The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams

That made two of them.

Gone was the Callan who’d let Abigail soften the stiff upper lip that his emotionless family had instilled in him. Who’d allowed himself to embrace a new community, to become part of it.

Allowing others in, letting them close, no longer seemed like a good idea. It no longer felt safe.

It was better to keep people at arm’s length. To keep things professional, detached. Because the moment you cared was the second you opened yourself up to the possibility of pain.

And he had no plans to go through the kind of agony Abigail’s death had brought – even a tenth of it – ever again.

Chapter 4 (#ulink_9c119bbc-fa6c-5b7f-b725-594237f8f279)

Bye, bed with the back-poking spring.

Bye, curtains that don’t quite close.

Josie shut the door to the room she’d rented at the pub and began wheeling her suitcase down the hall, its wheels hitting the old wooden flooring’s grooves in a rhythmic thump-thump.

Bye, shower that I have to share with Mr Leaves His Hair in the Bathroom Plughole.

She lifted the case and started down the stairs that led to the bar, her stomach squirming with anticipation. The cottage, with its cushion-covered overstuffed sofa and large fireplace, had looked cute and cosy in the photos she’d seen online. She just hoped there was a stock of firewood, as she could feel the cold seeping in from outside, chilling her bones.

‘Josie! Get that little bum of yours over here!’ The publican’s voice boomed, causing those nursing beers and sipping on warming red wine to turn their heads in her direction.

So much for making a quiet, unassuming exit.

‘Brendon, hi.’ She found a smile and rolled her case in his direction. ‘Good to see you’ve shunned society’s illusion of politeness.’

Brendon lightly snorted as he shook his head. ‘No time for that palaver. Besides, I was stating the truth, and it wasn’t like I was passing judgement on your body. I saw you scuttling out of here and I was worried you were going to leave us without saying a proper goodbye.’ Grey eyebrows lifted high on a corrugated forehead. ‘Would you like a wine before you go?’

Josie waved her hand, declining the wine glass Brendon held up. ‘I’m only moving up the road, and it’s not like I won’t be back again. Besides, I’ve seen your pours. I’ll end up staggering home. Or having someone push me along, with my passed-out form on top of the suitcase.’

Brendon set the bottle down. ‘Well, you won’t be a stranger, will you?’

Josie shook her head. ‘Of course not. I promise.’

‘That’s what I like to hear. When you do come by, bring that boss of yours with you, and your landlady, too. I’ve not seen either of them in here for far too long. Tell Margo she’s missed and tell Callan that Old Smithy is getting a bit big for his boots. Thinks he’s the champion of the darts world. Needs taking down a peg or two, he does.’ Brendon clucked his tongue, then took a sip of his ever-present pint. A smattering of froth decorated his moustache, which he wiped away with the back of his hand.

‘I heard Callan was good at darts, though I don’t know if I’ll be able to get him down. Besides, it’d be weird if I asked, wouldn’t it? Being his employee and all.’

Brendon’s thick lips curved up in a smile. ‘Not weird. Not even a bit. When you live in a village as small as this you end up being more to people than you ever intend. Friends. Enemies. Lovers …’ Brendon lifted his brows suggestively.

Heat hit Josie’s cheeks. The idea of her and Callan being anything more than colleagues was … ‘Brendon, that is so wrong. He’s just lost his wife not that long ago. And more importantly, I’m not interested.’ She tightened her grip on the suitcase’s handle and glanced towards the window. The sun was dropping towards the horizon, the shadows growing longer, the clouds thicker, heavier.

‘Whatever you say, my dear. Time will tell. Speaking of time. Rain’s on the way. My gammy hip’s telling me so. Best you go before it buckets down. Here …’ Brendon passed an unopened bottle of merlot to Josie. ‘A village-warming gift. Welcome to Sunnycombe.’

‘Oh, no, you don’t have to …’ Josie went to wave the kindness away.

The bottle was pressed into her open hand. ‘I do have to. It’s tradition. How I welcome all new residents.’

Josie accepted the bottle with a nod, tucked it into the crook of her arm and tried to ignore the guilt that sat heavy in her heart. Everyone believed she was here for the long term, trusted her to be there for them. Callan’s shop needed her. Margo no doubt relied on the rental money. Even Brendon believed she had a place here, one that would see their old darts champion return.

Two days she’d been there, and somehow Sunnycombe had pulled her in, embraced her, made her one of their own.

And part of her – the abandoned child who had hoped for her mother’s return, who dreamed of a day when the closeness she’d once shared with her father would resume – wanted to embrace them back.

She shook the ridiculous thought off. She didn’t want to embrace anyone or to be part of anything greater than herself. She was just tired and in need of a good non-poking-spring-in-back night’s sleep. ‘Right, well, thank you for having me. I’ll probably see you later in the week.’

‘Don’t forget to bring Callan. Or Margo. Both would be good.’ Brendon gave her an encouraging nod. ‘And don’t take no for an answer.’

Josie nodded and managed to lift her lips in the smallest of smiles. It was the least she could do considering how kind Brendon had been since the moment she’d set foot in The Squeaky Wheel.

The light in the pub dimmed as the clouds lowered. Grey, menacing, and threatening to see her a sopping mess if she didn’t get home quick.

Home.

She stepped outside and shivered. Not so much because she was leaving the roaring fire and warm atmosphere behind, but because the idea of ‘home’ left her cold. Frozen to the bone.

Residence. There was a word she could get on board with. A place where she would reside until it was time to move on.

An icy gust of wind whistled past her. She stepped up her pace, tucked her chin down and buried the lower part of her face into her sunshine-yellow scarf. Why hadn’t she put her pompom hat on before leaving? Why had she tucked it in the bottom of her suitcase? At this rate her ears would fall off before she arrived at the cottage. Although the bonus of that would be not hearing Brendon’s nutty insinuations that she and Callan ought to become an item.

Nutty? More like completely insane.

Her eyes darted to the left and right as she walked. The fronts of the honey-coloured buildings that flanked either side of the street were in darkness, though the flats above glowed as lamps and lights were switched on. Beyond the buildings, she could make out the hillsides that stood sentry on either side of the village, their tops shrouded in cloud.

She followed the road around, leaving the shops behind, and breathed a sigh of relief as she spied Margo’s cottage with its thatched roof and twin chimneys poking out almost jauntily from either end, up ahead.

A quiver of anticipation stirred within as she pushed open the front gate, went to the front door and fished about in her pocket for the keys Margo had dropped in when picking up the fruitcake. The lock turned with ease and she crossed the threshold.

Josie set her suitcase to the side of the door and sent a silent ‘thank you’ to Margo as she spotted the fire cracking softly in the hearth. Judging by the ashes it had been going for some time, which meant Margo had made an effort to keep the fire burning.

A tendril of sadness curled around Josie’s heart as she moved to the fire, dropped into a squat and reached her hands towards the fire. Her fingers tingled as warmth melted away the numbness.

What must it feel like to have been brought up by someone who was so caring? So thoughtful? Who put others’ needs ahead of their own? Who didn’t ignore you, forget you were there or leave you altogether?

She shoved the pity away. It was pointless to dwell on such things.

She couldn’t change her parentage. Couldn’t go back in time and change her mother’s mind or her father’s reaction. His grief had turned, briefly, to anger. Harsh and sharp. His anger quickly morphing into never-ending mourning, sprinkled with a melancholic hope that his wife would return. Meanwhile, Josie’s hope, along with any dreams of happily ever after, had skulked off as the days, then weeks, months, then years had passed without so much as a call, email or postcard.

Josie stood as three knocks filled the air. She made her way to the door, stopping when it opened and a bright red beret-style woollen hat poked its head through, followed by a soft ‘yoo-hoo’.

‘Margo. Come in. It’s horrid out there.’ She ushered her in and shut the door against the frigid air. ‘It was so kind of you to start the fire. It was nice to come ho—’ Josie stopped herself, remembering the vow she’d made to never think of anywhere as home. To never let herself settle. ‘It was nice to arrive to find the place not freezing. It was such a lovely welcome.’

Margo threaded her arm through Josie’s without asking permission and walked her towards the door that led to the kitchen. ‘Wasn’t me, my dear. It was Callan’s idea.’

‘Callan’s?’ Josie forced herself not to lean into Margo. To let her nurturing nature infuse her soul. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because he’s got a good heart on him. A bit battered these days, but it’s still in there.’ Margo released her and turned her attention to the kitchen bench. ‘Tea?’