Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
LAUREN
T wo days later, I got the lawnmower to work and cut the grass in my backyard. The newly cut lawn has brought waddling pigeons looking for a tasty snack in the short grasses and a family of magpies, who stride importantly across the cut patch.
Now, I’ve progressed to sanding the wooden floors in the hallway and living room.
At some point, someone has painted over the wood, and I’m bringing the lovely wood back into view.
The gritty rasp of the sander vibrates through my arms, as dust swirls like a snowstorm around me.
My phone’s been buzzing on the counter, relentless, cutting through the whine of the tool.
I expect that it’s Sandy, and I know that if we start talking, I will fall behind with these tasks, which are hard work and not fun, so I ignore it and focus on the wood’s grain smoothing under my hands.
The air smells sharp—sawdust, old paint, the faint must of this place I’m slowly taming and none of it is fun.
The phone keeps ringing though, and I eventually get frustrated enough to reach for it.
Just before I can, though, a knock sounds on the door.
I pause, my heart tripping with annoyance.
Now what? I kill the sander, wipe my hands on my jeans—dust streaking the thighs—and trudge to the door, yanking it open.
It’s a delivery guy with a clipboard and a bored expression. Two boxes are stacked next to him.
“Lauren Hutton?” he asks.
I nod immediately, excited.
“Yeah. Paint and supplies,” he says, barely looking up. “Sign here.”
I scribble my name, the pen slippery with sweat, and he helps me haul the boxes inside—cans of duck-egg blue paint for the hallway, summer yellow for the bedroom, soft blue for the bathroom, and crisp white for the rest of the house, plus brushes, rollers, and masking tape.
The colors are perfect, bright enough to make the place come alive.
I stack the cans, and the promise of progress buzzes under my skin. I’m itching to start, but my mind flicks to the antique shop. I still need to pick up that Tiffany lamp tomorrow. Its blues and greens are glowing in my head.
The phone’s quiet now, thank God, and I dive back into prepping, dragging the sander back over the hallway’s old floor.
I’ve got one of my headphones in, some old pop playlist blaring, drowning out the cottage’s creaks.
The duck-egg paint’s gonna look killer here, sophisticated but homely, and fresh white willl open up the rooms, chase away the shadows.
I’m halfway through a stubborn patch of peeling paint when someone starts banging on my door.
I groan and yank out the earbud. Seriously?
I open the door, covered in dust, and find to my great surprise that this time around it’s a tall woman decked out in riding gear, and her boots are muddy like she just stomped through a field.
“Hey,” I greet, taking her in and noting her features. She’s a bit horsey-faced, but in an aristocratic sort of way. She’s holding a platter with a see-through plastic lid. Inside, is a beautifully decorated chocolate cake, and she is smiling so hard I’m sure it must hurt.
“Hello, I’m Cecelia,” she says in a posh upper-class accent. “I’m from the village baking committee. You’re Mabel’s granddaughter, right?”
“Yeah,” I reply.
“I’ve come to welcome you to our little village,” she announces, thrusting the cake towards me.
I force a smile, caught off-guard, my hands still gritty. “Uh, thanks,” I say, taking the cake. “I’m Lauren. Nice to meet you.”
I appreciate her visit and the sentiment behind it, but I really don’t want company, not in the state and mindset I’m in. I hope she will leave once I’ve taken her gift, but she steps closer, peering past me into the cottage’s chaos.
“Oh, you’re making good progress.”
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
She pulls her neck back. “Your granny never liked to throw anything out, so it’s going to be a lot of work for you to clear the house. You should hire one of those house clearance outfits. They’ll just come and take everything away in one afternoon.”
“It’s okay. I don’t want to throw out anything precious.”
She looks doubtful that there could be anything of value amongst my grandma’s belongings.
“Yes, of course, there might be something of sentimental value. Anyway, you’ll definitely need to relax and decompress after all this effort.
Why don’t you come and join the baking committee?
We meet every Thursday. Nothing fancy, just cakes, scones, a bit of chatter. ”
Her eyes are bright and expectant, but I hesitate and glance at the chocolate cake in my hand.
I can bake pies and muffins, but my baking skills can’t match up to this level of cake making.
Still, the villagers have been kind so far, first Ann’s pub invite, now this.
Maybe it’s a sign I need to open up and embrace my new life.
“Sure,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips. “I’ll give it a try. Thanks for the invite.”
She nods and beams but doesn’t make any move to leave, and I can’t help but immediately suspect that she’s got an agenda, although I cannot possibly imagine what it could be. She turns toward the manor, and her tone shifts, becoming gossipy, conspiratorial.
“Have you met him yet? Your neighbor?” I understand clearly now. My stomach twists as I think of him, his smile in the village center, full of charm and big trouble.
“Yeah,” I say shortly, keeping my voice flat to shut it down. “Briefly.”
Cecelia’s eyes gleam like she’s struck gold. “Oh, he wasn’t pleasant, was he? “You’ll definitely want to watch him.”
“What do you mean?” I can’t resist asking.
She leans in, her voice dropping. “He’s been after this place for years. He even tried to buy it from your grandmother. It’s odd that he hasn’t approached you yet. I was sure he would have, since your grandma wouldn’t budge, bless her. You know, she hated his guts.”
I stiffen, picturing Hugh looming over a frail old lady. Waving his checkbook. It sours my mood fast.
But Cecelia doesn’t notice, and she barrels on venomously.
“He’s a right piece of work when he doesn’t get his way.
A nasty womanizer. He sees every woman in his orbit as fair game to be charmed and conquered.
Believe me when I say that he will stoop to anything to get your land, and if he can get you in his bed, even better.
Mark my words, he’ll be turning on the charm soon.
Best if you keep your distance because he is very experienced and it’ll be all too easy for you to fall prey to him. ”
Her assumptions that I am easy pickings annoy me, but what draws my attention even more is how her opinion clashes with Ann’s.
Ann said that Hugh was the quiet duke, keeping to himself, riding his horses, training his hawks and absolutely not chasing any women from the village.
But here Cecelia is saying the exact opposite.
Is Ann just too young and smitten to realize what Cecelia, who is clearly more sophisticated, perceives? What exactly is the truth?
I decide that I don’t really care. Painting my living room is what I would like to get done before evening comes.
My jaw tightens as unease curls in my gut.
To be honest, Cecelia’s vibe feels off, all nosy glee, like she’s fishing for dirt, and I don’t trust her.
I don’t trust him either, but trash-talking him with her feels wrong, like stepping into a trap.
I shrug and hope she’ll take the hint that I’m not interested in gossiping with her about Hugh. “Good to know, thanks for the advice,” I say coolly.
She opens her mouth, ready to dig deeper, but thank God, my phone shrieks from the counter, loud enough to make us both jump.
“Sorry, but I have to get that,” I say, already stepping back, the cake still awkwardly held up in my hands. “Thank you though, for stopping by.”
She’s clearly reluctant, but has no choice but to mutter her goodbyes and leave.
I shut the door, relief washing over me.
I really didn’t like that woman. Setting the cake down, I go over to grab the phone, expecting it to be Sandy, but to my surprise, it’s not her.
It’s Mr. Sherridan from the antique shop.
“Miss Hutton?” he asks gravely.
I’m so excited to hear from him I stumble over my words as I answer. “Yes, it’s me. This is her. This is me. I can pick up the lamp today? I was waiting for your call.”
“I’m sorry, but I have bad news,” he says.
And my heart sinks, heavy as a stone, dread pooling cold in my gut. “Why? What happened?” I wail, gripping the phone. The cottage feels too quiet now.
“I’m afraid it fell this morning. It was an accident.
One of the lads bumped the shelf, and it’s smashed beyond repair.
” He sighs heavily like he’s picturing the shards all over his floor.
“I’ve already refunded the full amount to your credit card, and I’ll keep an eye out for another one.
I’ve got a contact in London who might have something similar for you in a few weeks. ”
Disappointment crashes over me, sharp and bitter, stealing the air from my lungs. “Okay,” I mumble. “It’s okay. Please let me know when you have another one like it.’
“Of course I will.”
After Mr. Sherridan tenders another apology, I hang up the phone and let it clatter onto the counter.
I stare at the sander, the paint cans, the walls I was so ready to transform, and it all feels heavier now, like the cottage is laughing at me, daring me to keep going when even the small wins slip away.
I have no choice but to keep going regardless because I need somewhere to sleep tonight, and I grab the sander agai and attack the floors harder than I need to, dust clouding around me like my mood.