Storybook Ending

Chapter Ten

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” said Imogen a few days later, as she sat on the bed, picking fretfully at a loose thread on

Sally’s beaded cardigan.

Unlike Imogen, Tango, who was lounging on top of Sally’s cashmere scarf, was truly content with his lot. He was dribbling

steadily as he purred, something he only did when extremely happy, she noted fondly.

“Honey, I wish I didn’t have to go. If it weren’t for the mud and the complete absence of coconut chai masala, I could really

get into this country-living stuff.” Sally was at the dressing table, tossing makeup into a soft black leather bag. “More

than anything, it’s the—good God, do you mind!” she exclaimed as she turned back to the bed. Batting both Imogen and Tango

away, she scooped up her damp scarf and cardigan, now with a rather long thread trailing from it where several beads used

to be. “That cardigan’s vintage, for goodness’ sake...”

“Sorry,” said Imogen. “Still—like you said—at least it’s not new.”

“Now, where was I?” Sally continued, briefly examining both garments, and chucking them resignedly into the open case on the floor. “I’m just dreading talking to Alistair. He’s making it clear the ball’s in my court, but what does he want me to do? Before he and Ed left to go camping, he just kept looking at me, like he was observing me for a psychological experiment. He probably thinks I’m perimenopausal or something.”

“Hardly, at your age,” Imogen observed. “It’s good that he wants to communicate,” she went on encouragingly. This was the

first time Sally had voluntarily referred to the subject since her first night at Storybook Cottage.

“Yeah, yeah I know,” admitted Sally. “I knew things weren’t going brilliantly, but—well—frankly, I still think the problems

are with Al, not me. Maybe he’s menopausal? He’s older than me, after all, and I’ve read that the male menopause is actually a thing.”

“You just need to talk, both of you.”

“Hmm,” said Sally, unconvinced. “We could do with an umpire. When are you coming to London?”

“But it’s nicer here. You said so yourself. Apart from the chai thingie, which I personally don’t miss, because I don’t even

know what you’re talking about.”

“Not to live. I mean, when are you going to come and see me, to say nothing of finding yourself some work to keep the little

one in mashed banana and nappies when it arrives?”

“But what’s the point of looking for work in London if I’m not planning on staying?” replied Imogen.

“There’s more than just the nine-to-five on offer. Anyway, I think we both accept that office life isn’t exactly your forte.

No, I’ve been thinking a bit more creatively than that.”

“Uh-oh.”

“No, no, listen, would you? The answer’s definitely in your artistic talents—if you could just rustle up a bit of confidence

in yourself—but, as you said yourself, never mind birthday card designs and stuff. I think you should do those books for children.

I mean, I read the other day the bloke who did Spotty the Dog or some old nonsense, apparently he’s a multimillionaire now, and then there’s the Harry Potter phenomenon...”

“But I imagine you mean illustrating, not writing? Oh, Sally, no, don’t make me,” pleaded Imogen, who hated the idea of putting

herself out there, even though—after Gabriel’s pep talk—she had been thinking more seriously about it. She preferred to imagine

the author ambition as a kind of gentle, future dream. “I tried all that before, for goodness’ sake. I toted my Aesop’s Fables illustrations around every children’s book publishers in London. There were two that actually acknowledged my stuff—and even

they told me to bog off in the end.”

“I don’t recall you being told to ‘bog off,’ as you so charmingly put it. I seem to remember one of them being extremely complimentary.”

“Well, yes, there was the old bloke with the glass eye and a scary penchant for cravats. He said I had a fresh, charming approach.”

“Well, there you are, then,” said Sally comfortably.

“Hmm, the trouble is I’m not sure he meant my work. He’s the one who took me out for a drink and kept putting his hand on my knee. I never heard another peep out of him after that one time, although I suppose I ought to be grateful he didn’t send me the dry-cleaning bill. I’m not sure you can even get Beaujolais stains out of a tweed suit.”

“I know you took a lot of knocks,” said Sally, not without sympathy. “But you’ve learned so much since then, and anyway, I

don’t think you should just illustrate existing stuff on the off chance. I think you should do something new. Your own thing.”

“Create a whole new concept, you mean—the next Postman Pat?”

“Well, why not?” said Sally.

Imogen was too shy to mention that she had already begun working on the outline of a book for preschool children. She didn’t

feel ready to show anyone yet, not even Sally, but it was exciting to be working on something bigger than individual designs.

She had felt inspired to let her imagination run free with so much time on her hands at Storybook Cottage.

“I’ll tell you what.” Sally broke into Imogen’s thoughts. “I’ve got this business card knocking around in the office somewhere.

It’s a literary agent—a senior one. I met him at an awards dinner a couple of months ago. He’s not in children’s books himself,

but I’ll bet he knows someone who is.”

After waving Sally off in the taxi, inspired by her encouragement, Imogen went up to her attic studio. There, laid out, she had all her art stuff from London plus the new paints and pastels from the art shop in Portneath. Untying the strings of her portfolio, she shuffled through the most recent sketches she had done. Starting with little more than doodles, she had been pushing herself hard, giving her imagination and her pencil free rein. As well as local landscape sketches, a pair of characters had consistently emerged. There was Tango, a marmalade cat with more elegance and charm than his real-life inspiration could muster, and a little girl with bobbed black hair who Imogen had tentatively called Ruth. Spreading them out on the floor, using the deep windowsill as well, Imogen began to see how the one-off sketches and the tiniest scraps of storylines could be developed.

Getting ready for supper with Genny and Simon, she put on the same Indian cotton skirt she had worn for the fête. With its

elasticated waist, it was rapidly becoming the only thing she could get over her nearly five-months-pregnant bump, apart from

a couple of pairs of seriously disreputable tracksuit bottoms. She should check out some maternity clothes when she went to

see Sally. Somehow the thought of shopping for elastic-paneled trousers and vast floaty tunic tops alone made her feel glum.

Not that Nigel would have been a good shopping companion, she told herself quickly; it was just that losing him and then moving

out of London had utterly finished her social life in two fell swoops. Now there was no one available for girly lunches or

shopping sprees, cooing over baby clothes, and debating the relative merits of fleece versus cotton cot blankets.

Although she knew a handful of people in the village well enough to stop and discuss the weather, this supper with Genny and Simon was her first proper invitation, and Imogen saw it as a significant step forward in finding herself a local social life. Genny and Simon were kind. She was sure they had lots of lovely friends too, and Imogen hoped one or two of them would be there for her to meet tonight.

Thinking that bringing wine would look a bit silly since she was not drinking, she had made some flapjacks instead. Then,

going out into the rain-soaked garden, she cut the last roses she could find, gently shaking the heavy drops out of the flowers

and wrapping them in a fat cone of newspaper.

Laying the flapjacks and roses carefully in the wicker basket of her bike, she wheeled it past the little red Fiesta parked

in the drive, giving the car an affectionate pat on the bonnet as she passed.

It took just five minutes to reach the village green and a minute more to reach the little lane Simon had told her to look

out for. Turning in, the road immediately deteriorated from tarmac to a hard-packed stony drive with deep ruts either side

and a tuft of grass and weeds running down the middle like a Mohican haircut. The rain, which had been almost continuous since

the thunderstorm at the fête, had turned the potholes into pools of water stained almost the color of blood by the red Devon

soil.

One hundred yards along, as promised, Imogen came across a long, low cottage with a straw-thatched roof and small windows

set deep into the thick cob walls.

Despite being just half past seven, the daylight was already turning to dusk. A wisp of woodsmoke drifted up from one of the

leaning chimneys, adding to the autumnal mood.

Leaving her bike against a shed, Imogen gathered up her offerings and her nerves and knocked at the front door.

“Imogen?” a female voice cried seconds later from the other side of the door. “I need you to come to the back door, actually, just go round to the left, could you?” Imogen started uncertainly in the direction she had been told.

“So sorry!” Genny appeared as Imogen wandered tentatively around the corner. “Gosh, are those for us? How gorgeous,” she added,

sniffing the roses Imogen handed over. “We can’t open the front door because—frankly—we’ve lost the key and we dare not confess

to the landlord. There’s a big chest against it actually, absolutely full of rubbish, we just didn’t have anywhere else to

put it and, as we never use the door anyway, we just thought...” Genny grabbed Imogen’s arm, chattering warmly as she swept

her along the little brick path to the back of the cottage.

“Here she is,” announced Genny as she ushered Imogen through the stable doors into a roomy and comfortable terra-cotta-floored

kitchen. A collection of freestanding wooden cupboards and a dresser were ranged around the walls of the room. Attractively

worn, they were clearly old, providing a sharp contrast with the gleaming stainless-steel range cooker that dominated one

wall. The center of the room was filled with a huge pine table, its top scrubbed nearly white, and a mismatched selection

of pine chairs. The only thing on the table was a striking candelabra holding six slim candles, already lit.

“Imogen!” said Simon warmly, giving her a hug and peck on the cheek. “How lovely to see you. Do you know Gabriel?” he continued,

detaching himself.

Just my luck, thought Imogen, consciously suppressing an eye roll. I come here hoping to meet like-minded people and end up with Attila the Hun—the man of few words and even fewer smiles. At least when he was teaching her to drive there was no need to chat. She suspected this evening was going to be heavy going.

“We know each other,” said Gabriel, emerging from a little room off the kitchen, which Imogen, glancing behind, could see

was the larder. He met her eye briefly and then turned to Simon.

“Will this do?” he said, waving a bottle of red wine.

“Couldn’t have chosen better myself,” Simon said, dumping four wineglasses onto the table.

“Are you all right with wine, Imogen?” said Genny solicitously.

“Half a glass won’t hurt,” said Simon.

“Great, well, you’re the boss. Yes, please, then,” replied Imogen, grateful for the distraction of wine opening and pouring

to see them over the awkwardness of the moment. She didn’t know if Gabriel was as surprised as she was by the meeting, but

either way, he didn’t look particularly thrilled to see her, and there was no sign he had resolved whatever problem was troubling

him the last time they met.

“This is wonderful,” said Imogen, sitting at the table.

The candelabra really was extraordinary—and very beautiful. Made from wrought iron, its surface was left unpainted, a silky brushed silver finish that gleamed in the candlelight. The six candles were held, each at a different and apparently random height by a complex of sinuous metal lengths. The rods twisted and coiled in and around one another, before tapering to fine tails that—although they looked entirely natural and random—balanced one another miraculously to hold the main body of the piece off the table. Reaching out to touch it, Imogen almost expected the sculpture to wrap itself around her fingers like the tentacles of an octopus, it looked so full of fluid movement and life.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” said Genny, noticing Imogen’s interest.

“It’s absolutely beautiful,” Imogen replied reverently.

“Our Gabriel’s a clever lad,” said Simon. We’re always trying to persuade him to push these original pieces a little more.

He’s got a good reputation locally for the more mundane stuff, fire grates, garden gates, and so on.”

“You made this!” said Imogen, sounding, perhaps, a little too amazed, she thought in retrospect. She looked at Gabriel, wide-eyed.

“It was an engagement present for Simon and Genny,” said Gabriel.

“It reminds me of Medusa,” said Imogen.

“Who’s he?” said Simon.

“She, stupid,” said Genny affectionately. “She was a Gorgon, a monster with snakes for hair who was so ugly anyone who looked

at her was turned to stone,” she continued. “That’s right, isn’t it, Imogen?”

“Gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘bad hair day,’ doesn’t it?” she replied, relieved to see that Gabriel was regarding

her a little more warmly now. Even if there was some problem with the two of them having a romantic relationship—as Gabriel

had made all too clear—surely, they could be friends. Or at least be civil to one another.

“Most people think that wrought iron is limited to curtain poles and garden gates. Anyway, I’m glad you like it. Knowing you’re an artist yourself, I value your opinion,” he said pleasantly. Clearly Gabriel was keen to make an effort too.

She was ashamed that she hadn’t found out more about Gabriel when they had lunch or even during their driving lesson. In hindsight,

she had dominated the conversation. Not to put too fine a point on it, first she had talked endlessly about herself, then

she had behaved exactly like the “brazen hussy” Joan and Muriel had referred to.

“It’s lamb, potatoes, and salad, if anyone’s interested,” said Genny from the sink, where she was rinsing lettuce.

“Sounds delicious, darling,” said Simon. “Can we do anything?”

“Actually, no, you are excused, you will be glad to hear,” replied Genny. “I was planning for us to barbecue these”—she pointed

to the thick, juicy-looking chops on the side—“purely on the basis that it gives you boys something to do while us girlies

drink all the wine, but sadly, autumn has decidedly arrived.”

She said this gazing out at the rain, which was now lashing against the windows in waves.

“I’m sure it will all be delicious anyway,” said Imogen encouragingly—and it was.

The lamb chops were impregnated with garlic and rosemary, blasted quickly under the grill until deliciously browned on the outside but still pink in the middle. Crunchy-skinned baked potatoes with floury insides and lashings of butter were accompanied by a green salad, with yet more garlic in the dressing, topped with bacon, croutons, and crunchy toasted seeds. It was simple comfort food, and completely delicious.

Conversation was light and entertaining with lots of bad jokes and laughter. Imogen was amazed at how relaxed Simon and Gabriel

were with one another. They teased and traded insults in a way that told her they knew each other very well indeed. Genny

sparkled too, wearing faded jeans and what looked like one of Simon’s shirts, her perfect skin glowing in the candlelight.

Not just a pretty face, though. Imogen was impressed to hear more about her work at the school.

“She was absolutely brilliant last week,” Simon told Imogen proudly. “They had their school Ofsted inspection—a huge big deal

for everyone—with a ton of extra work leading up to it over the last few months, although no one knows exactly when it’s going

to be. Anyway, the headmistress, Mrs. Marshall, has been off sick for most of the term, so Genny just had to steam in and

take over.”

“Yes, well, not just me.” Genny flushed pink at Simon’s praise. “Anyway, we’ll see how big a disaster it was when we get the report back next week.” Looking at Imogen, she continued, “We’re desperate to get a good report from the inspectorate. It could be just the leverage we need to get the Local Education Authority to cough up for the renovations. The truth is, the whole school is falling to bits. We think it’s great, and the children are fantastic, but it needs money spending on it, and—with funding so tight—the LEA are always looking for an excuse to cut costs. It’s central government, not local, who do the Ofsted reports, but if we get a negative one, it could be just the excuse that our LEA need to ‘rationalize,’ as they call it.”

“What would rationalizing mean?” Imogen asked.

“Well, I’m not saying it would happen, but there were rumors a year or so ago that they were looking at merging our little

school with the one in Latchfield. It’s bigger, newer, and a longish bus journey away for the Middlemass children.”

“But we want our own school,” said Imogen, amazed at her own passion. She had walked past the little red-brick Victorian building

often and had daydreamed extensively about how her bump would one day be hand in hand with her on the way to their first day.

“We certainly do want our own school,” said Simon, smiling warmly at Genny. “Anyway, like you said, it probably won’t happen,”

he reassured her, squeezing her hand, “but it does crank up the anxiety when it comes to an inspection, doesn’t it, darling?

As if you needed more stress!”

Seeing Simon look adoringly at Genny, Imogen blinked rapidly. Nigel had never sung her praises or regarded her with that kind

of pride.

She caught Gabriel watching her, and his expression of deep compassion and—what else was it?—pity?—took her breath away. And

then, just as their eyes met, he looked away and took a deep swig of wine, newly paying rapt attention to what Genny was saying.

“Have you been teaching there long?” asked Imogen. “You seem so committed.”

“Of course, I am. It’s a fabulous job—and then, of course, it’s my old childhood school too. It seemed like fate when the post came up just as Simon and I had decided to move out of London. The job at the surgery clinched it, of course—”

But Imogen interrupted, not at all interested in the local GP practice. “You mean you were a pupil there? How long ago was

that?” She loved the idea of the school having been there forever. The thought made it seem all the more important that it

should stay open for many years to come.

“I’m thirty, “ said Genny. “So, it’s been nearly twenty years since I left... Mrs. Marshall was our headmistress—she was

Miss Butterwick then. And now here I am, as her right-hand woman. I couldn’t be more thrilled. She was probably my biggest

inspiration when I was thinking about training to be a teacher.” Her expression darkened. “It’s just so sad that she’s ill

and we’ve got all these things going on.”

When Simon and Gabriel had been instructed to get on with the washing up, Imogen and Genny took their mugs of coffee and the

flapjacks into a cozy sitting room. The long, low room had small lattice-paned windows, oak beams, and a huge brick fireplace.

Two squashy sofas covered in multicolored throws, polished floorboards, and a wall of books made it a comfortable, relaxing

place to be.

Settling herself into one of the sofas, Imogen asked, “Have you and Simon known Gabriel for long?”

“Absolutely ages,” said Genny. “Simon’s known him longest of all. They were at boarding school together. I sort of knew Gabriel from living here since I was tiny, but well, he was older, and we moved in different circles until I met him when I was working in the pub. It was my holiday job. I met Simon through him, and here we are, married.” She plonked her mug on the table and reached for a flapjack. “And now Simon is a GP at the local surgery. With any luck, he’ll be offered a partnership soon. That’s when we’ll think about family. No rush. We both want to get established in our careers first, buy a house, all that jazz.”

She took a huge mouthful and chewed ecstatically. Considering how much Imogen had seen her eat already, her appetite was impressive.

“He’s lovely, isn’t he?” she said, shooting Imogen a piercing look.

“Simon? Yes.”

“Actually, I meant Gabriel.”

“Er, yes,” said Imogen more doubtfully. “Well, at least I am sure he’s very nice when you get to know him. Unfortunately,

when we first met, he hated me so much at first sight he tried to run me over with his tractor. After that, I thought we had

started getting on quite... well.” She paused, blushing a little. “But—just recently—I seem to have done something to upset

him again.”

Genny made comfortingly disbelieving noises.

“No, honestly,” Imogen continued. “He’s been reasonably all right tonight, but when I saw him at the fête last week, he looked

as if he wanted to kill me.”

“Ah, that. You mustn’t take it to heart,” said Genny. “He does seem to have something on his mind, I agree, but I’m sure it’s

not about you, and if there’s a real problem, Simon will get it out of him. And then, of course, this is a bad time of year

for Gabriel. Late summer always is.”

“Oh?”

Genny sighed and smiled sadly.

“That summer,” she began, staring into the fire, “it was the year after Simon and I met—he was worn out with the pressure

of work and the long hours. When I finished my teacher training, I was just freewheeling before my first teaching job, and

we both decided to take the summer off.”

She gazed into the flames, remembering. “We came back to the village to hang out for a couple of months. Of course, Gabriel

and the rest of the crowd were here for the summer too. You can imagine why, can’t you? Those long, lazy days at the Hall

or down by the river, drinking wine and chilling out... We were making the most of our lack of responsibilities—only young

once, and all that.”

She sighed. “Gabriel was different then too. He was so funny and carefree—lush, too. I tell you if I hadn’t already fallen

for Simon... Well, he wasn’t available anyhow. There was this beautiful girl called Annabel—she and Gabriel were totally

besotted with each other—always together, always laughing and sharing their private jokes. Everyone expected them to be the

first to marry from the group. In the end, it was Simon and me.”

“So, what went wrong between them?” said Imogen.

“She died.”

Imogen gasped.

Genny paused, choosing her words carefully. “So... there was a huge fuss—a scandal, really—we had to have an inquest of

course... And there was a police investigation.”

“What on earth happened?” said Imogen, shocked.

“We were down at the river one boiling hot day. A long summer it was that year. Lots of us were jumping in off the side of the stone bridge. You know the one? On the way to the school, on the road to Portneath?”

Imogen nodded.

“So,” continued Genny, staring into space as she recalled the scene, “we had all had a couple of glasses of wine, except Annabel.

We weren’t drunk, though, just relaxing and lounging around on the bank. We suddenly realized that Annabel had dived in and

hadn’t come up again. There was a huge panic. It was like time slowed down, like we were all in a nightmare. The trouble is

the water was terribly cloudy, with all the silt stirred up from the bottom, and we just couldn’t see a thing. The boys all

searched for her. Gabriel was completely frantic, but by the time he found her and brought her to the surface, it was horribly

clear that she was already dead. Gabriel tried to revive her. Simon was trying to help, but Gabriel wouldn’t let anyone else

near her. He kept on and on at it way after we all knew it was useless. The ambulance men had to drag him off her in the end.”

Genny gazed into the fire unseeingly.

“Anyway,” she continued with a sigh, “it turned out she had dived too near the edge. The water had dropped so much over the

weeks of hot weather. It wasn’t as deep as we thought. She’d broken her neck. She would have been paralyzed instantly, and—because

we didn’t realize she was under the water, caught in the weeds—she just drowned immediately.”

“How awful,” Imogen said softly.

“Yeah,” agreed Genny with a twisted smile. “The police were insistent that she must have been drinking or taking drugs, even though we kept telling them she hadn’t. In the end Gabriel went completely mad. He screamed that she couldn’t have been drinking because she was pregnant. It turns out they’d found out just days before and were planning to break the news to their parents and then to announce their engagement. The autopsy confirmed it. It was all unspeakably horrific.”

“When did all this happen?” said Imogen.

“It’s getting on for ten years ago now. He never stopped blaming himself for—oh, I don’t know!—not taking better care of her,

not finding her sooner, not making a good enough job of reviving her... Take your pick. And then of course he was absolutely

devastated at losing the baby too.”

“And still no new relationship after all this time?” said Imogen.

“Nothing much. He’s not a monk, mind you, but there’s been nothing more than the odd no-commitment fling with girls we often

don’t even get a chance to meet. I think there’s someone in the picture at the moment—that girl working up at the Hall. Louise

is her name, I think—but she’s nothing special to him as far as we can tell. We’ve all given it a go—dangled wonderful women

right under his nose, but it’s like he can’t find anyone else to measure up. Mind you, he doesn’t even want to look—that’s

the real problem. It’s like he’s thinking, ‘If you don’t love, you don’t lose.’ He just slogs away, working his guts out trying

to keep the Hall going all day and then working at the forge for half the night. When he’s really bad, we don’t see him for

weeks at a time. Frankly, it’s amazing he’s even here tonight.”

Poor, poor Gabriel, thought Imogen, her eyes filled with tears of empathy. She and he were the same. They had both loved and lost. Then she remembered the letter from the mysterious Victoria woman. No. It was not the same. Nigel had not died loving her. She knew that, of course. Knowing didn’t make it any easier.

In a somber mood, Genny and Imogen consoled themselves with the flapjacks, both of them on their third by the time Simon and

Gabriel reappeared.

“Whoa, I’m glad to see you’re both keeping your strength up in the face of all our hard work,” said Simon, grabbing a flapjack

and throwing himself full-length onto the sofa that Genny was on so he could rest his head in her lap.

Gabriel, more decorously, sat in the wing chair by the fire.

“These are fantastic, Imogen. You’ll have to give us the recipe. Genny never makes stuff like this,” Simon said, pulling a

soulful face.

You’d eat too many and end up diabetic or something, that’s why,” said Genny mock sternly. “And what sort of an example would

you be to your patients then?”

“Imogen needs the extra calories, though,” observed Gabriel.

“So true!” exclaimed Genny. “It’s all incredibly exciting, Imogen. When’s it due?”

“Just after Christmas, apparently,” said Imogen. “The first week of January, to be exact, but I’m a bit worried the poor mite

will arrive early and be condemned to a lifetime of being given joint Christmas/birthday presents rather than one for each.”

“I shouldn’t worry,” said Simon. “In my experience, first-time mothers tend to have their babies late.”

“Just as well,” said Gabriel. “Imagine all the poor boys born on Christmas Day, landing up being called Chris. Or Noel.”

“I think Noel’s a lovely name!” said Genny. “Anyway, there must be lots. I suppose you couldn’t really call him Jesus, though,

could you?”

“Plenty of people in Spain and Brazil would disagree with you,” observed Gabriel.

“Girls are easier,” said Imogen. “You could call her Carol. Or Holly.”

“Or even Ivy!” chipped in Genny. “Ivy’s a beautiful name.”

“I think we had better hope the child sticks to his or her due date, don’t you?” said Gabriel. “Anyway, I’ve got a big conference

delegation arriving at the Hall tomorrow. It’s going to be a long day, so I think I’ll make a move.”

“Oh, but it’s early!” Imogen said, reluctant to see the evening break up.

“Sorry,” he replied shortly. “You’d better get your coat. I’ll give you a lift home.”

“I don’t need a lift, thanks,” said Imogen, nettled at his patriarchal manner. Then she felt bad, remembering the sad story

she had heard tonight. Maybe it was no wonder he wanted to take control, having learned that—if you don’t—truly awful things

really do happen.

“You absolutely do need a lift,” he said, cocking a thumb at the window. “You’re not riding your bike home in that.”

He had a point. The rain was still lashing down relentlessly, and the thought of negotiating water-filled potholes in the

dark did not appeal.

“I don’t want either of you to go,” said Genny, pouting, “but I suppose we should all hit the sack. I’ve got a stack of marking to do, so I’ll be up horribly early.”

Within what seemed like seconds, Imogen was strapped into Gabriel’s car, hitching a lift again. At least it wasn’t the tractor

this time.

“Rains a lot in Devon, doesn’t it?” she said inanely, nervous at his closeness in the dark as he skillfully negotiated the

potholes.

“Wouldn’t be green if it didn’t.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“You know, I never received that letter you said was coming from the trustees,” said Imogen, more to make conversation than

anything else. “The Middlemass Hall trust thingie you talked about...”

“I know. I went back and told them not to send it until I spoke to them.”

“Why?” she said, beginning to be concerned.

“Because I’ve got some stuff to sort out, and—until I do—you don’t need to know,” he snapped impatiently, suppressing further

discussion on the matter.

She was relieved when, a moment later, they drew up at Storybook Cottage. He got out to open the car door for her while she

was still struggling with the seat belt. Sighing, he leaned in and undid it, causing her to press herself backward in the

seat.

In two minds about whether to extend their scintillating conversation about trust administration over coffee, she considered

inviting him in as he helped her out of the car like some precious, fragile creature.

Their eyes met in the dim light from the porch and held for a long moment. Surely a kiss, she thought longingly, staring at his mouth, her arm still burning from his touch.

“Good night, then,” he said with finality.

“Good night,” she answered, clear that she had been firmly dismissed. Nonetheless, he waited, car engine purring, for her

to fumble with her keys and go inside. She heard the car pull quietly away as she shut the door behind her.