the moment. Perhaps blind faith will get me through, or do I mean a stubborn refusal to give up until all avenues have been exhausted?

What doesn't help is that I'm working from Ryan's suite of offices while I'm in the rented house. The daily commute into central Bristol from my rental in Bath is a grind. It's stop/start all the way and the traffic congestion seems to have extended well beyond any sort of recognisable rush hour. Whether I leave earlier or later it's bumper to bumper, sharing the road with a lot of angry and stressed commuters. I find myself day-dreaming about my desk in the corner of the media room at Ash Cottage. Traipsing into my sparkling new country kitchen in off-white shaker style and flicking the switch on my new espresso maker…toot, toot. What is it with horns these days? Aren't they supposed to be used for emergencies only? Like warning people they are about to get run over?

"What do you think?"

Ryan continues to flick through the screens, scrutinising each page with a professional eye.

"Hmm…it seems pretty comprehensive." He sits back in his leather swivel chair and chews on the end of his pen. "Only two issues, as far as I can tell."

"Fire away." That sounded a little more confident than I feel. Two issues? Really?

"The first is in relation to the labour costs. I assume you will be doing some of the basic redecoration yourself, but even so, that figure is highly optimistic. The other thing is the contingency line. You really are leaving yourself wide open there, Maddie. With a cottage, you never know what problems you will encounter until you begin pulling it apart. With the conservative figure you've put in for labour costs, reducing the contingency to a mere thousand pounds is a huge risk."

I shrug, indicating that I don't really have a choice. I can't pluck money out of thin air. He sits forward, resting his elbows on the desk and flicks through the small pile of papers I put in front of him.

"I've used worst-case figures for the larger items of expenditure. I'm pretty sure I can come in at least two thousand under budget when I place the order for the kitchen. I figure I can add that into the labour costs. As I get a handle on the actual costs I'll be clawing whatever savings I manage to make on purchases into that contingency pot. This is something I do all the time." I feel uncomfortable under his gaze. He isn't smiling and I'm not sure if that's because it's been a hard day or my figures really are concerning him.

"There's a big difference, Maddie. This is your money, not some wealthy client who can afford to over-spend or cut costs at a stroke because of the size of the budgets. You're going to have to make sure you don't order with your heart instead of your head. No falling in love with the perfect bathroom suite that will blow your budget or the solid-wood flooring that costs the earth. You might be lucky and find there are no hidden problems, although I'll be amazed if that's the case. Plus you might manage to employ a guy who spends more time working than he does texting on his phone. But might is one of those words that make me very, very nervous. If this was a client's proposal I'd continue to poke holes in it until they agreed to up the budget."

I can't decide whether I'm grateful Ryan is being so honest, or I'm disappointed that he doesn't have more faith in my abilities. I'm not sulking: I simply don't feel like justifying myself. He's looking a little exasperated now.

"You're being creative with the budget because you need it to work. That hampers you in terms of being objective. Can I make a suggestion?" He holds my gaze and then suddenly winks at me. I burst out laughing.

"I think you're going to say what's on your mind, even if I say no."

"The main bathroom is a big chunk of the budget because of all of the re-plastering and plumbing work that will be required before the refit can be carried out. Don't place an order for any of the materials, or the bathroom suite, until after the kitchen is finished. By then you'll have a much better idea of how the costs are stacking up and if you have to find emergency funds, that's the budget to raid."

"So I'll have to wait for my leisurely soak in that fabulous slipper bath? No glass of wine and staring up at that inky, star-lit sky after a hard day's work…"

Now it's Ryan's turn to laugh, although it comes out as more of a snort.

"I'm trying to keep you grounded; it's the smart decision."

I nod, grudgingly, having to admit it does make sense. But order times vary and a ten, or twelve, week delivery time is quite typical. If I wait until the kitchen is finished, it could be four months before I have a bathroom I can relax in. The shower room is going to be convenient, but even something as simple as storage is going to be an issue in there.

"Okay, common sense will prevail. Aside from that, is there anything else there that bothers you?"

"One thing…"

Now I'm beginning to feel a little concerned; I think I did an amazing job considering the restrictions of time and cost.

"How long will you be taking off work, exactly? I'm not sure we'll be able to cope if you disappear for more than a few weeks."

He's serious and I feel myself blushing. I don't want him to think I'm being unreasonable and ignoring the fact that he has a business to run.

"I'll be there on call if anything goes wrong. The Anderson's project will be completed at least a week before moving-in day. That's plenty of time for me to tie up any loose ends. I was thinking of taking at least a month. After that I'll have to juggle work and the renovation for a while. It won't be forever, things will eventually get back to normal. I've already talked to the internet people and that will be connected the day I move in. The modem is due to arrive in about ten days' time."

It's the first item on the utilities checklist. Ryan nods.

“Well, now all you have to do is find yourself a man who will actually turn up on time and is capable of keeping up with your programme. Good luck with that,” he adds. My stomach does a backflip as it occurs to me that time is fast running out.

CHAPTER 7

When the voicemail icon pops up on my phone I silently pray it's either Mr Chappell, the small building company who are based a stone's throw away from the cottage, or Aggie's 'man who can', a Mr Hart. I'm delighted to find two voicemails and immediately I perk up.

"Ms Brooks, this is Lewis Hart. Thanks for your call, but I'm not sure I can help. I'll be in the area on Saturday and will swing by to take a look if I have time."

In the area? I thought he was a local guy? The next voicemail is Mr Chappell.

"Hello Miss Brooks, this is Frank Chappell. We close for two weeks over the holiday period and in the New Year all of my men will be tied up on the new community hall project. It's unlikely I will have anyone free until the middle of April at the earliest. However, you mentioned some plastering work and there's a chance I could free up one of our guys for the odd half day here and there to help out, if that's convenient. Call me back and we can discuss it. Thank you for ringing Chappell and Hicks."

A sense of relief begins to roll over me like a wave. It's only a pinprick of hope, but it's better than two outright rejections. Mr Hart sounded rather lukewarm, but he wasn't totally dismissive. On the other hand, Frank Chappell sounds like a man with many years' experience; a consummate professional. Although he's only offering a plasterer, maybe I can convince him to divert a little more labour to Ash Cottage. I immediately re-dial, crossing my fingers as I wait for him to pick up.

"Mr Chappell, its Madeleine Brooks. Thank you so much for returning my call."

"Oh yes, Ash Cottage wasn't it? Lovely location, Miss Brooks. I hope you are going to enjoy living in the Forest."

He sounds sweet. His voice is deep and very friendly.

"Look, I'll be very honest with you, Mr Chappell. I'm desperate here. The cottage has been empty for over a year. It's cold and a little damp because the bank handling the probate case won't allow any of the services to be turned on. It's in case of a leak, or fire, apparently. I'm moving in on the nineteenth of December and I need a working kitchen installed before the twenty-fifth. Is there any way at all you can help?"

Again, that distinctly sharp intake of breath.

"I would love to be able to say yes, but the truth is that all our guys will be working flat out right up to the shutdown. I'll ask around to see if any of them are interested in doing a few days' work during the holiday, but please don't get your hopes up. However, I'm confident I can get a plasterer for you, if you are prepared to be flexible. I'll send him across as and when I can. Simon Griggs is a quick worker and he'll do an excellent job."

Darn, I was hoping for a bit of a miracle here. I can hear the sympathy in his voice, I only wish there was more he could do.

"Mr Chappell, if you have any delays whatsoever and can spare anyone, will you think of Ash Cottage first? I'm a prompt payer and you would be doing me a huge favour."

"I'll pin your telephone number up on the board, Miss Brooks. You'll be my first thought if I catch anyone standing around without something to do," his voice reflects the smile I know he has on his face.

"Thank you so much! And, please, call me Maddie."

"I'm Frank. I might not be able to part the waters, but I'll do the best I can."

The wave of relief doesn't exactly dissolve the knot in my stomach, but this is a life-line. Now to see what Mr Hart has to say.

"Hi, it's Madeleine Brooks from Ash Cottage. Thanks for returning my call."

"I wasn't expecting you to get back to me. Didn't I say I'd call in on Saturday, or something?"

Or something? I'm rather taken aback by his tone, which is distinctly dismissive.

"I…um…thought it might be polite to let you know that I don't yet have my own key. I don't move in until the nineteenth. However, I'm sure I can talk the estate agent into letting me have access for a couple of hours."

Heavy breathing down the line seems to indicate the phone is nestled between his chin and his shoulder. The short blast of a drill confirms as much.

"Sorry, are you on a job?"

"I'm always on a job. It's what I do."

Well, that was downright rude, if not sarcastic. I'm not sure how to answer that, but Mr Hart quickly jumps in to fill the silence.

"I'll drop by at eleven. I won't be able to hang around for long."

Right.

"Oh, thank you. Um, am I assuming you have some time in your schedule to begin work quite quickly?"

"I said I'd take a look, lady, not that I'd bring my toolkit and make a start. See you at eleven."

The phone clicks and the line is dead.

Guess it's going to be a case of working with Frank Chappell, then. I can only hope that he can talk one of his men into installing my kitchen instead of kicking back for the holidays. It's a tall order, but what choice do I have? What I'd really like to know is why there don't seem to be any women out there in the building trade. I refuse to believe it's a one hundred per cent male-dominated workforce. Maybe I need a woman who can…

My phone kicks into life and I wonder if it's Mr Hart calling back to apologise for his rudeness.

"Mum, how're you doing?" The sound of Matt's voice makes my eyes tear up. In the midst of all this madness, it's a reminder of the life I had and how much I miss it.

"Good – really good. How is Dublin?"

"It's pouring with rain here. I wanted to check up on you; sorry it's been a while. I also have some news. Do you want the goods news first, or the bad?"

My knees quiver, I'm not sure I can survive any more negativity at the moment. My voice wavers as I try to sound as if I can cope with anything.

"What's the bad news? Do you need me to fly over?"

He clears his throat. "We won't be able to get over for Christmas after all, I'm afraid. There's a lot going on as Sadie is working flat out at the moment and I'm only able to take a couple of days' holiday. I'm really sorry. I know you'll be disappointed."

The motherly bit of me instantly goes into guilt-mode, as I acknowledge that I'd assumed everyone would give me a wide berth this Christmas. I keep forgetting that the boys haven't seen Ash Cottage and have no idea what I'm taking on. They probably imagine a cosy, warm little place in the country.

"Oh, darling, don't worry. To be honest, the facilities on offer here aren't going to make for the most relaxing Christmas. I suspect the cottage will be little more than a building site. What's the good news?"

"We're having a baby."

My hand goes straight to my heart, my head repeating his words over and over again. He's twenty-two years old and he's only been living with Sadie for eighteen months – a baby?

"Congratulations, I'm…well, I'm…thrilled. It's great news, Matt. Have you told Dad?"

He doesn't sound excited, he sounds…accepting. I guess this is a surprise he wasn't expecting; maybe neither of them was expecting it.

"I'll ring him next. I wanted to tell you first. Sadie has just phoned her mum; she says 'hi', by the way. It's a bit sooner than we'd planned, you know, we thought the wedding would come first and all that. You're not, um…you don't feel awkward about a baby coming before we tie the knot, do you, Mum?"

"No, darling; it's only a piece of paper. It's what's in your heart that counts."

"I told Sadie you'd be fine with it. We just feel awful that we're going to miss your birthday, especially as it's a big one and the first since…"

My heart constricts.

"Matt, darling, I'll be spending it covered in paint and looking like a builder's apprentice. Next year will be very different and maybe you will be able to come over with the baby. A summer birth, how lovely! Oh, I wish you were both here so I could hug you. Wonderful, wonderful, news."

Matt explains that Sadie is suffering from morning sickness and he’s trying to make sure she doesn’t over-tire herself. She works in marketing and it’s a busy environment, especially when the first part of each day is spent feeling so awful. I’m so proud of my son being empathetic: caring enough to help out as best he can. Maybe Ryan was right, and I did do a good enough job. It seems that selfish streak running through Jeff hasn’t been passed on, after all. If it were, maybe my example was enough to show the boys that love is about putting the other person first. Whatever – my heart is singing. Then it hits me. I’m going to be fifty very soon and I’m going to be a grandmother. I’m getting old, how did that happen? Inside I still feel like a thirty-year-old.

CHAPTER 8

Saturday arrives and I find myself sitting in the car outside Ash Cottage for two hours on a very chilly winter's day. It's freezing and I have to keep kicking the engine into life to put a blast of heat on my poor, frozen toes. I'm afraid to leave it running for too long in case I run out of fuel. Fortunately, the estate agents let me have a front-door key on condition that I return it as soon as I've shown Mr Hart around. Of course, Sarah knows him and I think that connection had more to do with being entrusted with a key than the fact that I'm the soon-to-be owner. As the end of the first hour of waiting comes and goes, I feel I ought to at least explain why the keys aren't going to arrive back at their offices imminently.

"Sarah, this is Maddie Brooks. I'm really sorry, but Mr Hart hasn't turned up yet. I'm not sure what to do…whether to wait or head back to you. The trouble is that he might be my only option. Is he known as a reliable tradesman?" I don't know whether to cross my fingers and hope she says yes, or face up to the reality that he is the ‘man who can't’ on this particular occasion.

"I suspect he's been held up. He's a hard worker, but he does tend to…well, I suppose I want to say 'get pulled into helping people out'. He always dropped everything whenever Aggie had a problem and he tends to be the first choice for many of the elderly people in the community. He probably won't tell you that, though. He's a bit of a mystery to most people, very private. Maybe his van has broken down; he doesn't have any family locally and that's a real disadvantage in the Forest. I'd say hang on for a bit. If he's not going to turn up I'm sure he'd call to let you know."

She sounds positive, which is reassuring.

When he eventually turns up, he's driving a beaten-up old van. And a white van, at that. On the side there's a huge decal, 'The Man Who Can', and written underneath in smaller letters it says, 'renovations and maintenance'. The moment I spot him, I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. I don't know quite what I was expecting after our rather abrupt conversation, but he looks a darned sight more cheerful in the flesh than he sounded on the other end of a phone.

His clothes, though, are even more surprising. He's wearing an old tee-shirt advertising a 1987 Metallica tour. It's been washed to within an inch of its life and would be perfect for cleaning windows. You know, when the cotton is so limp it flies over the glass like a dream. His jeans have the knees hanging out and he probably considers them to be a walking advertisement. I can see virtually every colour of paint, what looks like traces of white filler and a splattering of something the colour of concrete. Maybe he doesn't fold the jeans up at night; they just stand to attention at the foot of his bed. I realise I'm staring at him and he's walking past my car without acknowledgement, already heading down the path leading to Ash Cottage.

"Mr Hart?" I call after him, quickening my pace to catch up with him.

He barely takes the time to glance around, shrugging his shoulders and continuing to stride out. Each movement is purposeful and powerful; the man is all muscle. His head is shaven; from this vantage point I can see that's because he's lost most of the hair on the top. That tell-tale clean stripe down the centre is bordered by a fuzz of new growth. His face isn't clean-shaven either, but it also couldn't be described as a beard, more designer stubble. I don't think that's intentional, I just think he probably spends more time in the gym than he does looking in the mirror. His age is hard to determine. He has the physique of a man used to lifting heavy things – huge, muscular arms; lean, and a neck I probably couldn't get my hands around at full stretch. The question in my mind is will I feel comfortable having this man in my home? He looks more like a bouncer than a kitchen-fitter, but there's a magnetism about him that just made something inside me turn to jelly. What on earth? I take a very deep breath and assume it's merely hunger. Clearly, I'm in need of a quick sugar-fix. He isn't my type – too rough around the edges and very little in the way of manners, it would appear.

"I'm late," he throws the words over his shoulder with no hint of an apology whatsoever.

"Well, erm…thank you for coming. Let me just open the door…"

He doesn't move aside, but stands directly in my way, so I have to scoot around him. He's about my height, five foot eight, and as I swing open the door and spin back around, we're standing eye to eye. He raises his eyebrows at me and my knees start to cave. How ridiculous! I'm a grown woman, not some love-sick teenager!

"You're older than I expected." His voice is casual, but I'm rendered speechless and now I'm fuming. Suddenly those wobbly legs stand firm. How rude! Keep calm, keep calm – you need this guy more than he needs you. Ooh, that didn't help … the thought of needing a man like him inspires a totally different chain of thought.

"I was thinking the same thing." I throw the words back with a casual air, to indicate that he's going to have to do better than that to offend me.

"I can see why you were sounding so stressed out. On your own, are you?"

If this is his normal mode of conversation, I'm not sure I can put up with it. He's here to look at the kitchen, not make small talk.

"I'm in need of someone to rip out the old kitchen and put in the new one. All the goods and materials are on order, but the kitchen units won't be arriving until the twenty-third of December. If work starts on the day after I move in, that would give you three days to strip it out and lay the new floor, first. I have a plasterer coming in to make good the walls. I'm assuming you could at least get the basics in by Christmas Eve? Can you handle that?"

It strikes me that I'm being unnecessarily abrupt, but he's beginning to unnerve me. Mr Hart follows me into the kitchen and stands with his arms folded, muscles rather ridiculously popping out of the arms of his seen-better-days tee-shirt.

"I've already put you in my little book." His face doesn't give me a clue what that means and I wait, assuming he will explain. As the seconds stretch out I realise that's it.

"Which means?"

He looks directly at me and his forehead wrinkles up into a puzzled frown.

"I'll be here on the twentieth, early."

Another silence begins to stretch out rather awkwardly and I find myself being out-stared.

"Don't you want to write anything down or look at the kitchen plan? Can you cope with re-plumbing the sink, or do I need to get someone in to do that? I'm not sure what your skills are exactly, Mr Hart."

Another frown and I get the distinct impression that I'm bothering him.

"I can re-fit a kitchen, Miss Brooks. In fact, I can do just about everything. And I don't need to write anything down. I know this place inside and out. I was Aggie's maintenance man."

I'm not sure that gives me a lot of confidence, considering the state of the cottage. I have to make a quick decision here. I'm in his book, which means I have a contractor, but can I put up with his rather bizarre and surly attitude?

"Right…um, good. Um…so what is the purpose of today's visit?"

"I thought I'd check you out first. I like to be left alone to get on with a job and not have someone peering over my shoulder every two minutes, changing their mind about what they want. It happens."

That makes my eyebrows shoot up into my fringe. Is he purposely trying to wind me up?

"I know exactly what I want, Mr Hart. Here is the new layout and on the second page you will find a breakdown of all of the items that are on order. I'm assuming you will provide things like plumbing fittings, filler, caulk and any additional timber you might need. If there's anything not on that list that you want me to purchase, just let me know. If I can have a price for the entire job, including connecting the cooker and the plumbing work, that would be very helpful. I have rather a tight budget."

We both know price isn't really relevant. There's no one else available at such short notice, as Mr Chappell didn't have any luck finding me someone. It does worry me slightly as to why Mr Hart is free when everyone else is rushed off their feet. I figure that that's information I'm probably better off not knowing. If Aggie used him and Terence is prepared to recommend him, too, then I have to trust that he will do a good job. Even Sarah, at the estate agents, seemed to think highly of him.

"Your budget is your business, Miss Brooks. The price is the price. I'll text it to you later today. See you on the twentieth. I'll be here by seven. I'm also Gas Safe registered, which means I can fit cookers. This one is dual fuel; Calor gas hob and electric oven. If you're replacing it, make sure you order a conversion kit. But I expect you knew that." There's a hint of sarcasm in his voice and I feel myself reddening. Of course I realised it was dual fuel, but no one mentioned a conversion kit when I placed the order.

We've been inside for less than five minutes and he's out of the door before I have a chance to ask any more questions. I spin around, taking in the tired kitchen and the ancient cooker.

"Aggie," I mutter in desperation, "I hope I can trust your judgement. He sounds like he knows what he's doing, but he's so damned arrogant. He'd better not let me down."

I zip up my padded jacket as the damp chill in the air sends a shiver through me. I hope the plumber turns up to fix that vandalised pipe and the oil delivery arrives before my first sleep here.

"I'm sure it will all be fine, Aggie, and the cottage is going to look lovely. It's in safe hands; promise." Sharing my problems with her might gain me some good karma, but it's sad to think there's no one else to listen to me.

As I place the key in the lock I almost have to pinch myself. Very soon this will all be mine and even if I have to put up with people like Mr Hart, it will be worth it in the end. I stop for a minute to take in the view and revel in a sense of something akin to renewal. The stresses of modern-day living seem far removed from this scene of peaceful tranquility. As I watch, grey squirrels leap from tree to tree in search of any last remnants of bounty. Even in winter the scene is magnificent.

On the drive back the rain begins to fall once more.

My phone pings and it's a text.

Ryan: You’ve been on my mind. How’s it going?

Me: Good. I have a kitchen-fitter.

Ryan: Go you! We should celebrate.

Me: Rain check on that one. Too much to sort out. Sorry. How r u?

Ryan: Disappointed. I’m here if u need me.

Now I feel bad.

Me: Thanks, really. It means a lot. See you soon, promise!

Besides, I'm not sure I'd be good company at the moment, but it's too difficult to explain. It strikes me that Ryan has always been there for me no matter what else is happening in his life. I suppose he filled the void that Jeff created as we drifted apart. I don't know why that comes as such a surprise, really.

The subject of the vandalised oil tank seems to dominate my thoughts. I decided it's madness not to address the problem, as the rain continues to pour relentlessly. There seems to be no let-up whatsoever and it isn't just drizzling rain, but the stuff that soaks you in seconds and makes you feel distinctly miserable. Time for an update.

"It's not good news," Sharon Greene's very professional tone conveys no emotion, despite her words, and I wonder if that's something a solicitor has to learn. "The bank is insisting that the cottage is sold as seen. They are not prepared to have the vandalised oil tank fixed, and they've rejected my request for you to be allowed access prior to completion to sort out the problem."

"Can they do that?" I'm rather shocked at what feels like a callous reaction.

"Their policy with probate cases is that everything in the property is switched off at the mains. The estate agents do not have the authority to switch anything back on in case of a potential leak or the risk of fire. An empty property is at risk, simply because if something happens it could be a while before it's discovered. If the plumber did any damage while carrying out the repair, the bank would be held liable in the first instance. I know it seems harsh, but it's pretty standard practice, it just doesn't come up very often."

"Well, thank you for trying. It seems I'll have to get a plumber lined up to start work the moment I have the keys and book the oil delivery for later in the day. At least the heating should be on by the evening, so that's some comfort."

There's absolutely no reaction from Sharon.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" It's not a question aimed at evoking a response and I have the distinct feeling she's signing off on this case.

"No, I think that's it, Sharon. Thank you for your help and I'm only sorry I bothered you with this matter." I feel slightly embarrassed, as if I should have known that dealing with an institution isn't like dealing with a normal person. They don't care if I freeze, or whether the oil tank ever gets filled.

By some miracle, in less than twenty-four hours I have a plumber who specialises in emergency call-outs. He says he can make himself available from eleven o'clock on moving day.

The universe must have been sending out good karma and taking pity on me as things begin to fall into place. So the order of play will be keys, plumber, oil delivery – what can go wrong? As if by magic I seem to have everything covered.

Tick-tock, tick-tock – moving-in day can’t come fast enough! Now if I could just do something about that incessant rain…

LEWIS

CHAPTER 9

I don't know who this Miss Brooks thinks she is, but she can't just expect me to jump because she has a problem. Some people are all me, me, me. Does she think I just sit around waiting for the phone to ring and jobs to come in? I've never had any downtime between jobs and if I accommodate her, then someone else will have to wait. Well, I suppose I am lashing out a bit and the truth is that I had built a little slack into my work timetable. But working for her wasn't in the plan.

I can't refuse, because it's Ash Cottage and I know every inch of it as well as I know the back of my hand. Little Miss I'm-Having-A-Crisis thinks she's smart, but if you ask me she's taken on way too much. Even if this woman does lighten up at some point, I seriously doubt she'll lose that I’m better than you attitude. I'm a tradesman, not a servant. Well, you need me more than I need your money, Missy, so you'd better be careful.

The mobile kicks into life and it's Sarah from the estate agents. I wonder what she wants? I don't suppose Miss Brooks has changed her mind and realises it's not quite the little project she thought it was going to be!

"Hi, Lewis. You said to let you know if anything new comes on the market. We've just taken on a little two-bed cottage in Lybrook. It has a lovely garden extending over a quarter of an acre and it's in your price range. Have you started looking again?"

I can't get my head around looking at properties at the moment. I know Sarah feels awkward and would love to find me the perfect place to put down roots.

"I've decided to wait a while before I start looking again. My plans have changed slightly and I'm up to my eyes in work."

"Does that mean you are going to take on the renovation work at Ash Cottage? Miss Brooks did mention your name. I just thought it might be … awkward for you."

I bet she did.

"Well, she isn't going to be easy to work with, but at least I'll know it's been done properly."

"Oh, I didn't mean …"

I know exactly what Sarah meant, but it doesn’t hurt to let it be known that I’m doing this for my own reasons. It might even get back to Miss Brooks and make her realise she’s lucky I didn’t refuse her point blank.

MADDIE

CHAPTER 10

Even the grey sky can't dampen my excitement today. I'm awake for quite a while before the alarm finally kicks into life at six am and I don't need to pull back the curtains to check on the weather. I can hear the rain driving hard, as the wind rattles at the window. Switching on the bedside light and sitting up, I pull out my project notebook. Running down the action list for today is more for reassurance than a final check. I've been running over and over it in my head since one o'clock this morning. I could repeat it parrot fashion from memory. Everyone on it is probably already completely fed up with hearing from me, as I have checked and double-checked with them all several times over during the past week, to ensure everything goes smoothly.

I feel I've organised this down to the last detail and, in theory, the actual move itself is going to be straightforward – even if everything is going to get very, very wet in the process. Both Ryan and my younger son, Nick, offered to help out, but it's not as if I'm moving the contents of an entire house. Aside from my clothes and personal effects, I do have a stack of things I've recently purchased for the new cottage, but the removal guy assured me it's only half a load. One trip, four hours in total with travel, he said.

There's no point in unpacking everything at the other end until most of the really dirty work has been carried out. The mess and dust from stripping out the kitchen and hacking off the plaster on the two damp walls is going to be a nightmare, but hopefully the worst of the mess will be out of the way in the first couple of days. Ash Cottage, here I come.

By the time the removal van arrives, the rain is driving hard at a forty-five-degree angle. The wind makes it impossible to use an umbrella and I end up settling for an old woollen hat, pulled down tightly over my ears. Gareth, the van driver, seems oblivious to the rain.

"Can I help carry a few boxes?" I offer, as he passes me in the hallway and I notice rain drops dripping off the end of his nose.

"It's not a problem, Miss Brooks. I'm used to it. Nothing gets through this jacket or these boots," he gazes over the box he's carrying and down at his feet. "Best boots I've ever had," he adds.

"Oh. Good. Well, I'll get back to cleaning, then…"

The pile of boxes is quickly diminishing and I'm only thankful I decided to move them all into the hallway yesterday. With the dust sheet covering the carpet, at least I won't have a soggy mess to deal with. Those boots must be at least size tens and the number of times they've been in and out – well, I've lost count.

He's finished loading by ten past nine. A quick flash around with the vacuum cleaner, then two phone calls to confirm the final gas and electricity meter readings, and I find myself locking up the front door for the very last time. Goodbye house, thank you, but no apologies for saying that it hasn't been the best period in my life. Things can only get better from here on in.

"What do you mean, the funds still haven't arrived?" It's almost noon and I'm sitting in the car, which is parked two streets away from the estate agent's office. The windows keep misting up. I think of the plumber, who has been sitting in his van outside Ash Cottage for well over an hour now. The removal guy, poor chap, has been there for nearly two hours and has already phoned me four times to remind me of that fact. "So what's holding it up?"

I'm conscious that in about an hour's time there will be several lorries arriving at the cottage and expecting to gain access to drop off their goods. The plumber says the oil tanker hasn't turned up yet, so fingers crossed that's not a complication I'm going to have to face.

"The funds have been sent, Miss Brooks, I can assure you. The transfer is in the system and it's a matter of waiting for confirmation from the bank's solicitor."

"Can't you at least let me have a front-door key? If the funds are on their way, then surely it's as good as mine now?"

"Ooh, we can't do that," his tone infers complete disapproval. "Anything could happen, even at this stage."

"Really?" Now I'm seething. "Really? You think I might change my mind, even when all my belongings are in a van outside Ash Cottage as we speak? If this purchase doesn't go through today, I have nowhere to sleep tonight. I hardly think the bank will change its mind and decide they aren't going to sell it to me after all. The money is practically in their account. Don't you think you are being just a tad unreasonable here?"

I'm afraid the sarcasm in my voice is disappointing; I should know better and the response it invokes is deserved.

"Hassling me, Miss Brooks, is not going to get you access to Ash Cottage until I've received the call from the bank's representative. I require their authority to release the key. I will ring you when that happens." The click cutting off the call is instantaneous and my heart sinks into my boots.

Okay, keep calm Maddie and think of a plan. My fingers dial quickly.

"Mr Trent, do you need access to the cottage in order to replace the vandalised oil pipe?"

The plumber sounds hesitant.

"Well, no, but if you don't have the keys…I don't want to end up being prosecuted for trespassing."

It's just my luck that I've picked probably the only plumber in the world who would ask that question. I push back my shoulders, not that he can see, but it has the desired effect.

"They're fine with it, but we can't have access to the house just yet. The funds are in the system, so they've assured me it will be any moment. As soon as I have the keys I'll be on my way. Can you…erm…do me another favour?"

He doesn't respond. Funnily enough, I don't seem to have any pangs of guilt about lying to him, which I presume will absolve him of any blame if anything goes wrong. That still doesn't prevent me from feeling awkward imposing like this.

"There are several deliveries on their way. They've all been told not to deliver before one o'clock, but key release by then is looking doubtful now. If they turn up, could you see if the garage is unlocked and ask them to leave the parcels inside? I'm not expecting you to check the boxes or anything, but if they won't leave them without a signature, could you sign for them? I accept the risk is mine if they mess up, but I simply don't have any other options."

On my last two visits the garage has been unlocked. After all, it's empty and I mentioned to Sarah that I would be grateful if she could make sure no one locked it, just in case we had problems today.

Heavy breathing accompanies the silence as Mr Trent rather reluctantly hurries off to check the garage.

"It's pouring with rain here, you do know that?" he mutters. "They have the sandbags out down on the lower road again, so it doesn't look promising."

Promising?

"In what way?"

"A repeat of the big flood they had last winter. The road through the village was closed for the best part of three weeks."

Flood? What flood? A feeling of utter panic hits me square in the gut and then starts to spread outwards. No one mentioned anything about flooding. What if the deliveries can't get through? What if I can't get back to the cottage even when I have the keys in my hand? Pull yourself together, Maddie, panicking isn't going to change anything. You can only deal with one thing at a time and it's too late to back out now.

"Nope, it's not locked. You're in luck."

Luck has nothing to do with it. I thought ahead and anticipated this scenario, although in my head it was worst-case. How can it take over three hours to move money from one account to another? I thought it was instantaneous these days. They type in the details, press the enter key and there you go!

"Thank you for checking. I really hope that I'll be there before any of the deliveries arrive. The oil tanker isn't due until later this afternoon. How long will it take you to replace the pipe?"

Heavy breathing and rustling indicates that he's walking back to his van.

"Maybe an hour. It depends. Once the new pipe is in I'm going to have to flush through the system, so I'll need to turn on the central-heating boiler."

"Oh, right. Well, I'm glad it's outside. You could possibly have it all done by the time I arrive, then! That's brilliant news."

He makes a sound that doesn't sound very encouraging.

"Nope. You'll need to turn on the heating first to fire it up. The thermostat is inside the cottage and I assume the electricity is off at the moment?"

This is one of those awful ‘doh’ moments. He must think I'm a total idiot.

"Yes, yes, of course. Sorry, too many things going around inside my head at the moment. If you can start on that pipe, I'd be very grateful."

"It's still raining," he mutters, before the line goes dead.

“Why me?” The pitiful half-sob that comes out of my mouth is unbidden and I look around to check that it wasn’t so loud that pedestrians around me heard it. Fortunately, no one seems to be looking directly at me, but I’m going to have to pull myself together. You can get through this, Maddie, I whisper from behind gritted teeth.

CHAPTER 11

"Mum, it's me. How's the move going?"

It's lovely to hear Matt's voice, but I thought it was the estate agent and my stomach does a backwards flip. Tick-tock. It's nearly two o'clock and my back is beginning to ache from sitting in the same position for the longest few hours of my life. Even my damp clothes are now almost dry, but I've had to keep the window open a little because of the condensation.

"Fine. Lovely to hear your voice, darling, but it's rather difficult to talk right now as I'm expecting a call to pick up the keys at any moment. I'll ring you in a day or two when I'm sorted. Promise! Love to you both."

I feel awful cutting him off like that, but if I stay on the line I'm likely to burst into tears. As I put the mobile phone down on the passenger seat, it immediately kicks into life again.

"Ms Brooks?" It's a voice I don't know. "We have key release on Ash Cottage. If you'd like to call in whenever it's convenient…"

"I'll be there in three minutes."

Jubilant is an understatement. Ecstatic doesn't really do it justice, either. As I hurtle back through the windy lanes to Ash Cottage, the windscreen wipers are barely coping with the downpour. Until the car begins the downhill cruise into Bybrooke, any mention of flooding is still the very last thing on my mind. And then I hit it. As I round the last bend before the first of the cottages on the outskirts of Bybrooke come into view, I see the sandbags. Water is literally spewing out of what looks like a hole in the ground and as it runs down the side of the road it doesn't have to travel very far to be consumed by a lake of grey, muddy water. Part of the grassy bank to the right-hand side of me has been washed away and traces of the rich, red soil run in swathes, mixing with the general pool of murky water. I slam on the brakes, the car slewing to a halt just in time. In front of me are at least a dozen vehicles blocking the road. I pull the woolly hat down over my ears and step out of the car with determination.

"How deep's the water? Is it possible to get through?" I level the question at a group of guys with shovels, all busily filling sandbags from a trailer.

"It's passable at the moment and you'll be fine, as your four-by-four isn't too low to the ground. It's only about two feet deep in the middle, but it's rising fast. The culvert is blocked again, but this time we think it might have totally collapsed."

A couple of heads turn in my direction, giving curt nods and I feel sorry for them. Despite wearing heavy waterproofs, this sort of rain seems to find ways in and I seriously doubt they are cosy and dry beneath their gear.

"Best get through while you can." One of them chips in.

"Is there another way into the village? I live up there – Forge Hill. I'm moving in today, actually, and I have deliveries booked."

Several of them stop shovelling and give me a look of pity that starts alarm bells ringing in my head.

"There is access from the top road, but the lanes are quite narrow and I'm not sure a twenty-six-tonne delivery lorry would be prepared to use that route. The smaller ones could get through. This is the main road and, unless we can keep that water level down, the possibility of another closure seems inevitable. You chose the wrong day to move in, Miss, that's really bad luck."

He gives me a grimace, shaking his head to disperse the rivulets of water running off his cap and down his face.

"Thanks, and sorry to have held you up. Are you local?”

He indicates with a nod in the direction of the first cottage on the slope down into the village.

"Lived here nearly ten years. We thought last year's flood was a one-off. Seems we were wrong."

Glancing across, I can see that the sandbags were too late to save the water flooding into the ground floor of the property. It's a quaint cottage, quite modest and obviously his pride and joy. My heart goes out to him.

"I'm so sorry. I really hope the rain lets up soon."

He gives me a smile and a nod, appreciating my acknowledgement of his dire situation.

"It's in the hands of the gods." His response is sobering. "Take it steady driving through, use a low gear and you'll be fine."

It seems wrong to wave as I drive past the men. All eyes are on my vehicle, checking the water level doesn't come up above the door line. I put up my hand in a stiff acknowledgement and they all raise theirs in return.

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