Chapter 1
Chapter One
Fourteen months later
O h no. Why was he looking across at me?
I attempted to conceal my face behind the thrusting arrangement of oriental lilies, white roses and alstroemeria I was pulling together for Mr McColl’s wife’s sixtieth birthday. I tried to reassure myself by keeping my fingers busy lacing the blooms in and around one another.
Once I’d finished this bouquet, I would turn my thoughts to how to make the next window themed display of my shop, Flower Power, feel special. It seemed like only yesterday that I’d removed the pumpkins, bats and broomsticks from the Halloween arrangement. Now, I was working towards transitioning from the ambers and russets currently in the window to the festive theme I’d been planning. I loved Christmas and as this would be my first one here in Heather Moore, I wanted to create winter window scenes with extra sparkle.
It would soon be upon us. It was mid-November already!
It was almost four o’clock now though, so perhaps I would make a start on that tomorrow when my two trainee florists, Amber and Rowan, were back.
I waited for a few seconds before risking another peek through the slim stems of the flowers I was arranging. The stranger was still there, lurking beside one of the shelves, from which dangled several of the heart-shaped door decorations I’d constructed from acorns, figs, pine cones, and tartan ribbon.
The man was sporting a large pair of dark sunglasses, despite the hailstorm that had raged just ten minutes ago. More appropriately, he also wore a chunky grey woolly hat and he’d swathed a paisley scarf up around the bottom half of his face. He kept jerking his head round, as if checking the door of my shop.
I refocused on the flower arrangement I was creating and breathed in its heady perfume. This was what I’d been hoping for: the chance to begin a new chapter of my life in which no one knew me.
I loved the colours and shapes of flowers and plants, their assorted scents and the feel of the petals against my fingertips. They were like solid, dependable friends, bringing light and joy into the every day.
I didn’t even mind the crazy early starts, when I had to jump in the van at five o’clock in the morning and head to the nearest flower market in Muir Port, which was a forty-five-minute drive away. The canvas stalls would flap in the breeze, sheltering tubs of flowers erupting in every shade and hue.
Under the slumbering tangerine sky, the smell of fresh coffee kept the wholesalers awake and the quiet buzz from car radios danced around the space. The contentment I experienced as I wandered around, selecting what I wanted to buy for Flower Power, was something I hadn’t felt for a long time.
Memories of Declan flickered before my eyes. What a humiliation my wedding day had been. The guests staring at me out of the church door, like I was a museum exhibit. The sharp pap and clap of the cameras, the journalists like eager bloodhounds, smelling a story. Oh, look! The society girl’s been dumped at the altar.
My insides twisted themselves up again into a fierce knot at the memory of it. Mum and Dad had escorted me back to Bannock House, while Marcus and Jacob had announced to the stunned guests that the wedding would not be going ahead and the reverend had dealt with everything else.
As if jilting me on our wedding day hadn’t been enough of a slap in the face, it transpired that the money I’d given Declan as an investment for his Making Music Foundation, a charity for underprivileged kids, had vanished with him. The police were still unable to track him down. He’d melted into the night with my heart and my money.
Our relationship had been one enormous lie from the start. His proclamations of love, the proposal, the “charity” – it had all been contrived like some sort of cold-hearted military operation.
The realisation that he’d been a conman, a mercenary bastard only after me for my money, still festered like an open wound.
I had been taken in by a pale-eyed, fair-haired, charming Irish Adonis. I’d let Declan Rooney play me for a fool. I was determined that would never happen again.
I slunk off straight afterwards for a six-month trip around Europe to recover. I soaked up the sun as I sat outside sweet little cafes in Venice and savoured the atmosphere and bonhomie in Barcelona. It didn’t take away my humiliation and heartbreak, but it helped put some much-needed distance between me and the pain.
I swallowed down a growing, choking ball of emotion and fiddled with some ribbon. Come on , I chided myself. Don’t stay stuck in the past. Forget about what happened.
When the name for my new floristry business came to me six months ago, I thought Flower Power was perfect. It made me feel like I was taking control of my life and my future. I reclaimed my love of flowers, started over and put Declan and what he did behind me. My much-loved Uncle James passed away suddenly last year and left a substantial amount of money in his will to both me and to Marcus. Thanks to him, I’d been able to recover from a lot of the financial difficulty Declan had dropped me in and buy the cute little former teashop that was up for sale and transform it into Flower Power. At least flowers were a bright, fragrant, beautiful constant in my life.
I shuffled further to the right from behind the pale pink wooden counter and angled my head around the edge of the display I was working on. I could see Mrs Vardy in her woollen beret examining some new potted gardenia I’d bought from the flower market in town a few days ago. Their leaves were speared and glossy green while their stunning frilly flowers were white and lacy, and I took pleasure in surrounding myself with such treasures.
My attention flew back to the loitering man who seemed oddly fascinated by the vases of lilies I had put at the front to draw customers into the shop.
Panicky thoughts started to leap around in my head. Hold on. Has he recognised me? Is he preparing to confront me?
No, that’s just not possible . I forced myself to relax.
I’d changed my appearance since my partying days and since the aborted wedding. Gone was my pale, straight blonde hair – I’d reverted back to my natural, light brown waves. I’d also put a few pounds back on, after slavishly dieting and exercising in the run-up to the big day. I was curvier and healthier and I felt better, so that was one good thing. At least I didn’t look like a starved twiglet anymore.
I snapped my attention back to the man again.
He did seem more interested in my stock than in me. Or was that just an act to hide his intentions? Was he a journalist, trying to make me think he wasn’t?
Memories of the sneering headlines about the “Uptown Girl” being stood up at the altar by a struggling Irish musician zipped through my mind at one hundred miles an hour.
No. Stop it . I was being stupid. That was all in the past. It was society-column fodder. Wasn’t it? I was getting irritated with myself. I had to stop surmising that every new face in Heather Moore was here for an ulterior motive.
Declan had done a wonderful job of destroying my trust in people. Apart from my family, since being jilted by him and having gone through such a heart-breaking deception, I found myself building an imaginary wall between me and everyone else. It was safer that way. No risk of being let down or hurt. I eyed the man again. Perhaps he was a shoplifter? Or he was planning to rob the till?
He might have seen my baby-pink-and-white shop as an easy target. But why focus on my business when there were others strung along beside mine that did more cash transactions?
Bolts of worry shot through me. Perhaps I was being na?ve. It might only be a matter of time before someone did recognise me and then my quiet life here would be over before it had begun. “Oh, there’s that rich girl who was publicly humiliated by that mercenary rogue.”
My heart began to gallop against my ribcage.
Shit!
I don’t need this.
Oh, this is ridiculous! I can’t just stand here and watch him for the rest of the day .
Maybe the police were pursuing him? No. I was letting my imagination go wild.
I couldn’t hide behind this half-completed bouquet any longer. I had to stop being afraid and face the situation head-on. I could also close up for the day and go home; the prospect of lounging in a hot bath was delightful.
My curiosity piqued, I set my shoulders. I had to ask him what he was doing and what he wanted, otherwise he was going to become part of the fixtures and fittings.
I pushed my mouth into what I hoped was a polite smile and made my way towards him. Mrs Vardy brushed past me with a friendly nod and left the shop without buying anything. Again.
I turned my attention back to the man.
I had to be brave, otherwise I could be hovering there, carrying out surveillance, for another hour. I cleared my throat.
“Excuse me, sir. Is there anything I can help you with? It’s just?—”
He didn’t give me the opportunity to finish my sentence.
“Oh, no. No. I’m fine.” His accent was educated English. “I spotted your shop the other day and just had to come in.”
I expected him to remove his sunglasses and swipe off his hat, but he did neither. He dug his chin even deeper into his scarf.
“Oh, thank you.”
He gestured towards a selection of my potted plants for sale. “Paperwhite narcissi. I always think they’re like mini white daffodils.” Then he turned. “And the daphne. Isn’t that beautiful?”
I smiled at him. “It is. I always think its reds light up beds and borders, particularly at this time of year.”
“Indeed, they do.”
I studied him – well, what I could see of him, which wasn’t much. “You seem to know your plants.”
“I’m a plant lover,” he confessed after a few moments’ pause. “And flower obsessed.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place.”
It was then that the man shot out one hand to his forehead. His voice became thin. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” He faltered a little on his feet.
I rushed closer to him. “Are you all right?” I reached for his arm.
“I’ve just come across a little dizzy.”
I led him behind the counter, to where there were a couple of chairs. “You sit down. I’ll get you a glass of water.”
I went into the kitchen area beside my office and filled a glass from the tap.
When I returned, the man had thankfully remained seated, but he still hadn’t removed his hat, sunglasses or scarf. He thanked me for the water and took a grateful sip.
“Would you like me to call an ambulance?”
“Oh goodness me, no. I’m beginning to feel better already.”
I frowned down at him. “Are you sure?”
I lowered myself into the chair opposite him. “How did you get here? Did you drive?”
He nodded and took another mouthful of water. “I’ve taken up too much of your time already, miss.” He stood up and placed the glass on the counter, swaying a little.
I jumped up and angled him back down into his chair. “I think you should get checked out by a doctor.”
“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, his voice growing stronger. “I’ve just been dashing about rather a lot, overdoing it.”
“Well, I don’t think you should drive.”
I could tell he was looking at me from behind his smoky sunglasses. “Perhaps you’re right. Better to be safe than sorry.”
At that moment, a lady in a thick cream coat came in and asked about our potted hesperantha. While I attended to her and rang up the purchase at the till, I could hear the mysterious man having a brief conversation behind me on his mobile. I was relieved to hear that it sounded like he was asking someone to come and collect him.
I thanked the woman and waved her off. I’d just turned the shop door sign to closed when there was a discreet knock on the door.
“Oh, that will be my lift home,” the man rushed, sounding relieved. He sprang up from his seat. “I’ll get that.”
“It’s all right,” I assured him. “I’ll answer it.”
I unlocked the door and opened it to find a tall, distinguished, middle-aged man decked out in full chauffeur regalia. “Sorry to trouble you, madam, but I’ve come to collect Mr King.”
From behind me, there came a resigned sigh.
The driver looked awkward, as though he’d said something he shouldn’t. He shuffled from foot to foot. “Oh hell! I’m sorry, sir.”
I turned around. “I take it you’re Mr King?”
My voice died.
The mysterious man had removed his hat and sunglasses and was in the process of loosening his scarf.
I took in his features, from the shock of centre-parted silver hair falling onto his shoulders, to the cleft in his chin. My brain was trying to catch up. Mr King. Ezra King.
My brain shuffled through snapshots of him on TV playing William Shakespeare, a playboy sleuth in a romantic comedy, and a dodgy barrister in a recent crime drama.
My eyebrows rocketed to my hairline. Bloody hell!
My mouth flopped open.
Oh my God!
My voice squeaked with excitement. “You’re Ezra King.”
He had just accepted a BAFTA lifetime achievement award in front of an applauding, star-studded throng a few months back. I had seen clips of it online.
This was ridiculous, and I did wonder for a few seconds if I was hallucinating.
Why would Ezra King be here, in Heather Moore? It was such a quiet little part of the Scottish Highlands, welcoming but sleepy. The locals meant well and always gave the impression that although they wanted to know every detail of your life, they would be there without question if you found yourself in any sort of difficulty. So far, I’d been able to fly beneath the radar and just live under my new persona – Bailey McArthur, the florist, and that’s the way I liked it. I was determined to make my new life matter here. I would do everything I could to protect the new me. I’d fight to keep my new future that I was carving out for myself. Good grief. If my mother knew Ezra King was only a few feet away from me right now, she would be drenching herself in Coco Chanel and charging over from Tweed Muir like Wonder Woman on steroids.
I thought of my mum, dad and brother co-existing beneath the regal towers, crenelations and flower-studded gardens of Bannock House. Declan had even managed to taint the memories of my childhood home for me, and I had avoided going home as much as possible since the wedding. That was where I had met him, at one of Mum’s fundraising events a couple of years ago. His ceilidh band, Reeling, had been performing and he was the fiddler. Quite apt.
I dreaded the whispers and the pitying looks from the Tweed Muir locals after my car-crash of a non-wedding.
Guilt pulled at me again. I knew my parents missed me visiting, but it was still an open wound. Until my pain and embarrassment had subsided, I would rely on keeping in touch with Mum and Dad by Zoom, text, and phone calls.
I made myself refocus.
Ezra King straightened himself up and gifted me with a grateful smile that made his eyes crinkle. A flash of red stole over his cheeks. “I’m so sorry for disrupting your business like this.”
I hoped I didn’t appear too starstruck. I’d had a stream of prominent clients when I was running my previous business, but this felt different somehow.
I realised I was staring at him. “Well, it’s not every day I have an award-winning actor dropping by.”
He pulled a face as he fiddled with his hat in his hands. “I’m sorry if my get-up seemed a little over the top, but I just want to live here in peace and enjoy some anonymity for a change.”
He smiled ruefully over at his chauffeur. “Jackson here normally takes me where I want to go, but I was going stir-crazy at home and just wanted to get out and be a regular person for a bit. Does that make sense?”
You have no idea, I thought to myself. “Yes, it makes perfect sense.”
Ezra King paused to drink in his surroundings. He gestured around with a sweep of one theatrical hand towards the explosion of plants and flowers on the shop floor. “So, what was this place before?”
“It used to be a tearoom.”
“It’s lovely. Your displays are beautiful.”
I glowed with satisfaction. “Thank you. I only opened a few months ago, so I’m still trying to build up a client base.”
He took a few steps to appreciate my wooden shelving and cabinets that were slicked with glossy white paint, and which ran the length of the shop. I’d had the old bottle-green carpet removed and, in its place, lay a cherry wood floor. I’d chosen a shade of pale silver paint for the walls and ceiling, which I thought complemented the bright, cheery pink of my counter and the shop entrance. Warm spotlights cast a golden glow onto the array of plants and flowers billowing from every shelf and corner.
Flower Power was situated at the end of the small high street, which was comprised of a newsagent, an expensive gift shop, a deli, and a glassware business. When I took over the shop, I retained the lovely original bow windows and had the sad grey pebble dash replaced with bright white paint, and the black door renovated into a stylish deep rose-pink panelled affair.
On the other side of the tree-lined road was a dense woodland which attracted many tourists because of its rumoured connections to an old Scottish king. It was said that King Angus had concealed himself from the marauding English army by hiding in the woods and even scaling one of the trees.
I forced my attention back to the star of stage and screen standing across from me. I couldn’t believe it. This was surreal!
I gave him an admiring glance. “I loved your portrayal of Shakespeare in that TV show.”
His eyes, under his pensive, dark brows, twinkled with appreciation. “Thank you, my dear. That’s very kind of you.”
He fell quiet as if debating whether to say something else.
“So, you’ve moved nearby?” I asked in a tentative voice.
“Yes,” he blurted out. “To Heather Moore.”
I blinked at him in surprise, flattered he was confiding in me. “Wow! Well, you’ll no doubt notice a difference between living here and city life.”
His long mouth curled up. “Good God! I bloody hope so!”
Jackson, who was leaning by the shop door, grinned at his boss but remained discreet.
Ezra let his hands rise and fall. “My manager holidayed here once a couple of years ago and raved about the place. She said it was the prettiest Scottish town she’d ever seen and mentioned something about the history of one of the trees you have around here. And the hillsides … well, she loved it.” He gestured towards the shop window, explaining that his manager was “a real fuss-pot with very high expectations”, and so he had decided to check out the place that had enchanted her so much.
“And so, you decided to escape the rat race and move here?”
“In a nutshell.”
Ezra King glanced over his shoulder, even though it was only the three of us. “Look, Miss…”
“Bailey McArthur,” I answered quickly, “but please call me Bailey.”
Ezra nodded. “Look Bailey, I’d very much appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about me. I just want some peace.”
I rushed to reassure him. “There’s no need to explain, Mr King. You have my word.” I understood his situation far better than he knew.
Ezra’s light grey hooded eyes shimmered with relief. “Call me Ezra. And thank you.” He performed a resigned shrug. “I wanted a bolthole, I suppose. Somewhere I could breathe and appreciate the simple things.” A wry smile enveloped his face. “Sorry again to crash land in your shop like this on a Monday afternoon. I’d planned to come in and browse, not put you to so much trouble.”
“You didn’t,” I assured him. “As long as you’re feeling better now.”
Jackson looked at me quizzically.
“Ezra felt a little faint,” I said.
Jackson frowned. “You told me you just felt a bit tired. Perhaps we should get you checked over, Mr Ezra.”
Ezra shook his head. “Thank you for your concern but no. I’m feeling top notch again now. No fuss required.”
Jackson glanced over at me and rolled his eyes.
“Well,” I began, trying to unscramble my head. “I’m not Heather Moore born and bred either. I only moved here earlier this year, but I do love it and I’m sure you will too.” I allowed my thoughts to drift for a few moments. “My brother and I had great family holidays here with our parents when we were younger. I feel like this town has let me start over again.”
Whispers of Declan loomed over me once more like a black cloud. The realisation that he’d only loved my family’s bank balance and not me, gripped me like a cold chill.
I bit my lip. “I hope you enjoy living here.”
“I’m sure I will,” he beamed. He looked around at my plants and bouquets again. “So, what did you do before?” he asked.
I floundered for something to say. “Oh, I’ve always been a florist. I just fancied a change of scene.”
Ezra’s considered gaze raked over my face. “I sometimes think we’re all trying to escape from something – or someone – even if we don’t realise it at the time.”
His words struck me in the chest. I managed to force a smile, keen to change the subject.
His expression shifted, before righting itself again. “Does floristry run in your family?”
I shook my head. “No, not at all.” I bit back the information that it was dear old Ernie Saunders, our late gardener at Bannock House, who nurtured my love of plants and flowers from an early age.
I would watch him turn over the warm, rich, dark earth of the flower beds, pat the rainbow-coloured blooms in place and plant out our herb garden.
Ernie was very much into his Scottish history and persuaded my parents to grow flowering medicinal plants in the gardens, just like at Holyrood Abbey. Housed beside crocuses, tulips and dusky roses were daisies for coughs and wounds, sorrel for ulcers, and fennel for eye conditions, snake bites, and mad dogs (don’t ask). Ernie would arrange them in a geometric pattern to reflect the style and fashion of a seventeenth-century garden.
The myriad scents, from sweet, tangy lemon balm to dense, musky lavender, enchanted me, and when Ernie offered to show me how to plant seeds and deadhead roses, I was smitten.
“And you seem to have a real talent for it, going by your stunning displays.” Ezra cut into my thoughts and chuckled. “Oh, that reminds me of the time Jack Nicholson asked me to help him choose a bouquet for Angelica Houston.”
“Gosh.” I blinked away memories of Ernie’s kind, leathery face watching nine-year-old me dancing under the cherry blossom trees, spinning and whirling amongst the soft pink confetti. I focused back on Ezra.
He glanced at his chunky watch. “I’d better go. I’ve taken up far too much of your time already and I’ve got a decorator due to give me a quote. Thank you again.”
I smiled back at him and extended my hand.
He shook it warmly. “Thank you, Bailey.’
“Not at all,’ I said. ‘And your secret is safe with me.”
“I’m sure it is.”
Jackson pushed himself away from the wall. “I’ll arrange for your car to be collected later,” he said to Ezra.
“Thank you. It’s parked round the back of this shop.”
As he got ready to slip away through the shop door, Ezra put his disguise back on – hat tugged over his brow, sunglasses, and the scarf covering the bottom half of his face.
“I promise to return as a proper paying customer next time.”
“Thanks for taking care of him,” whispered Jackson to me, as he hung back to allow Ezra to move ahead. “He’s a stubborn old bugger at the best of times.”
I laughed, locked the shop door behind them and made my way back to the counter, my mind still trying to reconcile the events of that afternoon.
It was rather ironic. There was me, panicking that Ezra might know who I was. Another wave of relief flooded through me because he hadn’t seemed to recognise me. I’m sure he would’ve said if he had. Perhaps he wasn’t a fan of the gossip magazines.
I grinned to myself. It felt odd to find myself rubbing shoulders with a celebrity again after all I had done to leave that life behind.