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Chapter Three (#ulink_da5f53a9-14ee-580a-86c8-b534f2879a51)
The journey from Nice airport to her childhood home in Devon passed in a blur of frenetic activity. She had flung everything she couldn’t bear to part with into a suitcase, then told Jasmine she could keep what she wanted from whatever remained and take the rest to the homeless charity which the two of them, along with Marco, had raised money for in a canoe race the previous month during one of her rare days off.
When she arrived at Gatwick she had stupidly glanced in the bathroom mirror and a jolt of shock reverberated around her body. The previous day she had faced the world – albeit courtesy of Jasmine – looking polished and elegant in a pair of Louboutins and a three-hundred-euro dress. Now look at her – she looked as if she’d been dragged through Customs on the back of a tractor! Her hair was no longer pinned in a sleek mahogany chignon but had ballooned into a candyfloss mess.
However, Gabbie didn’t care what she looked like. Until she had relocated to France, sartorial perfection had been low on her list of priorities. She much preferred to sport a pair of comfortable old dungarees, more than likely enhanced with a splodge of oil from when she had helped her father change an exhaust or fit a new clutch. Sadly, jeans were frowned upon at House of Gasnier and she’d been towed around the boutiques in Grasse by Jasmine, who’d been intent on giving her a lesson in French couture. She hadn’t argued because her theory had always been that if she kept busy, even if it was shopping for dresses – something that had never hung in her wardrobe – there would be no time to contemplate the grenades life had strewn in her path.
She had utilised her time during the flight back to the UK to formulate a believable explanation for her impromptu visit home. Her father had mentioned, only in passing, that the finances at the garage were squeezed, and the last thing she wanted to do was cause him any additional anxiety over the fact that she no longer had a source of income. Despite this complication, she was looking forward to being back.
Yet, Oakley would never be the same ‘home’ as the one that still existed so vibrantly in her thoughts. How could it be when one of the most precious people in her world was no longer there?
Shoving her anguish into the dark crevices of her mind, Gabbie smiled brightly at the monosyllabic taxi driver who picked her up at the station and settled down to enjoy the familiar ride through the Devonshire countryside. When, twenty minutes later, she caught her first glimpse of the white-painted signpost declaring Oakley’s award for Best Village in Bloom – something her mother had loved to be a part of – she almost unravelled. She squirmed at the thought of succumbing to tears in the taxi, but surely it was better than the alternative scenario – to feel nothing at all, to be cold and unmoved by life’s tragedies, wading through life like some kind of automaton?
She paid the driver, watched him screech off to collect his next victim of the silent treatment, and inhaled a steadying breath, taking a few moments to cast her eyes around the place that had been her home for twenty-one years. No matter how hard she had tried to block out this image of bucolic beauty and replace it with an equally picturesque image of Grasse, she had never quite managed it.
Her heart hummed with affection. The village had once been selected as the setting for a TV murder-mystery drama and the locals hadn’t stopped dropping the fact into dinner-party conversations ever since. It was no surprise it had been a star performer, with its thatched roofs, painted window boxes bursting with scarlet geraniums, and the welcoming allure of the village pub – The Pear Tree. However, for Gabbie, it was the people who made the place so special. Every single one of the residents had rallied round to support her and her father in their hour of need; in fact, they still did.
An upsurge of emotion tightened her throat as her eyes were drawn to the church on the other side of the village green, but she just didn’t have the courage to linger on what had happened within its walls. She hitched her canvas bag higher up her shoulder, hooked her fingers around the handle of her wheelie suitcase, and fixed her gaze on the sign in front of her. Immediately the corners of her mouth perked upwards.
Jeff Andrews Autos.
For the first time, she noticed that the blue-and-silver paint had started to peel like sunburnt skin and a couple of the letters were missing. When had that happened? Further inspection revealed that the double doors, currently flung wide open in an expansive and welcoming gesture, could also do with a fresh coat of paint, and there was a tangle of weeds sprouting from the hanging baskets instead of the pale-pink fuchsias her mother had planted every year as part of the RHS Britain in Bloom competition.
Gabbie cringed. Had Andrews Autos let the side down this year?
She stepped onto the forecourt that had been her playground and classroom for as long as she could remember. The familiar tang of engine oil, mingled with a soupcon of rusty nail and the freshly ground coffee her father loved, invaded her nostrils and caused her lips to curl even higher. Some people loved the smell of roses, or perhaps the whiff of lavender or recently mown grass, but for her the aroma of old engine oil caused her memories to scoot back to her childhood, to the happy times when she had performed the role of mechanic’s mate in her father’s beloved garage.
By the age of six she could name every make and model of vehicle, and at eleven could deliver a confident diagnosis of potential engine faults. She had been Jeff Andrews’ secret weapon when the car repairs were behind schedule because a part had taken ages to arrive from the manufacturer – for who could get annoyed with a cute eleven-year-old dressed in her own oily dungarees, her chestnut-brown ringlets tied back in a red handkerchief, and waving a spanner like a magic wand? She had never had the slightest interest in playing with dolls or wearing pretty dresses, preferring to climb trees or race the local boys down to the river where she could swing from the branches with the best of them.
So engrossed was she in her memories that she had failed to notice the mechanic wiping his hands on an oily rag and surveying her from beneath the longest, darkest eyelashes she had ever seen on a guy. When their eyes met, she was surprised at the way sparks of electricity shot through her veins and rippled out to her fingertips.
‘Hi, there. Can I help you?’ asked the Adonis, striding out to greet her with a wide smile on his face, causing a pair of cute dimples to bracket his surprisingly full lips. He smirked when he caught her eyes lingering on his mouth and heat seeped into her cheeks.
God! What was the matter with her? She swallowed quickly, astonished to find her throat was dry, mortified when her words came out of her mouth in a strangled squeak.
‘Oh, I… erm…’
‘You know, if you need the help of a garage mechanic, you really should bring the vehicle with you!’ Even the guy’s chuckle was music to her ears.
‘Yes, I…’
Gabbie couldn’t remember the last time she had been tongue-tied in front of anyone, even someone as handsome as the man standing in front of her – who was clearly revelling in the effect he was having on her, which made her feel even more awkward. What was going on? It was as though her heart – and body – had taken on lives of their own, taunting her brain to pull them back into line like a pair of naughty schoolchildren.
‘And before we go any further, let me ask you this. Have you checked the fuel gauge? I know how inconvenient it is, but engines don’t run on fresh air, you know. You do have to top them up with petrol occasionally.’
The man laughed as he tossed the oily rag onto the bonnet of the gorgeous, lipstick-red E-Type Jaguar he had been working on before she arrived. He turned back to face her, hands on his hips, confident in his environment and clearly taking her for a typical woman driver who had as much idea how the internal combustion engine worked as how to split the atom.
‘I’m not here for car repairs,’ Gabbie managed, casting a quick glance round the cathedral-like room where, apart from the Jaguar, there was a Volvo, a Fiat 500 and a Ford Transit van jacked up over the inspection pits.
‘Well, I’m afraid that’s all that’s on offer here… for the moment.’
The way he said the last three words sounded like liquid caramel flowing over chocolate ice cream and caused sparkles of desire to shoot through Gabbie’s abdomen and southwards. She watched him reach up to run his fingertips through the quiff at his forehead and scratch at the back of his neck. At last able to bring her errant emotions under control, she almost laughed out loud. Had she somehow inadvertently stumbled upon a rehearsal for a Diet Coke ad?
Despite the fact that his navy-blue overalls had seen better days and were liberally dotted with splodges of oil, the uniform suited him perfectly. The sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows to reveal a smattering of golden hairs on his forearms and he clearly worked out because his biceps stretched the fabric covering his upper arms to bursting point. However, the image of photographic perfection was tempered by the distinct whiff of creosote which seemed to emanate from his direction, which, for other women, might have proved a mood dampener. Shame she wasn’t one of those women, because she felt the pull of physical attraction strengthen.
Suddenly, conveniently, she remembered his name. Max Fitzgerald. But from the way her father had described his new deputy when they had met in London at the end of June, she had pictured him much older than in his early thirties – and a lot less like a Fifties’ matinée idol! Perhaps she should have quit her job at House of Gasnier sooner!
‘Hey! The wanderer returns! Welcome back!’ came an excited voice from the office whose window onto the forecourt had been blocked by a tottering pile of cardboard boxes. ‘I didn’t know you were coming home!’
‘Wil! Great to see you!’
Gabbie enjoyed the confusion on Max’s face as she hugged the guy her father had taken on as a trainee when he’d failed every one of his GCSEs after his father’s death in a road-traffic accident ten years ago. He wasn’t the best mechanic in the world but their customers loved his cheeky grin and his insistence on accompanying their MOT invoices with a cupcake whipped up and decorated with his own fair hands. Unsurprisingly, the generous gesture had increased business and Wil could usually be heard extolling the virtues of coupling cars and cupcakes to anyone who queried the business model.
‘How’s your mum?’ Gabbie asked.
‘She’s doing fine. She’ll be so pleased to hear you’ve made it home for a visit – what’s it been? Three, four months? She’s just back from a girls’ trip to Majorca with Aunt Helen. Loved it – even threatening to take a Spanish conversation class at the high school next month, would you believe!’
‘Sounds like a great idea.’
‘It would be if she wasn’t insisting on dragging me along to do my maths and English exams again.’
Wil pulled an expression of disgust, as if his whole world had ended, before realising that Max had been staring at them with amused curiosity for the entire conversation.
‘Ah, yes, sorry. Max, this is Gabriella Andrews – she’s a famous agriculturist.’
Gabbie couldn’t prevent a burst of laughter from erupting at the look of surprise on Max’s face.
‘I think what Wil meant to say was aromatherapist. But I’m not famous, and I’m not an aromatherapist! In fact, I’m not even…’ She had been about to spill all the intricate details of her spontaneous resignation but managed to haul in her urge to divulge the story just in time.
‘Pleased to meet you, Gabbie. Sorry I didn’t recognise you earlier. Jeff didn’t mention he was expecting you.’
‘Oh, no, I’m, well…’
For a fleeting moment, Gabbie had the sensation that Max knew exactly why she had arrived in Oakley unannounced. His eyes, the colour of espresso coffee, held hers for slightly longer than necessary, causing her to feel flustered and self-conscious. How did he do that?
‘It’s actually a surprise. Where is Dad?’
‘Ahh, it’s my favourite girl!’
Gabbie’s father appeared on the forecourt, his arms outstretched, a grin splitting his cheeks. She rushed into his embrace, leaning her head on his chest as he stroked her hair, like she’d done a thousand times before, listening to his heart beating. As she pulled back to meet his eyes, she struggled to conceal her shock.
It had only been eight weeks since she had seen him last and, while his hair was as luxuriously silver and bouffant as it had always been, his blue eyes just as bright and clear, what she hadn’t been prepared for was the expanded waistline and hint of a double chin. A kernel of concern sprouted in her chest as she also detected a rasp of breathlessness caused by the exertion of launching himself across the forecourt upon spotting her arrival.
Max and Wil were watching their reunion with diverse reactions; Wil’s face was swathed in pleasure and excitement at her unexpected visit, while Max’s expression held curiosity and a soupcon of suspicion.
‘Boys! Doesn’t she look amazing? Something good must be happening in all that sunshine they get in the South of France. Ah, Gabbie, it’s so good to see you, baby, but why didn’t you call? I would have driven over to collect you from the train station!’
‘Just wanted to surprise you, Dad,’ she said lightly as she snaked her arm around his waist and noticed again the few extra pounds he’d gained since their last meet-up. ‘I could murder a cup of decent coffee.’
Gabbie raised her nose in the air and sniffed, but, for the first time ever, the aroma she had expected to be floating from the direction of the kitchen was absent.
‘Come on!’ Jeff laughed, his joy at the unexpected arrival of his daughter clear for anyone to see. ‘Let’s put the kettle on.’
‘I want you to fill me in on all the village gossip – leave nothing out!’
Gabbie steered him towards the door that led from the garage forecourt into the kitchen of the house next door, which had been her home until she’d left for Grasse two years ago, not only to pursue her dream career, but to put as much distance between her and the place where her heart had been broken as she could.
She had expected to be enveloped with a familiar blanket of comfort when she entered the kitchen, but other, more pressing, emotions invaded her body. Her first reaction was shock at the chaos that met her eyes. Everywhere she looked there were discarded cardboard boxes, brown-paper packages for the garage, used milk cartons, old newspapers. There was even a motorbike carburettor on the table, next to a plate of leftover crusts – which her father never ate – not to mention the pile of dirty dishes in the sink.
It took her a few moments to locate the kettle and, as she filled it, her back to her father to conceal her shock, she noticed a pile of paperwork on the draining board. She inhaled a couple of steadying breaths, trying to formulate the right words to ask her father what was going on. Her mother, like Gabbie herself, had loved orderliness and her attitude to cleanliness had bordered on the obsessive at times, not to mention the fact that she insisted on the necessity, even in a car-maintenance business, of having a pleasant aroma at all times.
What stopped Gabbie from blurting out her alarm at the state of the room was that, when she turned back round to face her father, she noticed an unexpected tinge of grey in his skin and decided to shelve her concerns until later. She watched as he slumped down heavily into a chair at the scarred pine table and heave a long, tired sigh, shoving the breakfast detritus away so he could prop his elbow on the table and rest his chin in the palm of his hand.
‘Dad, I can’t find the coffee. Don’t you usually keep it in this cupboard?’
‘Probably ran out. There’s a box of teabags over there in that carrier bag, I think.’
Gabbie located the bag and the tea, failed to find the teapot and so put two chipped mugs down on the table, dislodging an old pizza box that had been balanced on top of a parcel waiting to go to the post office.
‘Dad? Are you okay?’
‘Never better, sweetheart. Oh, I’m a little tired, and perhaps it’s a bit more difficult to get under the engines these days, but now I have Max I can start to concentrate on some of the other things I may have let… well, let slide.’
Her father shot a quick glance around the kitchen, once so pristine and tidy but now looking as though a paper bomb had exploded.
‘So, anyway, enough about me. To what do I owe the pleasure of an impromptu visit from my globe-trotting daughter? Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to have you home…’ Jeff reached across to squeeze her hand. ‘…But I wasn’t expecting to see you until I flew out to France in October.’
‘I just wanted…’
On the plane, Gabbie had rehearsed what she was going to say to her father when he asked this question. She knew he would be upset about her quitting what he thought was her dream job without having a plan in place for what she was going to do next. She’d intended to tell him the truth because she had no idea how long she would be staying in Oakley, how long it would take her to work out where she was going, or to find a new position. However, seeing the extent to which his grip on housekeeping and administration had deteriorated, and the way he was grasping his mug as though it held the elixir of life, she suddenly didn’t want to burden him with her problems.
‘…I was due a couple of weeks off from House of Gasnier and wanted to spend the time with you.’
‘Ah, that’s music to an old man’s ears!’
Oh, God! Gabbie felt tears prickling at her lashes. Why was he saying that? Sixty wasn’t that old! Something was definitely going on and she was relieved that fate had seen fit to step in and send her home.
‘Dad, is everything okay? What are you not telling me?’
Suddenly an explosion of pain erupted in her chest, shooting its arrows of fire down her veins like red-hot pokers. Of course – his pale complexion, his weight gain, his tiredness… no, no, no, please God, no, she couldn’t bear it. Surely life couldn’t be that cruel?
‘Dad?’ she whispered.
‘Oh, no, darling, sorry, no, it’s nothing like that!’ Jeff grabbed Gabbie’s hand between his rough, calloused palms and forced a smile onto his lips. ‘It’s just a few problems with the business that need a bit of attention, that’s all. We’ve got loads of work on, but the bank has started hassling me about turnover and whatnot. Nothing for you to worry about. Now, how about I take your suitcase upstairs and you can get settled in before I treat you to dinner at The Pear Tree?’
‘Dad, I can help you with the business stuff, you know that.’
‘No, I won’t hear of it. You work really hard in that laboratory of yours and this is your holiday. Why don’t you link up with Clara while you’re here? I know she’ll be excited about seeing you. How long is it since you two had a real girly get-together?’
Gabbie was so relieved her father hadn’t divulged some dreadful, life-limiting illness that she felt lightheaded. A flash of pleasure erupted, mingled with a tiny grain of guilt, when she thought of her best friend, Clara, whom she hadn’t seen for four long months. She hoped Clara would forgive her for her lack of texts and emails over the last few weeks when things had been manic at House of Gasnier. She couldn’t wait to see her, to hear about what was happening in her life, and to confide in someone about what was going on in hers and ask for her always-sensible advice.
She allowed herself a brief smile as she kissed her father’s bristly cheek on her way upstairs to freshen up. He might be one of the best mechanics in the whole county of Devon, but dealing with the garage’s accounts and finances had never been her father’s forte and he had happily left all the admin to her mother, who had handled both with ease and precision. So, if there was one thing she could do while she was home, it was sort out the paperwork – and maybe persuade him to ditch the extra pounds he had added to his frame, which, she suspected, were probably the cause of his tiredness.
There was no way she could contemplate losing him too.
Chapter Four (#ulink_f9fdc5c7-4ad5-5226-b7c3-c4154c87ca13)
When Gabbie woke the next day, the birds were still busy chirping the overture of their morning chorus. Shafts of ivory light streaked through a gap in the pretty rosebud curtains to dance on the sheepskin rug at the side of her bed. She remembered the day she and her mum had chosen the material and then made the curtains using the ancient black-and-gold Singer sewing machine that had belonged to her grandmother. She smiled at her recollections of that day of creativity, at the hems that had always been lopsided, at the way the whole room screamed childhood memories, every one filled to bursting with her mother’s laughter.
She swung her feet to the floor, her toes luxuriating in the woolly rug. She picked up the silver-framed photograph on her bedside table and ran her fingertips over her mother’s features, so like her own. People often remarked on their similarities – but not so much since Sofia had passed away. That, of course, was down to Gabbie’s decision to move not just to a different town, or even the next county, but to another country entirely, where no one knew her history so couldn’t comment on the fact that she had inherited her mother’s Italian genes in the colour of her hair and eyes, or the determined tilt of her chin, or her penchant for tidiness and order. She was simply Gabriella Andrews, would-be perfume princess, lover of seafood and the occasional bellini.
At the time, it had been a relief to escape the sympathetic glances, the offers of casseroles and cheese quiches, the heartfelt words of condolence from friends and neighbours who were themselves grieving. But Jasmine’s observations had been spot-on; her move to the South of France, a mere three months after her mother had passed away, had meant she hadn’t taken the time to process her sorrow because, as she sat there, staring at her mother’s image, she could still feel the heavy block of concrete, cold and hard, lodged somewhere between her throat and her chest, making it difficult to breathe.
With a sigh, she shoved her meandering memories to one side and jumped in the shower. Yet even there she felt her mother’s presence. For as long as she could remember, they had both harboured an unshakeable obsession with toiletries, from the mundane to the exotic. Soaps, bubble bath, hand wash, shower gel, shampoos, conditioners, facial scrubs, candles… you name it, they had collected them. Her mother had adored the fancy French soaps, like the one she held in her hand that smelled of gardenias, but Gabbie had always preferred the more natural aromas such as coconut, strawberry, pineapple, lemon.
She towel-dried her hair and selected a pair of cream-linen trousers – a birthday gift from Jasmine – and a hand-knitted pink cardigan. She was about to gallop down the stairs to grab her first coffee of the day when she paused on the threshold and glanced down at her outfit. What was she doing? It wasn’t as if Jules Gasnier was going to arrive on the Andrews Autos forecourt and bawl her out for her lapse of taste. She returned to her wardrobe and pulled on a pair of jeans, her enthusiasm for the day ahead increasing in line with the comfort of her attire, not to mention the possibility of spending some time with Max… and Wil, of course.
There was a lot of work to be done, and now she was home she intended to make herself useful. On their walk back from dinner at The Pear Tree the previous night, with her arm linked through her father’s as he boasted about his latest archery win, Gabbie had made a plan – and when she stepped into the kitchen, she was pleased she had made it the first item on her to-do list. However, she intended to move swiftly into the garage, which looked as though a metal firework had gone off. She had no idea how anyone could work surrounded by such chaos.
She wondered what Max thought about the clutter but quickly quashed his reappearance in her thoughts. Why couldn’t she get him out of her mind? Why had his dark, come-to-bed eyes, with those long, luscious lashes she would give her eye teeth for, invaded her dreams last night?
Locating the Jamaican coffee her father had always sworn he couldn’t start a day’s work without behind a pile of unopened Pirelli calendars from the previous year, she fixed herself a morning brew. After a few fortifying sips, she was ready to tackle the washing-up. She pulled on a pair of Marigolds, filled a bowl with hot, soapy water, found a threadbare scrubbing brush and set to work. By the time her father appeared at eight-thirty to throw open the garage doors, the kitchen was almost recognisable as the room that had wrapped her in a blanket of comfort and love as she grew up.
‘I’m sure I had a bottle of Coke in the fridge?’
‘I’ve made a fresh cafetière of your favourite coffee. Help yourself. And there’s scrambled eggs and granary toast in the oven.’
‘Wow! You didn’t have to do that, Gabbie.’
‘The Coke thing? Is that a new twist on what you and Mum always used to tell me was the most important meal of the day?’
Jeff had the grace to blush. ‘Sorry, darling. It’s just such a hassle cooking for one. All I need in a morning is a quick injection of caffeine and I’m ready to go.’
Gabbie rolled her eyes but enjoyed the delight on her father’s face as he settled down to devour his breakfast with gusto and drain the cafetière.
‘The kitchen looks amazing! Thank you for clearing up – I was actually going to get round to it today. So, now you’ve completed the household chores, you definitely deserve to take some time out for yourself. Give Clara a call. I know she’ll be pleased to hear you’re back.’
‘I think I’ll give it a couple of days,’ Gabbie hedged, suddenly unsure about subjecting herself to Clara’s famously razor-sharp enquiries that always got to the crux of anything that festered beneath the surface. There were no secrets when Clara was around and while she was keen to share what had happened in Grasse, she also wanted to be able to present her friend with a well-researched strategy for what she was going to do next – and she didn’t have one.
‘Okay. Right, sitting here won’t get Gordon Fielding’s MOT sorted out. I’m going into town this afternoon – do you want to come along?’
‘No, thanks. I thought I’d sort out the garden.’
‘I told you, you don’t have to do any of that stuff – you’re on holiday. Relax, read, do whatever you do when you have downtime in France. Perhaps you could… No, never mind. Catch you later, sweetheart. Love you.’
‘Love you too, Dad.’
Gabbie hugged her father, breathing in the lemony body wash he used in the shower that still clung to his skin at the end of the day despite the onslaught of exhaust fumes. As he opened the door between the kitchen and the garage, she noticed there was a discernible spring in his step, as though his hearty breakfast had delivered a surge of energy with which to tackle the day ahead.
