2
Dorothy
D orothy eased into the line of traffic and was heading out of London when Imogen returned her call.
“I’m sorry I missed your call, Dorothy. You know how much I enjoy talking to you.” Imogen sounded breathless and apologetic, and Dorothy smiled. It would have been hard not to admire and respect someone who was as relentlessly upbeat and positive as Imogen. Her energy transmitted itself to the people around her. Added to that, she always had a smile on her face and was ferociously committed to her job.
“It’s not a problem. I only rang to tell you in person that I loved your proposal, so consider this a green light. We can talk details in due course.” She glanced briefly at her daughter, who was seated in the passenger seat next to her, hands clasped in her lap.
Sara gave her a look.
Dorothy ignored it. This was her decision. She could do as she pleased. And it pleased her to give the business to Imogen. No one deserved it more.
“Brilliant! That’s the best news. I’m excited.” Imogen’s enthusiasm filled the car. “I’ll start working up some of the detail over the weekend and let you have that on Monday.”
“There’s no hurry. Take the weekend off, Imogen. You’ve been working too hard.” Dorothy checked her mirror and pulled into the outside lane. “I was thinking that maybe we should have lunch next time I’m in London. We can toast our excellent partnership and also Christmas.”
“That would be great. Just name the day and time, and I’ll make the arrangements. I’m already looking forward to it.”
“I’m in the Cotswolds for the next week, but I’ll be back in London the week after that. Does that work for you?”
They firmed up plans, Dorothy wished Imogen a pleasant weekend and then ended the call.
Silence echoed around the car.
Dorothy waited. She didn’t have the energy for the conversation she knew was coming. Not tonight.
Finally, Sara spoke. “Mum—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Sara.”
“But—”
“Imogen is doing a great job. She is smart, hardworking and creative. There is no one I would rather be working with. You heard her just now—her enthusiasm is infectious.”
Sara took a breath. “She is good. I’m not arguing that point, but—”
“Do you know that our suppliers and customers still talk about the event she ran for us last year? Even the ones who didn’t come talk about it, because they regret not having made the effort. It’s a shame you missed it.”
Sara turned her head away and stared out of the window. “Ava was sick.”
“Yes.” Dorothy opened her mouth and closed it again. Let it go, Dorothy.
“I know you want to give the business to Imogen,” Sara said, “but don’t you think we should at least ask a few other companies to pitch?”
“No.” Dorothy kept an eye on the car ahead that was weaving in and out of traffic. “Imogen is excellent at what she does, the costings are in line with our budget and I’m confident the project will run perfectly if she is in control. Why put it out to pitch? We’re a small family business and I don’t have time for all that. What is that guy doing? Does he really think he’s going to squeeze through that gap? Friday afternoon does strange things to people.” She wanted this conversation to end, but it seemed she didn’t get that lucky.
Sara tapped her fingers on the file in front of her. “All I’m saying is that—”
“I know what you’re saying, and I’m grateful for your opinion, Sara, always. But this decision is mine, and I’ve made it.” She said it as if it had been easy, but it hadn’t. She wondered if Sara knew that she questioned herself every moment of the day. Big decisions, important decisions, should be clear, but this one was murky and opaque. “Those concepts are perfect. The drone display is inspired. We’re holding it on our own land, which will keep the costs down. And I love the fact that we’ll be able to invite our neighbors and everyone in the village. It will be quite a party.”
“It is clever, I admit it. This isn’t about Imogen’s work, you know that.” Sara sighed. “I’m worried about you, that’s all.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I know what I’m doing.” If only that were true. She had no idea what she was doing. She was winging it. Doing her best. Making her best guess and hoping that instinct served her better than it had in the past. Mistakes should make you wiser, surely, but in her case they’d just made her wary.
“Mum—”
“More importantly, give me the latest sales figures and then we can switch off and get ourselves into weekend in the country mode.” The traffic finally eased and she headed out of London, leaving the city behind her.
She could feel Sara’s gaze on her, but finally her daughter turned her attention to her phone.
“Patrick sent the numbers through an hour ago. Sales are up 40 percent on this time last year. Orders are going through the roof, but that’s Christmas of course. I spoke to the agency—the new ad, Christmas without the headache , seems to have resonated with the forty-to fifty-year-old age group, which is good because we were aiming to increase sales among that group.”
Dorothy smiled. “All those parents cooking the Christmas dinner. And your new social media campaign?”
“It has been a hit with influencers. We’ve had some dreamy lifestyle photography, the new bottle and label looks great in photos. There was a brilliant one taken on a Christmas tree farm. I’ll send it to you. The half size gift bottle with the Christmas label has almost sold out. We have more on order—” Sara talked for the next hour, and by the time she’d finished updating Dorothy, they’d left the motorway and were weaving their way along country roads toward the Cotswolds.
Dorothy felt the stress of the city leave her and a new stress form behind her ribs.
It wasn’t the place, it was the time of year.
“It’s cold today,” she said briskly. “I can’t believe it’s December next week. It will soon be Christmas.” The moment she said the words she felt Sara’s hand on her leg, comforting.
Any tension that the earlier conversation might have caused fell away.
“I know.” Sara gave her leg a squeeze. “But it’s going to be fine. We’re going to have a good time, you wait.”
“We are. We always do.” What would she do without her daughter? Dorothy sat up a little straighter and focused on the road. Sara was better than she was at compartmentalizing. She’d managed to lock the past away. Dorothy wished she was able to do the same. “Are the girls excited?”
“ Excited doesn’t cover it. They’ve made a chart so that they can count the sleeps until Santa comes. They’ve made more Christmas cards than we have people in our lives. I have no idea what we’re going to do with them all.”
“Get the girls to send them to the animals. The alpacas would love to have a Christmas card, I’m sure.”
“That’s a great idea, although you’ll have to make sure they don’t eat it.” Sara laughed. “And talking of alpacas, Mrs. Nolan wants to know if they can borrow Benson for the play at school. As you’ll be in the audience, you can supervise him.”
“Goodness. They have a role for an alpaca? What exactly is this play?”
“The kids have written the story,” Sara said. “All living things welcome. They created a part especially for Benson because the children love him, and no matter how much they fuss over him, he never bites them.”
“Of course he wouldn’t bite them. And yes, they can borrow Benson.”
“Do you think he’d tolerate wearing a pair of antlers?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Dorothy smiled at the thought. “Anything else? The Herdwick sheep are friendly. You could borrow a couple.”
“I did wonder about taking Romeo and Juliet.”
Dorothy winced and shook her head. “Not unless you want the play to turn into a pantomime. You know what goats are like.”
“They’re adorable.”
“They eat everything in sight, Sara.”
“That’s true. I suppose you’re right. Fine. Just Benson then. And maybe a sheep. I’ll ask.”
“I could invite Miles to join us,” Dorothy said. “It would be useful to have a vet there.”
Sara laughed. “There is no way Miles would say yes, not after that incident a few years ago when Bryony Wilson had a glass of wine in the interval and cornered him in the corridor.”
“You’re probably right. I’ll be the alpaca wrangler then.”
“Great. Thanks, Mum. Now that the renovations are finished on Holly Cottage, are you going to give it back to the letting agency?”
“No. I’m going to deal with it in January.”
Holly Cottage had once been the gatehouse for the estate, and Dorothy had been offering it as a holiday let for the past ten years. Over the summer she’d employed a local builder to update it. The work had taken much longer than anticipated thanks to the unpredictability of old cottages, but she was thrilled with the result. They’d kept all the character and charm, but updated everything from the heating system to the plumbing.
“It’s looking great,” Sara said. “While we’re on the subject of Christmas, we haven’t firmed up details for this year. The girls are hoping we could all stay with you at the house if that works.”
Dorothy felt a lump form in her throat. “You don’t have to do that, Sara. I’ll be perfectly fine. You were with Patrick’s family last year. You should have Christmas in your own home for once. I’ll come for the day.”
“I spend plenty of time in my own home,” Sara said. “We’d much rather come to you. If you can bear to have us, of course. That way I can have a blissful Christmas lying around on the sofa doing nothing, while you run around the kitchen and entertain your hyperactive grandchildren. Who’d say no to that?” Her phone pinged and she checked her message, while Dorothy wondered how it was that Sara always managed to make her smile and feel positive about Christmas.
It was a miracle really because part of her was dreading Christmas, the way she always dreaded Christmas. It didn’t matter how many years passed, it was still painful. And Sara knew that of course. In many ways it was as difficult for Sara as it was for her. They’d lived through those days together. She sometimes wondered if she would have survived if it hadn’t been for her daughter.
She felt a rush of love, and also pride.
What a star Sara was, and never more so than at Christmas. She’d made a conscious decision that they were going to turn Christmas into something wonderful, and instead of keeping it low-key she always insisted that they celebrate in a big way.
She glanced briefly at her daughter. Sara was replying to the message on her phone. Her head was down and her hair had slid forward, a curtain of pale gold, leaving Dorothy with a glimpse of just her long eyelashes and the curve of her cheek. For a moment Dorothy saw her as a young girl, not as a married woman with two children of her own.
Sara. Always so responsible. So caring. Some children were nothing but a worry. Sara had never been one of those.
“Patrick says it’s pizza night.” Sara sent the message. “You’re invited. He and the girls have already made the dough and the tomato sauce. Which basically means I’m going to have to redecorate the kitchen when I get home. Do you see now why I’m desperate to come to you for Christmas?”
Dorothy laughed and for a moment she was tempted by the invitation to join them for pizza. An evening with her grandchildren was guaranteed to distract her and lift her somber mood, but she was ready to spend some time at home.
“Not tonight, but I appreciate the invitation.”
“Are you sure?” There was concern in Sara’s voice. “Are you going to sit and feel sad?”
“No. I’ve been in London all week. Far too long. I’m going to spend the evening checking on the animals and finding out what has been happening in my absence.”
“If you change your mind, come on over. You know Patrick always overcaters.”
“I know. Thank you.”
“And will you let us come to you for Christmas? Is it too much of an invasion? Be honest. I promise I won’t really lounge on the sofa. We’ll all help, including the girls, although their kind of help often ends up doubling the workload.”
Dorothy smiled. “You know I’d love to have you.” The idea of it lifted her mood. She’d make a big fuss, as Sara always did. She’d choose a huge tree. The girls would love that. “It will be fun. The girls can help me decorate the house over the next few weeks.”
There was an ache behind her ribs. She was lucky to have them. Her wonderful daughter and son-in-law, her two adorable grandchildren. The Estate, the business, her beautiful home in the country. The animals. She smiled. The animals were the reason she never felt lonely. She really was fortunate in many ways, and she knew it. But still—
It was possible to be fortunate and grateful but also feel an ache of regret for the past. And at this time of year that ache became more acute.
She dropped Sara at her house in the village, stopped long enough to hug her grandchildren and then headed back to the car to drive the few miles home to the Winterbury Estate.
Her parents had bought the house and grounds in a tumble-down state and had gradually restored it. It had been her father who had planted the vines. He’d returned from a holiday in France, inspired by what he’d seen. He’d been convinced that the sheltered aspect of the estate and the soil quality would produce an excellent wine, and time had proved him right.
Dorothy drove down the narrow country lanes, her headlamps picking out dry stone walls and thatched cottages as she headed into the small Cotswold village of Winterbury. She felt an immediate sense of serenity and calm. Despite all the advances of the modern world, it sometimes felt as if time had stood still in this quaint little corner of England.
A river bubbled through the middle of the village, flanked by houses of honey-colored stone. There was a village green, a pub that drew people from miles around, an excellent bakery and various independent stores that stocked local produce, including wines from the Winterbury Estate. In the summer months the streets were swollen with tourists keen to absorb the atmosphere, but in winter the place mostly returned to the home of her childhood.
They were forecasting a cold snap, but it had been a good year for the vines. In fact, Patrick, who was her winemaker as well as her son-in-law, had told her last month that it had been their best year ever, with their highest yields to date. June had been dry and warm, allowing for flowering, and then they’d had heavy storms but by then the vines were flourishing. They’d had a bumper harvest.
A mile beyond the village she turned off the main road, drove through the gates of the Winterbury Estate, past Holly Cottage and along the tree-lined avenue that led to the house.
The prospect of a weekend alone didn’t worry her. She’d lived alone since Phillip had died and she was used to it.
Sara was worried she was lonely, but Dorothy never felt lonely here. Partly because there were usually people around—the small staff who helped her around the estate, and Jenny, her housekeeper who lived in the village—but mostly because this was her home.
She pulled up in front of the house. The front door opened, and a welcoming glow of light spilled down the steps. A spaniel sped across to her, tail wagging furiously.
“Bailey.” She bent to make a fuss of him. “I missed you.”
She reached for her luggage. She made a point of traveling light and only had a single small suitcase.
“He always behaves as if you’ve been away for a year, not a couple of nights. Good trip?” Jenny stood on the steps waiting for her, her coat already buttoned.
“Very good. Thank you for keeping an eye on everything, Jenny.” She hugged the other woman warmly. They’d known each other for decades, and their friendship had sustained them through tough times. “Everything okay here?”
“Yes. I checked the alpacas earlier. Everything seemed fine. I gave them extra hay.”
“Thanks, Jenny. Drive carefully. I’ll see you on Monday.” Dorothy watched as Jenny drove away and then headed to the house with Bailey at her heels.
It felt good to be home.
She walked through to the kitchen and was wrapped in a welcoming warmth.
Jenny had left a stack of mail for her on the table, but she decided to tackle it later and instead made herself a mug of creamy hot chocolate, which she took to the library. This was the room where she felt closest to Phillip, and she still did feel his presence here even though it had been so many years since he died. She’d been a widow for more than twenty years and she still missed him every day, even though she’d made a good life for herself.
She sat in the nook that overlooked the gardens and the paddock. In summer she could watch her small herd of alpacas from this spot, but tonight they’d taken refuge from the cold in the small barn that she’d had built for them when they first arrived.
To the right of the paddock was the vegetable garden, and behind that the orchard and then the vineyards.
Bailey joined her in the library and settled at her feet.
“We ought to have an early night.” She reached out and stroked his head. “Busy day tomorrow.”
Every day was busy, and with Christmas approaching it would get busier, although nothing like harvest, of course, which always involved brutal hours and little time off. She left the logistics of running the business to her small team of staff, of which Patrick was a key member, but she still kept an eye on everything and occasionally she helped prune the vines. It took her back to those exhausting but happy days when she and Phillip had done so much of the work together.
It was time she started to give proper thought to Christmas. If her grandchildren were coming, then she needed the house to be extra festive.
It was time to start baking and freezing food so it would be less frenetic while they were staying.
No doubt it would mean working from dawn to dusk, but that didn’t worry her. She needed it.
And even though she knew Sara had been teasing her with her jokes about lounging on the sofa, she badly wanted her daughter to be able to relax and enjoy Christmas. She wanted her to be able to spend time with the girls and Patrick. Focus on her children and not spend her time welded to the stove. Family time was so important, and those early years passed so quickly.
She picked up her empty mug and walked back to the kitchen.
She reached for her laptop bag and pulled out the proposal that Imogen had sent through. The concept and details were inspired, but no less than she’d come to expect from Imogen. She was an impressive young woman and she deserved the volume of business, and the trust, that Dorothy gave her.
She knew Sara was worried that she’d allowed herself to get so close to Imogen.
It was the one thing, the only thing, on which they disagreed.
Dorothy understood Sara’s concern, but that didn’t alter her resolve.
She was doing what she needed to do.