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CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

“You’ve officially gone crazy, sis.”

“Darling, you’re acting irrationally.”

“Is Auntie Lacey okay?”

The words from Naomi, Mom, and Frankie repeated in Lacey’s mind as she stepped from the plane onto the tarmac of Heathrow Airport. Maybe she was crazy, jumping on the first flight out of JFK, spending seven hours on a plane with nothing but her purse, her thoughts, and a tote bag full of clothes and toiletries she’d purchased from the chain stores in the airport. But turning her back on Saskia, and New York, and David, had felt

exhilarating.

It had made her feel young. Carefree. Adventurous. Brave. In fact, it had reminded her of the Lacey Bishop she’d been BD (

Before David)

.

Breaking the news to her family that she was swanning off to England without warning—over speakerphone, no less—had been less exhilarating, since none of them seemed to possess a filter, and all three shared the same bad habit of expressing aloud whatever was on their mind.

“What if you get fired?” Mom had wailed.

“Oh, she’ll definitely get fired,” Naomi had agreed.

“Is Auntie Lacey having a breakdown?” Frankie had asked.

Lacey could picture the three of them sitting around a conference table, doing their best to burst her bubble. But of course that wasn’t the reality of the situation. As her nearest and dearest, it was their job to dish out the hard truths to her. In this new, unfamiliar era, AD—

After David

—who else was going to?

Lacey crossed the concourse, following the rest of the bleary-eyed passengers. The famed English drizzle hung in the air. So much for spring. With the moisture frizzing her hair, Lacey was finally given pause for thought. But there was no turning back now, not after a seven-hour flight and several hundred bucks being docked from her bank account.

The terminal was an enormous greenhouse-esque building, all steel and sleek blue-tinted glass, topped with a state-of-the-art curved roof. Lacey entered into the shiny, tiled room—decorated with Cubist murals sponsored by the quaint-sounding British Building Society—and joined the queue for passport control. When her turn arrived, the guard at the kiosk was a scowling blond woman with black, block-drawn eyebrows. Lacey handed her passport over.

“Reason for your visit? Business or pleasure?”

The guard’s accent was harsh, far from the soft-spoken British actors who charmed Lacey on her favorite late-night talk shows.

“I’m on vacation.”

“You don’t got a return ticket.”

It took Lacey’s brain a moment to work out what the woman was actually saying, due to her unorthodox grammar. “It’s an open-ended vacation.”

The guard raised her big, black brows, her scowl turning to suspicion. “You need a visa if you’re planning on working.”

Lacey shook her head. “I’m not. The last thing I’m here to do is work. I just got divorced. I need a bit of time and space to clear my head and eat ice cream and watch bad movies.”

The guard’s features instantly softened with empathy, giving Lacey the distinct impression she was also a fellow member of the Sad Divorcées Club.

She handed Lacey back her passport. “Enjoy your stay. And chin up, yeah?”

Lacey swallowed the little lump that had formed in her throat, thanked the guard, and went on through to arrivals. There, several distinct huddles of people stood waiting for their loved ones to appear. Some were holding balloons, others flowers. One group of very blond children held a sign that read, “Welcome Home Mummy! We missed you!”

Of course, there was no one to greet Lacey, and as she crossed the busy concourse, heading for the exit, she thought about how she would never be greeted by David at an airport ever again. If only she’d known when she’d returned from that business trip—antique vase shopping in Milan—that it would be the last time David would surprise her at the airport with a grin on his face and a big bunch of colorful daisies in his arms. She would have savored it more.

Outside, Lacey hailed a cab. It was a black hackney carriage, the sight of which immediately caused a pang of nostalgia to hit her. She, Naomi, and their parents had traveled in a black cab all those years ago, during that fateful, final family vacation.

“Where you off to?” the tubby driver asked as Lacey slid into the back seat.

“Wilfordshire.”

A beat passed. The driver turned fully in his seat to face her, a deep scowl furrowing his wiry brows. “Do you know that’s a two-hour drive?”

Lacey blinked, unsure what he was trying to communicate to her.

“That’s fine,” she said, with a small shrug.

He looked even more perplexed. “You’re a yank, right? Well, I dunno how much you’re used to spending on fares over

there,

but on this side of the pond a two-hour drive will set you back a pretty penny.”

His abrupt manner took Lacey by surprise, not just because it didn’t match the image in her mind of a cheeky London cab driver, but because of his veiled suggestion that she couldn’t afford such a journey. She wondered if it was something to do with her being a solo female traveler. No one ever questioned David when they took long cab journeys together.

“I can pay,” she assured the cabby, her tone a little frosty.

The driver turned back to face the front and pressed the start button on the fare machine. It beeped and flashed up a pound symbol in green, the sight of which prompted another wave of nostalgia in Lacey.

“As long as you can,” he said thinly, pulling away from the curb.

So much for British hospitality,

Lacey thought.

They arrived at Wilfordshire the promised two hours later, Lacey “two hun’erd ’n’ fifty quid” worse off for it. But the steep fare—and the less than friendly cabby—paled into insignificance the moment Lacey exited the vehicle and took a deep inhalation of that fresh, seaside air. It smelled just as she remembered.

It had always struck Lacey as remarkable the way smells and tastes could evoke such strong memories—and now was no different. The salty air caused a sudden surge of carefree delight to rise inside of her, one she hadn’t felt since before her father had left. It was so strong she was almost bowled over. The anxiety her family’s reaction to the impromptu trip had instilled in her simply melted away. Lacey was exactly where she needed to be.

She headed down the main street. The drizzle that had surrounded Heathrow Airport was nowhere to be found, and the last dregs of sunset bathed everything in a golden light, making it look magical. It was just as she remembered—two parallel rows of ancient stone cottages, built right up to the cobblestone sidewalks, their original glass bay windows bulging into the streets. None of the storefronts had modernized since she’d last been here. Indeed, they all still had what looked like their original wooden signs swinging above them, and each store was unique, selling everything from children’s boutique clothing to haberdashery, to baked goods and small batch coffee. There was even an old-style “sweet shop” filled with large glass jars of colored candy, where everything could be bought individually for “a penny.”

It was April, and the town was decorated with colored bunting for the upcoming Easter celebrations, all strung up between the stores and crisscrossing overhead. And there were plenty of people about—the post-work crowd, Lacey presumed—sitting outside pubs on picnic benches drinking pints, or outside cafes on bistro tables eating desserts. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, their merry chatter providing a comforting backdrop like white noise.

Feeling a calming surge of rightness, Lacey took out her cell phone and snapped a picture of the main street. With the silver band of sea glittering on the horizon and the gorgeous pink-streaked sky, it looked just like a postcard, so she shared it to the

Bishop Girlz

family thread. Naomi had named it, much to Lacey’s chagrin at the time.

It’s just as I remembered,

she added beneath the picture-perfect image.

A moment later, her phone pinged in response. Naomi had replied.

Looks like you ended up in Diagon Alley by accident, sis.

Lacey sighed. It was a typically sarcastic response from her younger sister and she ought to have expected it. Because

of course

Naomi couldn’t just be happy for her, or proud of the way she’d taken command of her own life.

Did you use a filter?

came Mom’s response a moment later.

Lacey rolled her eyes and put her phone away. Determined not to let anyone bring down her mood, she took a deep, calming breath. The difference in the air quality compared to the polluted New York City air she’d been breathing earlier that morning was truly astounding.

She continued along the street, her heels click-click-clicking against the cobblestones. Her next goal was to find a hotel room for the open-ended number of nights she’d was going to be staying here. She stopped outside the first B&B she came across, The Shire, but saw the flip sign in its window had been turned to “No vacancies.” Not to worry. The main street was long, and if Lacey’s memory served her correctly, there’d be plenty more places to try.

The next B&B—Laurel’s—was painted cotton-candy pink, and its sign proclaimed, “Fully booked.” Different words, same sentiment. Only this time, it provoked a flicker of panic in Lacey’s chest.

She forced it away. It was just the worm her family had put in her ear. There was no need to fret. She’d find a place soon enough.

She carried on. Between a jewelry store and a bookshop, The Seaside Hotel was fully booked, and on past the camping supplies store and beauty salon, Carol’s B’n’B also had no vacancies. It went on and on that way until Lacey found herself at the end of the street.

Now the panic truly did set in. How had she been so foolish as to come here without anything prepared? Her whole career involved

organizing

things, yet she’d failed to organize her own vacation! She didn’t have any of her belongings and now she didn’t have a room either. Was she going to have to turn back around the way she’d come, shell out another “two hun’red quid” for a taxi back to Heathrow, and catch the next flight home? No wonder David had included a spousal support clause—she couldn’t be trusted with her money at all!

As Lacey’s mind swirled with anxious thoughts, she turned on the spot, as if by glancing helplessly up the way she’d come she could magic another B&B out of thin air. It was only then that Lacey realized the final corner building she was standing outside of was an inn. The Coach House.

Feeling foolish, Lacey cleared her throat and collected her senses. She went inside.

The interior was typically pub-like; large wooden tables, a blackboard with that evening’s menu written in cursive white chalk, a gambling machine in the corner with gaudy flashing lights. She went up to the bar, where glass shelves were crammed with bottles of wine, and a row of glass optics hung, filled with a variety of different-colored spirits. It was all very quaint. There was even an old drunk dozing at the bar, using his arms as his pillow.

The barmaid was a slight girl with pale blond hair piled into a messy bun at the crown of her head. She looked far too young to be working in a bar. Lacey decided it was because of the lower drinking age in England rather than the fact that the older she got, the more baby-faced everyone else seemed to become.

“What can I get you?” the barmaid asked.

“A room,” Lacey said. “And a glass of prosecco.”

She felt like celebrating.

But the barmaid shook her head. “We’re all booked up for Easter.” She spoke with such a wide mouth Lacey could see the gum she was chewing. “The whole town is. It’s the school holidays and a whole lotta folks like to take their kids to Wilfordshire. There won’t be anything for a least a fortnight.” She paused. “So, just a prosecco then?”

Lacey grabbed the bar to steady herself. Her stomach flipped. Now she really did feel like the silliest woman in the world. No wonder David had left her. She was a disorganized mess. A sorry excuse for a person. Here she was, pretending she could be an independent adult abroad, when in reality she couldn’t even get a hotel room for herself.

At that moment, Lacey saw a figure in her peripheral vision. She turned to see a man coming toward her. He was sixty-odd, wearing a gingham shirt tucked into blue jeans, sunglasses perched on his bald head and a cell phone holster at his hip.

“Did I hear you say you’re looking for a place to stay?” he asked.

Lacey was about to say no—she might be desperate, but shacking up with a man double her age who’d approached her in a bar was a bit too

Naomi

for her tastes—when the man clarified, “’Cos I rent holiday cottages.”

“Oh?” she replied, taken aback.

The man nodded and produced a little business card from his jean pocket. Lacey’s eyes scanned it.

Ivan Parry’s cozy, rustic, charming holiday cottages. Ideal for all the family

.

“I’m booked up, like Brenda said,” Ivan continued, nodding to the barmaid. “Apart from one cottage I just snapped up at auction. It’s not really ready to be rented yet, but I can show it to you if you’re really stuck? Offer it at a discounted rate, since it’s a bit of a tip? Just to tide you over until the hotels become available again.”

Relief flooded through Lacey. The business card looked legit, and Ivan hadn’t set off any Creep Alerts in her head. Her luck was turning! She was so relieved she could have kissed that bald head of his!

“You’re a lifesaver,” she said, managing to restrain herself.

Ivan blushed. “Maybe wait until after you’ve seen it before you make that judgment.”

Lacey chuckled. “Honestly, how bad can it be?”

Lacey sounded like a woman in labor as she trudged up the cliffside beside Ivan.

“Is it too steep?” he asked, sounding concerned. “I should’ve mentioned it was on the cliff.”

“It’s no problem,” Lacey wheezed. “I—love—sea views.”

Throughout their whole walk here, Ivan had shown himself to be the opposite of a shrewd businessman, reminding Lacey of the promised discount (despite the fact they hadn’t even discussed the price) and repeatedly telling her not to get her hopes up. Now, with her thighs aching from the trek, she was starting to wonder whether he was right to downplay it.

That was, until the house appeared at the crest of the hill. Silhouetted black against the fading pink sky was a tall stone building. Lacey gasped aloud.

“Is that it?” she asked breathlessly.

“That’s it,” Ivan replied.

Strength that came from nowhere suddenly powered Lacey up the rest of the cliff. Each step that drew her closer to that captivating building revealed another stunning feature: the charming stone façade, the slate roof, the twisting rose plant coiling up the wooden columns of a veranda, the ancient, thick, arched door like something from a fairytale. And framing the whole thing was the glittering, sweeping ocean.

Lacey’s eyes bulged and her mouth dropped open as she hurried the last few paces toward it. A wooden sign beside the door read:

Crag Cottage.

Ivan came up beside her, a large key chain jangling in his hands as he searched through the bundle. Lacey felt like a kid at the ice-cream truck, impatiently waiting for the soft serve machine to do its thing, bouncing on eager toes.

“Don’t get your hopes up too high,” Ivan said for the umpteenth time, finally finding the key—an aptly large, rusty bronze one that looked like it should open Rapunzel’s castle—before twisting it in the lock and shoving the door open.

Lacey stepped eagerly inside the cottage and was hit with the sudden, powerful feeling of coming home.

The corridor was rustic to say the least, with untreated wooden floorboards and faded chintzy wallpaper. Running down the middle of the staircase to her right was a plush red carpet with gold runners, as if the original owner thought it was a stately home rather than a quaint little cottage. A wooden door to her left stood open, as if beckoning her to enter.

“Like I said, it’s a bit on the shabby side,” Ivan said, as Lacey tiptoed inside.

She found herself in a living room. Three of the walls were papered with fading peppermint-and-white-striped paper, the other showing off the exposed stone blocks. A big bay window overlooked the ocean, with a fitted window seat beneath it. A wood-burning stove with a long black flume took up the entirety of one corner, a silver bucket beside it filled with chopped wood. A large wooden bookcase took up most of one wall. The matching couch, armchair, and footstool looked like originals from the 1940s. Everything was in need of a good dusting, but for Lacey, it only made it all the more perfect.

She swirled to face Ivan. He looked apprehensive as he waited for her assessment.

“I love it!” she gushed.

Ivan’s expression turned to surprise (with a hint of pride, Lacey noted).

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “What a relief!”

Lacey couldn’t stop herself. Filled with excitement, she rushed about the living room, taking in all the little details. On the ornate, carved wooden bookshelf were a couple of mystery books, their pages crinkled from age. A porcelain money box of a sheep and a clock that was no longer ticking were displayed on the next shelf down, and at the bottom was a collection of delicate china teapots. It was an antique lover’s dream come true.

“Can I see the rest?” Lacey asked, feeling her heart swell.

“Help yourself,” Ivan replied. “I’ll go down into the cellar and sort out the heating and water.”

They headed out into the small, dark corridor, Ivan disappearing through a doorway beneath the stairs while Lacey continued on to the kitchen, her heart beating with nervous anticipation.

As she stepped in through the door, she gasped aloud.

The kitchen looked like something from a living museum of the Victorian era. There was a genuine black Arga, brass pots and pans that hung from hooks screwed into the ceiling, and a large square butcher’s block right in the middle. Through the windows, Lacey could make out a large lawn. On the other side of the elegant French doors was a patio, where a rickety table and chair set had been put out. Lacey could just picture herself sitting there, eating freshly baked croissants from the patisserie while drinking organic Peruvian coffee from the independent coffee shop.

Suddenly, a huge banging sound rudely jerked her from her reverie. It came from somewhere beneath Lacey’s feet; she’d felt the floorboards vibrate.

“Ivan?” Lacey called, pacing back into the corridor. “Is everything okay?”

His voice came up through the open cellar door. “That’s just the pipes. I don’t think they’ve been used for years. It might take a while for them to settle.”

Another huge bang made Lacey jump. But knowing the innocent cause, this time she couldn’t help but laugh.

Ivan reemerged from the cellar staircase.

“That’s all sorted. I really hope the pipes don’t take too long to settle,” he said, in his fretful manner.

Lacey shook her head. “It only adds to the charm.”

“So, you can stay here as long as you need,” he added. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground and let you know if any of the hotels become available.”

“Don’t worry,” Lacey told him. “This is exactly what I didn’t realize I was looking for.”

Ivan flashed her one of his shy smiles. “So is a tenner a night okay?”

Lacey’s eyebrows shot up. “A tenner? That’s, like, twelve dollars or something?”

“Too high?” Ivan interjected, his cheeks flaming red. “Would a fiver be okay?”

“Too

low!”

Lacey exclaimed, aware she was negotiating him

up

rather than down. But the ridiculously underpriced fee he was suggesting was tantamount to stealing, and Lacey wasn’t going to take advantage of this sweet, bumbling man who’d saved her from her damsel in distress moment. “It’s a two-bedroom period cottage. Fit for a family. Once it’s had a dust and polish, you could easily make hundreds of dollars a night for this place.”

Ivan didn’t seem to know where to look. Clearly, money talk made him uncomfortable; more evidence, Lacey thought, that he wasn’t suited to the life of a businessman. She hoped none of his tenants were taking advantage of him.

“Well, how about we say fifteen a night?” Ivan suggested, “And I’ll send someone round to do the dusting and polishing.”

“Twenty,” Lacey replied. “And I can dust and polish it myself.” She smirked and held out her hand. “Now give me the key. I won’t take no for an answer.”

The red in Ivan’s cheeks spread to his ears and all the way down his neck. He gave a small nod of agreement and placed the bronze key in Lacey’s palm.

“My number’s on the card. Call me if anything breaks.

When,

I should say.”

“Thanks,” Lacey said, gratefully, with a little chuckle.

Ivan left.

Now alone, Lacey went upstairs to finish exploring. The master was at the front of the house, with the ocean view and a balcony. It was another museum-style room, with a big, dark oak, four-poster bed and matching closet big enough to lead to Narnia. The second bedroom was at the back of the house, overlooking the lawn. The toilet was separate from the bathroom, in its own room barely the size of a closet. The bath was a white slipper tub with bronze feet. There was no separate shower, just an attachment on the taps of the tub.

Returning to the master bedroom, Lacey sank down onto the four-poster. It was the first time she’d really had a chance to reflect on the dizzying day, and she felt almost shell-shocked. This morning she’d been a married woman of fourteen years. Now she was single. She’d been a busy New York City career woman. Now she was in a cliffside cottage in England. How thrilling! How

exciting!

She’d never done anything so bold in all her life, and boy did it feel good!

The pipes let out a loud bang, and Lacey squealed. But a moment later she burst into laughter.

She lay back on the bed, staring up at the fabric canopy above her, listening to the sound of the high-tide waves crashing against the cliffs. The sound brought back a sudden, previously lost, childhood fantasy of living beside the ocean. How funny that she’d forgotten all about that dream. If she hadn’t returned to Wilfordshire, would it have remained buried in her mind, never to be retrieved? She wondered what other memories might come to her while she was here. Perhaps, after she woke up tomorrow, she’d explore the town a little, and see what clues it may hold.

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