Chapter 5
five
CLAIRE
I awoke to a square of sunlight hitting me smack bang between the eyes.
Even the fogged windows couldn’t dull its glow.
After the previous night’s storm, I wholly welcomed the intrusion.
Gold filtered in as I pulled myself out of the comfy double bed, eternally thankful someone had at least left it with clean covers.
Owen’s jumper squished beneath my arms as I crossed them, the autumn morning bright but cold.
While Owen had started up the log burner the previous night, it had long burned out by morning.
With a shiver, I promised myself I’d figure out where the heating was as soon as I dosed myself with caffeine.
I’d seen at least two radiators in the place. Fingers crossed they worked.
I shuffled to the tiny kitchen, and knocked the kettle switch to on. The fridge was reflective enough to mimic a blurred version of me. Looking part woman, but a whole lot bigger part scarecrow.
Oh, God.
Had I appeared that dishevelled in front of the handsome Scot with the muscular arms?
I’d expected the cottage to be in a mess, but moving from Marty’s sleek penthouse to this chaotic home was quite a shock.
Furniture was gathered in the middle of rooms under white sheets, resembling ghosts from someone else’s life that I was intruding upon.
Tape marked the skirting boards, and an abandoned paint roller leaned against a wall the colour of an old pub’s smoke stained ceiling.
The windows were covered with a chalky substance, making the outside world look as ghostly as the cottage interior.
It at least made up for the complete lack of curtains.
Coffee.
I rummaged with that singular thought thrumming through my fuzzy head and found a jar of instant coffee, along with a lone mug that said 'Granny'. It had a dozen poorly printed images of a white-haired woman who looked miserable.
Locating a teaspoon, I dumped the granules in the mug and topped it up with steaming water, inhaling the addictive fumes.
I could have cried when I opened the fridge.
No milk.
Of course, there wasn’t any bloody milk. All that lingered on the shelves was the stew Owen had left there, and some worse-for-wear, half-consumed jars of pickles. Multiple half-used jars of pickles.
I raised an eyebrow at grumpy mug granny. ‘These pickles belong to you?’
Needless to say, she didn’t respond.
There was nothing for it; I had to brave the village.
Another snag in my not-at-all-thought-through plan. I’d shoved my suitcase’s soggy contents into the washing machine before collapsing into bed. All I had was a drum full of sopping fabric. Without a dryer in sight. Only a clothesline in the tiny back garden.
Dammit.
The thought of going out in Owen’s massive clothes, where people might actually see me, made me shudder.
I’d spent far too many of my paychecks on clothes for people’s first impression of me to be so unkempt.
Builders’ brew it was. I took a sip of black coffee and tried to pretend I liked it that way.
But there was no fighting the way it made me wince.
Nope. It was too bitter to be an acceptable start to the day.
A sharp knock on the door had my black coffee sloshing over the counter. Two more knocks followed in quick succession. I froze until warmth hit my toes.
‘Oh crap,’ I muttered, snatching my foot away from the coffee waterfall, sending drops of brown onto my, well, Owen’s, sock.
I waddled to the door, shaking my foot with every other step as the unpleasantness of a wet foot made me frown.
By the time I unlocked the door and yanked it open, I was met with space. Peeking my head out, I spied a grumbling 4x4 whisking away. More green than it had appeared in the dark, but I was pretty sure that it belonged to the stoic whisky man who’d rescued me and endured my breakdown.
The village spread out in an array of cobbled streets and stone buildings, hanging flower baskets, and adorable shop fronts.
For the first time since my rushed arrival, a serenity settled over me.
It was like looking at my nan’s old sewing tin, which had once held chocolates given to her by my grandfather.
I’d spent hours tinkering with the box and its colourful goodies inside.
A pang hit me. I hadn’t been able to open the box since her passing, setting my focus on the future instead of the pain that lingered in the past.
Otterleigh Bay certainly scrubbed up well when it wasn’t pouring.
On the step by my feet lay two packages, one large and brown, tied with a string and featuring an intriguing-looking knot. The other small and pink, with 'Coffee & Crumbs' emblazoned in black.
A coffee shop? In the village? I sent up a little prayer to the heavens that there was decent coffee within walking distance.
Stooping to grab both, I gathered them up and carried them into the kitchen, plopping them on the counter.
The pink bag was my first port of call. I peeled open the top, and my mouth filled with saliva at the gloriously fat blueberry muffin hiding inside.
The top glittered with crystallised sugar, and I stuffed a massive bite straight into my mouth.
‘Oh my god…’ I mumbled around the sweet goodness while holding onto the counter for support. The person who baked the muffin deserved a medal of some kind. Perfectly tart berries and moist, cakey goodness.
At the bottom of the bag, dark handwriting scrawled across a receipt, just like the one from the night before, where he’d left me his phone number. Scooping it out, I read the brief note.
Village shop has necessities. The supermarket is in the next town over. I go on Thursdays if you need a lift – O
Okay. So it wasn’t exactly brimming with flirtation, but that was basically a date offering. Right?
Not that I was looking to date. It was too soon after Marty. But the thought of a hot night riding the big, gruff Scot certainly had a flush dancing right up to my cheeks and right down to my unmentionables.
Focus, Claire.
The intricate knot on the stringed package had me reluctant to untie it.
I ran a finger over it and marvelled in the neat, almost braided feel of it.
Locating a pair of scissors in a drawer full of miscellaneous bits, I cut around the knot and pushed it to the side.
Not quite willing to put it in the bin with the rest of the string.
After stuffing another massive bite of muffin in my mouth, I opened the package. My clothes lay inside, not only clean and dry, but also ironed.
Leaning forward, I inhaled their scent. Washing powder.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but I’d hoped it would have a little something of him.
Stop being a creep. You don’t even know if he’s single.
But if he were single and did laundry and ironing, I might well marry him myself.
A basic village map was drawn on the brown paper, showing the things Owen must have thought I’d like.
The road to the beach. The two bus stops.
A hairdresser and a library. The coffee shop. Heck, the pub was even circled.
I smiled to myself at the perfunctory and minimal penmanship. Owen clearly was welcoming enough not to leave a city girl lost, but there was nothing excessive in his actions. It was as if he kept himself more tightly regulated than even me.
But was he like a big bag of chaos underneath and masquerading as in control? Or was that just me?
Dressed and fully muffined, the time to brave the village had arrived.
Adorable cottages with slate roofs surrounded the central square of the village, which bustled.
Not like central London did, but life was certainly on the go.
A string of bunting hung down the front of the pub, presumably having lost a fight with the wind, much like I had.
Floral window boxes and hanging baskets looked similarly weather-bruised, yet still burst with colour.
A sage green bicycle leant against the Post Office come village shop, where I’d pop in to pick up milk.
A board stood in the middle of the square, displaying a multitude of notices and posters. It didn’t seem to have a lock, and there wasn’t a single willy drawn inside.
Suspicious.
A chintzy poster covered in pumpkins heralded an upcoming Autumn fair and farmers' market, while another spoke of a Halloween party in the pub. I laughed at the handwritten addition of NO CHILDREN AFTER 8 PM. Underlined four times. Someone needed a night out worse than I did.
In one corner, there was a neat note on pale cream card, with small, printed lettering in a typewriter-esque font.
SPOTTED: A new arrival in Oz. No ruby slippers to be seen.
I crinkled my brow. Was someone putting on a play?
Coffee and Crumbs stood on one edge of the square, facing the not-yet-open pub. It was as pink as the muffin bag, with the woodwork perfectly pastel. Coffee and pastry notes drifted in the air, hitting me long before I reached the door.
Walking inside felt like being wrapped in a hug.
The left side held everything you’d expect in a coffee shop.
The hissing coffee machine gleamed beside tubs of dark beans.
A glass display full of the most delectable-looking baked goods.
Shining croissants and colourful tarts. My stomach rumbled despite its muffin-based offering.
My heart stuttered at the wall to the right. It was ceiling-to-floor colour. Books. So many books. A bookstore with coffee. Sack the cottage, I could curl up on one of the faded leather sofas and live right there.
The place smelled like heaven. Coffee grounds, paper and buttery sweetness. Sunlight pooled on the counter where an alternative-looking barista steamed milk in a small metal jug.
‘Morning!’ she sang in a honeyed Scottish lilt. ‘You’re new. I’m Eilidh. Like Hayley, but not. What can I get you?’
‘A cappuccino, please. And about twelve of everything else.’ I smiled.