Anne Mather - Snowfire

As she only ever had coffee and toast, that question was really academic, but, as always, Olivia answered her, adding a polite enquiry as to her and Mr Drake’s health.

’Oh, we’re in the pink, as they say, Mrs Perry,’ Mrs Drake assured her, as she usually did. ‘But it’s a raw morning, that it is. Tom thinks we’ll have more snow before nightfall.’

’Do you think so?’ Olivia glanced out at the chilly scene beyond the windows. There were few people about, and those who were had their collars up against the wind as they hurried along the flagged quayside.

’So he says,’ agreed Mrs Drake, raising her pencilled eyebrows. ‘Now, you’re sure you wouldn’t like a bit of bacon and an egg? A bit of dry toast doesn’t seem to have much sustenance in it. Not at this time of the year.’

Her speculative gaze swept critically over her guest’s slim figure, and, in spite of the bulkiness of her sweater, Olivia knew she had been assessed and found wanting. Mrs Drake wouldn’t say so, of course. Olivia’s attitude had not encouraged familiarity. Nevertheless, she was aware that they were curious about her. But for once her disability had provided a useful barrier.

’Just toast, please,’ she insisted now, accompanying her refusal with a smile. And Mrs Drake stifled her opposition, taking her dismissal with good heart.

The daily newspaper Olivia had reluctantly ordered when she checked in was lying beside her plate, and although she wasn’t much concerned with the politics that had made the headlines she felt obliged to pick it up. There was no television in her room here, even though Mr Drake had said he could arrange for one if she wanted it, and, despite the fact that she had politely declined his offer, it did seem rather childish to cut herself off completely.

She flicked idly through the inner pages, scanning the gossip columns with assumed interest. But the activities of the latest hot property in the pop world seemed aimless, and her eyes drifted back to the Drakes’ cat, washing its paws on a pile of nets across the way.

A man strode past the window, hands thrust into the pockets of a leather jacket, his collar tipped against the weather. He was a fairly tall man, solidly, though not stockily built, with fairish hair and skin that was browner that it should have been in this chilly part of the world.

The landlord emerged from the inn as he was walking past, and the two exchanged the time of day. It was a brief encounter, not least because Tom Drake was in his shirt-sleeves, and Olivia guessed the state of the weather had been mentioned. But, as the man lifted a hand to rake back his sandy hair before continuing on his way, she was struck by his resemblance to Conor Brennan. It was a fleeting glimpse, of course, and she guessed there must be dozens of men around who might be said to resemble the youth she remembered. Even so, it was an amazing coincidence, coming as it had on the heels of the thoughts she had had earlier.

Which was probably why she had imagined the resemblance, she conceded to herself now, as Mrs Drake returned with her toast and coffee. She was tempted to ask the woman who Mr Drake had been speaking to, but to do that would invite exactly the kind of questions she was hoping to avoid. It would mean admitting some connection with the village, for why else would she be interested in one of its inhabitants unless there was some reason why she might know him?

In any case, she didn’t know the man. It had just been a momentary aberration. If Conor had come back to this country for any reason, surely he would at least have tried to get in touch with her? He might not have her address, but he still knew where she worked.

Her appetite had been negligible since the accident, and this morning was no exception. But the pot of coffee was very welcome, and she managed to swallow half a slice of toast. Then, leaving the warm fire that was burning in the dining-room, she went back up to her room. She had decided to go for a walk. So long as she wrapped up warmly, she would enjoy the exercise.

But today she didn’t walk around the harbour and out on to the breakwater as she usually did. Nor did she venture across the salt marshes, which, even in winter, provided a veritable haven for birds. Instead, she decided to test her leg by walking inland, up Paget’s cobbled streets to where houses clustered on the hillside. It was further than she had ventured before, but it was time she took a look at her grandmother’s old cottage, she told herself. She refused to admit what her real intentions were. But anyway, what was wrong with being curious about who was living in the Brennans’ house these days? she argued. It was years since it had been sold to pay for Conor’s education.

Her thigh was aching by the time she reached Gull Rise. And the irregular row of Victorian dwellings looked much the same as she remembered them. They were mostly cottages—some terraced, like her grandmother’s, and others independently spaced. The house the Brennans used to occupy was bigger than the rest, but Olivia remembered Sally saying they had got it fairly cheaply, because it had needed so much doing to it. The young couple had spent their first few years at Gull Rise renovating the place, and by the time Conor was in his teens it was a home to be proud of.

It still was, Olivia saw poignantly, her eyes flickering over her old home and settling on the house next door. She felt an unfamiliar ache in her throat. Someone had cared enough about it to keep the exterior bright and shining, she noticed. The woodwork was newly painted, and the drive was clear of weeds.

She halted a few yards from the house, on the opposite side of the road. With the collar of her cashmere coat pulled high about her ears, and her gloved hand shielding her face, she didn’t think anyone would recognise her. Besides, most of her grandmother’s old neighbours had either died or moved away, and the gauntness of her own features would deceive any but her closest friends.

There was a car parked in the drive, she saw—a small Peugeot, with current licence plates. And, even as she watched, a young woman came out of the house and unlocked the car, before pausing, as if someone had attracted her attention. Her blonde head tipped expectantly towards the door of the house, which she had left ajar, and, leaving her keys in the car, she sauntered back.

Her actions spurred Olivia to life. For heaven’s sake, she chivvied herself irritably, was she reduced to spying on other people for entertainment? The house was lived in, and evidently by someone who cared. She had satisfied her curiosity, and that was all she needed to know.

But, as she turned away, a man appeared in the doorway across the street. A tall man, with light hair, wearing a black leather jacket. Seen face on, his resemblance to Conor was even more striking, and with a sense of alarm she realised it was him.

But, it couldn’t be, her brain insisted, refusing to accept the evidence of her eyes. Conor didn’t live in England, he lived in America. There was no way he could have bought this house and settled down here. It was too much of a coincidence. Too incredible to be true.

And yet she lingered, aware that her injured leg was cramping beneath her. Dear God, how was she going to find the strength to walk back to the harbour? she fretted. If she didn’t move soon, she was going to collapse on the spot.

But the truth was that the sense of panic she was feeling was as much psychological as physical. Whoever the man was—and the young woman was kissing him now, running a possessive hand down his cheek, and saying something that brought a grin to his lean face—he wouldn’t appreciate the thought that she had been prying into his affairs. If it was Conor, he evidently had no need of her assistance.