The Chilton Crosse Collection #1, page 35
Hideaway Cottage sat behind Foxglove House, built for Holly by her father the week after she was born. Proud to be the father of a little girl, his first-born, he didn’t want a playhouse for her. He wanted the playhouse. He never did anything small, and the cottage was no exception. Adult-sized in height with a stone exterior that matched the main house, Hideaway Cottage contained a sitting room, complete with custom-made kiddie furniture and bookshelves. Since Holly had been an only child for the first eleven years of her life, she’d spent endless hours in this cottage, talking to her dolls, telling them secrets, reading them books.
When she moved back home from university to take care of her sisters, she realized the twins were too grown-up to enjoy Hideaway Cottage, and Abbey was uninterested in it altogether, preferring to spend her playtime outdoors. So, Holly transformed the cottage into a more mature hideaway—a haven from those early, daunting everyday duties. She redecorated, replacing the kiddie furniture with her mother’s rocking chair, a petite wood table she found in the attic, a beautiful antique lamp on sale at Mrs. Mulberry’s antique shop, and all sorts of other odds and ends, such as candles and silk flowers to dress up the space. She boxed up the toys and children’s books and replaced them with knickknacks from her dorm room and all of her favorite books. Pleasure reading. No textbooks in this cottage. Or laptops or mobile phones or iPods. Only silence.
Here, most of all, she could strip away the good-natured mask she wore on everyone else’s behalf. If she felt anxious, grumpy, knackered, it didn’t matter. Here, she could just be. The moment she stepped over the threshold, her entire body relaxed.
Tonight, she had a specific mission. She shut the blue door and went straight to the bookcase to find her thirteen-year-old copy of Emma. Though she’d read the book a dozen times, it had been years ago, as a child and teenager. She hadn’t opened this precious copy since before her mother passed away. A time when her world, and her future, had looked entirely different.
Holding the beloved copy now, touching the raised wrinkles in its cover and the soft dog-eared pages in between, Holly recognized a strong pull to revisit that Jane Austen world. To take a peek inside a familiar place, to be in someone else’s skin for a while.
Chapter Three
Nothing ever fatigues me, but doing what I do not like.
~Jane Austen
Holly frowned into the full-length mirror, wanting to blame the piece of glass for her dilemma.
“What do you wear on a faux-date?!” she asked her reflection. Especially a faux-date that involved Frank. Yes, he had assured her this wasn’t a real date. But in the twenty-four hours since he’d asked, Holly had grown more suspicious that he was lying—at least to himself. That deep down, he hoped this dinner would turn into something more.
In preparation, Holly had considered wearing no makeup, leaving her hair disheveled, and maybe donning something frumpy. Anything to put him off the idea. She’d even considered more than that. Staring at the phone, she contemplated again: Fake cough? A couple of sniffles thrown in for good measure? Surely, over the phone, she could pull it off.
But she knew better—Frank would only hold her to their original bargain some other time. Best to get it over with. Deciding on jeans and a sweater, she figured it didn’t matter what she wore. Her attire wouldn’t change the fact that this was an outing with potentially disastrous consequences.
The entire day had seemed utterly disjointed, from the moment Holly awoke in Hideaway Cottage and realized the time. She’d stayed up until the wee hours reading Emma, falling asleep with the lamp on. The crick in her neck had lasted all day, a reminder of her foolishness.
Thank goodness an annoying bird whose call she couldn’t identify had the good sense to alert her in time to wake the girls and prepare them a hasty breakfast. And thank goodness she’d submitted her research paper last night before entering the cottage, instead of deciding to finish it this morning, as she’d been tempted to do. Still, her jog had been sacrificed, which seemed to set the tone for everything else.
She lost count of all the little things that had gone wrong—from the mug she dropped and shattered, to the dentist appointment she completely forgot, to the house keys she misplaced, making her late to work. And finally, to this “thing” with Frank.
Walking downstairs, she heard mock whistles as she passed the girls watching telly in the sitting room.
“Holly and Frank sittin’ in a tree…” Bridget sang, out of tune.
“Hilarious,” Holly called behind her, turning the corner to the kitchen in search of some chalky Tums to calm her anxious stomach.
Relieved to find them in an upper cabinet, she uncapped the nearly empty bottle—but before she could tip them into her palm, a rap at the back door startled her. She spilled the last two tablets onto the floor.
“Bollocks,” she whispered, picking them up, chucking them into the garbage. The five-second floor rule might have applied when she was a child but not so much anymore.
She looked toward the French doors and recognized the silver hair immediately. Her face softened. It was Mac.
“Hey,” she said, opening the door. The cool evening air sifted through her sweater, and she rubbed at her arms. “It’s chilly—come in and have a coffee.” Even as the words left her lips, she realized she hadn’t actually made any coffee, and that she didn’t have time to make a pot before she met Frank.
It didn’t matter. She would make time for Mac.
He remained where he was, removing his cap as he always did. “No, thank ye. I only came by to check on the hot water.”
“It’s perfect. Thanks again for repairing the system. I don’t think I could’ve taken another rant from Bridget. That girl needs her hot showers or else!”
Mac chuckled, squinting his grey-blue eyes. “Glad to be of service. If you have any trouble, give me a shout.” He started to leave but then added, “Everyone well? Your sisters? And your pa?”
“Everyone is great. Busy, though. School’s back in session.”
“Aye, that’ll keep those lasses out o’ trouble, then.”
“I’m hoping so. You sure about the coffee?”
“Aye. Must be going. I’ll take a rain check. Have a good evenin’.”
She shut the door and noticed the acidy sensation in her stomach had lessened. Perhaps Mac had been just the Tums she’d needed.
The family’s gardener-slash-handyman, Mac MacDonald had looked after Foxglove House for the past thirty years. Though he knew the family well, he always kept to formalities, never divulging anything much about his own personal life. Come to think of it, Holly knew next to nothing about him, except that he was an excellent gardener and a loyal friend to her father. And that she often had trouble understanding his words through his thick Scottish accent.
Even with the formalities, though, there was something warm about him. She’d seen it when her father had gone through his “rough” months and Holly had felt so incapable. Mac had caught her crying one day, muffling sobs into the sleeve of her shirt so nobody would know she was falling apart. Mac closed the gap between them and offered his shoulder.
Then, he offered solutions. He sat at the breakfast table and listed all the things he could do to help out around the house—practical things, such as repairing a leaky patch in the roof, changing impossible-to-reach light bulbs, even helping Holly budget the household accounts. Things her father would normally have done. Mac was a godsend, an angel her mother had sent in the nick of time.
Putting an arm through her jacket sleeve, Holly heard the doorbell and paused. Knowing one of her sisters would answer, she stayed frozen, listening for who she hoped wasn’t on the other side.
But after a few seconds, there it was—Frank’s distinctive voice, in her home, echoing down her hallway.
“Seriously?” she muttered. They were supposed to meet at the pub. This was not the plan.
Thrusting her other arm through the jacket sleeve, she hurried to the door. The longer Frank stood in the hall, the more likely it became that Bridget would either insult his obnoxious laugh or sing that blasted “kissing” song again.
“Frank!” Holly forced her best I’m-not-irritated expression. “What are you doing here? I thought we agreed to meet at the pub.”
He wore a pea-green blazer she’d never seen before, and his hair was slicked back with some sort of mousse or gel. It resembled motor oil.
“Well,” he explained, “it’s a lovely evening. I thought the walk up your hill would do me good.”
Holly heard giggles, so she waved Frank back through the doorway, following him outside before he had a chance to process her sisters’ childishness.
The intermittent rain had stopped again, but the fresh scent lingered. They walked in silence down the hill toward the village. From here, inside a luminescent sunset, everything looked picturesque. The glossy-wet cobblestone street, the vivid green hues of towering trees beyond the village, the one ray of hopeful sunshine backlighting the row of quaint shops—no wonder tourists flocked here each summer, cameras at the ready.
Joe’s Pub sat in a prominent spot near the end of Storey Road, offering respite for tourists and locals—a cozy, casual environment for a non-date. Or so Holly had assumed. When she entered with Frank and recognized most of the patrons, she knew it was the worst of all possible choices. Not only would she have to sit through a meal with a man she didn’t care for, scrambling to think of things to say—but she would have to do it in front of people she knew.
“Holly!”
Lizzie, Joe’s wife, appeared with a bright smile—which changed abruptly to confusion as she saw who stood with Holly in the doorway. Once upon a time, Lizzie would’ve been the first person Holly called about the Frank “situation.” As teenagers, Holly and Lizzie had worked together at the antique shop and had become fast friends. But time and distance, as well as life’s growing responsibilities, had pulled the friends apart.
“Umm.” Lizzie gave an awkward smile toward Frank. “Will you two be needing a table? Or a space at the bar?”
Holly preferred the bar—more active and lively, less chance for intimate conversation—but Frank would no doubt prefer a table.
“Table’s fine. So, how’ve you been?” she asked, following Lizzie along the bar toward the back corner.
“Amazing!” Lizzie said, beaming, then leaned in with a whisper. “We’re trying to get pregnant.”
“That’s… great!” Holly said, trying to hide a cringe. Too much information, even for a former best friend.
“Here you are,” Lizzie said, placing menus on the table, then took their drink orders as they sat. “Oh! There’s already some buzz around your posters.” Lizzie pointed with her pencil to the nearby wall, and Holly saw it—one of the colorful posters Frank had finished and printed this afternoon.
“I’ve never read Emma before,” Lizzie confessed. “But I can’t wait for the book club to start.”
Since Holly and Frank already knew what they wanted, Lizzie jotted down their orders—a club sandwich and crisps for Holly, spareribs for Frank.
“I’ll be back in a jiff with this.” Lizzie’s long, brunette ponytail swished as she left.
“So.” Holly threaded her fingers together on top of the table as though she were about to conduct a job interview. “Did Mrs. Aimes ever ring you back? About her collection?” Talking about work was the safest route. Even if it was an overly obvious one.
Frank shook his head. “Not yet. I’ll ring her again this weekend, after my trip.”
“Trip?”
He inched closer in a bashful whisper, “I’m going on a butterfly hike with a couple of friends. I haven’t told you, but my passion—well, besides art, of course—is entomology.”
“Ento-what-ogy?” she asked.
“Collecting insects.”
“Eww.” Holly scrunched up her nose then realized he was serious. “Oh. Sorry.”
“I know how it sounds, believe me. But it’s a real science, a true art form. The iridescent wings of a White Admiral butterfly, the perfect polka dots on the back of a ladybird. I prefer the rare species, of course. They’re more challenging to find.” He cleared his throat, apparently preparing to offer a full lesson on the joys of entomology. “There’s nothing more exhilarating than finding that insect you’ve been searching for for months, even years. It’s a lifetime pursuit.”
“I can imagine.” She reached for the lager Lizzie had just set on the table, hoping it would stifle the giggle rising in her throat.
“I’ve been interested in insects since I was a small boy. My father gave me my first kit. He and I would go to the countryside each Saturday, stalking praying mantises or Rosemary beetles. Quite an adventure. I would pore over biology textbooks before our trips, bookmarking pages and memorizing the genus names ahead of time.”
Holly tried—really tried—to discipline her mind to listen to Frank’s story. She owed him that courtesy, at least. But as he droned further on about his passion for bugs, all she could think about was how lame the last episode of EastEnders was. Or how she should add cornflakes to her ongoing grocery list. Or how perfectly a pair of yellow sandals would go with Abbey’s new church dress—
“Holly?”
She paused, utterly caught. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“Your courses. I was asking what you were taking.”
“Oh.” Guilt forced her to sit up straight, make eye contact, and commit to being fully present for the rest of the meal. Even if it killed her. “I’m taking one course this semester, business administration, and I’ve already signed up for a summer course. Small business.”
Frank approved. “Very practical.”
“Yes.”
Practical was good. Holly was on track, excited to finish her final courses in autumn and finally graduate. She’d always been good at math and had originally focused on business to follow in her father’s footsteps, inspired by his success. But she still didn’t know how exactly she might end up using her degree. Or how it could alter her home life with the girls. She only hoped inspiration would hit before her last semester.
Lizzie walked toward them, balancing two hefty plates. The meal kept Frank and Holly from saying much more, and Holly was glad of it, seeing as Frank had a difficult time keeping the rib sauce inside his mouth. By the time he’d finished the meal, the crimson mess was all over his fingers, his chin, his napkin, even on his glass of ale in sticky fingerprints. Holly couldn’t have stomached watching him attempt to talk through all of that.
Frank tried to buy dessert, but Holly turned him down, saying she should return to her sisters. Abbey needed help with her algebra.
They split the bill, and as they stood to leave, Frank reached out to hold her coat up. “You really are a good mother figure to those girls.”
Taken aback, Holly thanked him. No one had said that to her in a long time.
When Frank opened the pub door for her, she saw the almost-full moon, shining low in the sky.
“Beautiful,” Holly whispered.
“May I walk you home?” he offered hopefully.
“Oh. No, Frank. I’ll go on alone. It’s not far.”
“I insist.”
Knowing he wouldn’t give up, she said, “All right,” and moved toward the road.
Halfway up the hill to Foxglove, amidst the quiet shush of leaves rustling around them, Holly noticed a hand at her elbow. She paused and saw Frank staring at her. She wished he would say something. Anything was better than silence. The moonlight was strong enough to light up his expression—a hopeful smile, bright eyes. His shadowy face leaned in, and she shifted away. Just in time for his lips to graze her cheek.
She stepped back, realizing this had been a terrible mistake. All of it. The dinner, the conversation, the walk back home. She should have never accepted his invitation in the first place.
“Frank, I—”
“No,” he said quietly, eyes downcast. “It’s fine.”
But she knew it wasn’t fine. If she let this moment go, if it were allowed to fester, she would never be able to face him at work. In fact, this very moment might eventually force her to quit a job she so enjoyed.
“Frank, I’m sorry.”
“No. I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said, finally able to raise his eyes again. “I promised you this wasn’t a date, and yet, I’ve turned it into one. I’m embarrassed.”
“Please, Frank. Don’t be.” She reached up to clasp his hand. His gaze had darted back down again, and she wanted to make sure he heard this, loud and clear. “Our friendship matters to me. I want it to continue without awkwardness. Please tell me this won’t change anything.”
“It won’t. I’m fine,” he said once more, but the hasty removal of his hand from her grasp told her otherwise. “Have a nice evening. See you next week.” He pivoted to walk away.
She watched him go then wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly chilly, and headed home alone. What she hated most about what had just happened, besides hurting Frank, was the irony. For six long years, she had been utterly dateless. Man-less. And now, the first “date” she’d had in years was with a man she didn’t care for. Didn’t harbor a single romantic or sexual feeling for.
Not that it mattered, anyway. Even if Frank had been a true romantic possibility, her priorities still remained with the girls, her sisters. This life. Someday, she would have room for a guy. He would be her priority. But not yet.
Still, here she was, breathing in the crisp air of a romantic moonlit night kissed by a thousand stars… all alone. Feeling small. Feeling lonely and vulnerable. And so, walking home, she let herself want someone. She daydreamed about what a perfect date could be—sparkling conversation over untouched meals, giddy smiles as he grabbed her hand on the walk home, breathless anticipation as he leaned closer for a lingering kiss.
