One Hot Summer: A heartwarming summer read from the author of One Day in December

‘What?’

Alice glanced across at Niamh’s canvas on the easel behind the armchairs, at the all too evident beginnings of yesterday’s octogenarian nude.

‘Nothing,’ she said, her eyes dancing as she looked back at Niamh. ‘It’s just that from the way those jeans fit him, I think you might need more than an old fig in your fruit bowl.’

A little later that morning, Robinson pulled back his bedroom curtains just in time to catch his resident woodland nymph running across the grass towards her mystery residence beyond the trees. Although she was more Eskimo than nymph this morning; he wouldn’t have recognised her except for her telltale red boots and the long blonde trails of hair escaping the hood she’d turned up as protection against the lashing rain. ‘Welcome to England,’ he muttered, scrubbing his hands through his hair to wake himself up. Jetlag was one hell of a bitch to shake.

His thoughts turned back to his new landlady as he brushed his teeth. Where had she been so early, anyway? Or had she just been coming home after a night elsewhere? He pushed the disturbing thought away and headed downstairs. He didn’t really object to her coming and going, but it was going to be kind of hard to keep a low profile if his garden became a thoroughfare for a steady stream of Alice’s friends and lovers.

Maybe that fence she’d mentioned was going to be necessary after all.

‘Alice?’

Even though she’d barely had one conversation with him, Alice recognised Robinson’s voice straight away. No one else in Shropshire, or in England for that matter, had that odd mix of gravel-rough and silky smooth when they said her name. She swung the caravan door open, frowning at the grey, drizzly day beyond the canopy awning.

‘Morning,’ she said, keeping her guard well and truly up. ‘Have you decided you need that guided tour after all?’

‘You live in an Airstream.’

Alice looked at him steadily, taken aback by his bluntness. ‘Yes. I do.’

His face had confusion written all over it. ‘You moved out of that huge house into a van in your own garden?’

It nettled her that he didn’t keep his confusion to himself, mostly because she wasn’t any more ready to elaborate on her situation than he’d been when he’d arrived yesterday.

‘Is that a problem to you?’ she said, not quite challenging, but not quite polite, either.

He looked mildly taken aback, shaking his head with a tiny shrug.

‘I guess not, so long as you don’t plan on throwing all-night parties down here.’

Alice considered her options for a moment. If she argued her right to do whatever the heck she pleased down here, then she’d also need to prepare herself for a reply that involved six-foot fences and privacy rights. On balance, she decided not to go in hard straight off the bat, mostly because it was still early and her brain needed more coffee.

‘Lucky for you I’m not the party sort, then.’ She nodded slowly. ‘You better come in out of the rain.’

Stepping back into the caravan, she flicked the gas on beneath the kettle, glad that the cooker co-operated easily for once.

‘Coffee?’

Robinson stepped inside the caravan, and Alice watched him silently size the place up. She knew perfectly well what he must be thinking.

Why would anyone move out of the manor into this? He looked at the eclectic collection of rugs she’d used to cover the old lino for warmth as well as appearance, and the faded cherry-red leather banquette seating covered in a mish mash of pretty cushions Niamh had made along with the new curtains. It wasn’t a palace, but the interior of the Airstream had a feminine, kitsch charm now that hadn’t been there before Alice and Niamh had set to work on it. Alice was particularly fond of how the polished chrome roof over her bed had come up; its curves and bolts all looked fabulous by candlelight at night. It was unexpectedly intimate, having him look at her bed. In the close confines of the caravan he was in her kitchen, her lounge and her bedroom all at once, and the breadth of his shoulders seemed more pronounced in the small space.

‘I love these old things,’ he said, surprising her as he ran an appreciative hand over the coach built cupboards. Okay, so maybe she hadn’t read his thoughts well at all. ‘My folks had one when we were kids. All of our holidays were spent pulled up beside one lake or another, climbing trees and running riot.’

Alice patted the worktop, basking a little in his approval of her new home despite herself.

‘I’m not sure she’s up to dragging around the country just yet, but I’m happy enough in here. Sit down,’ she said, motioning towards the banquette that ran around the opposite end of the caravan to the bed. He passed behind her where she stood at the cooker, close by necessity. He didn’t touch her, but all the same her body was unexpectedly aware of his in a way that made the hairs on the back of Alice’s neck stand up.

‘Sugar?’ she asked, flustered. What the hell was her body playing at? She was in the completely wrong place in her head for her body to be making such rash overtures, and it scared the hell out of her.

He shook his head, taking the mug she held out and placing it on the table in front of him. Alice picked up the drink she’d been part way through and joined him, perching a safe distance away on the end of the banquette opposite.

‘So, Mr Duff. How was your first night in the manor?’ She successfully fought the urge to say ‘in my manor’, or even worse, ‘in my bed’.

‘It’s Robinson, please.’

Alice frowned slightly, unsure she was happy to be on first name terms when her body had just acted in such an irresponsible fashion to his. Robinson Duff. Did something about his name ring a familiar bell? He must have sensed it in her, because he sighed a little and looked less comfortable than a moment ago.

‘I’m sorry,’ Alice said. ‘It’s just your name. I feel as if I’ve heard it before somewhere.’

He picked up his mug and drank slowly then lowered his eyelids, staring into his coffee.

‘I doubt that.’

He dismissed her words with a careless shrug.

Alice frowned, unconvinced, her head on one side as she looked at him.

‘No … I’m pretty sure I have,’ she said, sensing his annoyance and not understanding where it came from.

He sighed audibly.

‘Maybe you have, maybe you haven’t. It’s a pretty common name. Does it really matter?’ His carefully controlled look aimed for bland, but his eyes told a different story. They told her to back off. Alice received the message loud and clear and held her tongue, even though she wanted to point out that, actually, Robinson Duff wasn’t a very common name at all.

‘I used to be a singer, back home,’ he said, his tone flat, his eyes back on his coffee. ‘Next subject.’

Alice wished he’d look up. It was hard to read his expression without the luxury of seeing his eyes, but the quiet melancholy in his voice spoke of a heavy heart.

‘Must be it,’ she said, privately planning to look him up later. She’d heard of him, she was certain.

‘Where is home, Robinson?’

He didn’t reply for a few long beats.

‘Here, now,’ he said, finally glancing back up.

He said it in a way that closed that line of enquiry down too, told her very clearly that he’d rather talk about something else. Alice didn’t push it; recent events in her own life had taught her that some things are difficult to say. If Robinson needed to keep his secrets, she was okay with that. She just hoped he wasn’t planning to keep them for ever in her house, because some time soon she was going to want it back again. It was clear from his testy attitude that although they were going to be neighbours, they weren’t going to be friends. Alice found she was fine with that, because something about Robinson Duff made her profoundly uncomfortable. He was too much of a man; all broad shoulders and vitality and charisma. Her body approved, but her head and her heart didn’t, which put him right at the top of her ‘best avoided’ list. Wiping her palms down her jeans, she donned her professional landlady hat. She could be that, at least. She could be his landlady.

‘Want me to give you a guided tour of the house? There’s a few eccentricities to the place you should know about.’

His expression cleared back to neutral, as if he too found their professional relationship easier to navigate.

‘That might be a good idea, darlin’. I managed to find a bath and a bed without getting myself into too much trouble, but it sure is quite the house.’

Robinson’s accent was pure cowboy, as Dallas as Bobby Ewing and the way he said darlin’ sent a second unexpected and unwelcome prickle of awareness down Alice’s spine. She wanted to ask him not to say it again but knew that to do so would make her sound gauche and mildly militant.

‘It’s yours, I take it?’