Michelle Vernal - Sweet Home Summer - A heartwarming romcom perfect for curling up with

‘Well you won’t so it’s not a lie, but thanks Mum. I just want a bit of peace that’s all.’ It was the wrong thing to say.

‘Oh dear God! Now you’ve got me worried Isla. You sound like you’re about to take up religion. Don’t you go joining any of those strange sects they have over there in the United States. You won’t find yourself by sitting cross-legged and making ‘mmm’ noises my girl.’

In the background, she heard her father yell out. ‘Ask her how she lost herself in the first place, Mary.’ A huge guffaw followed; he was a right card, her dad, Isla thought.

‘Mum, you had to twist my arm just to get me to go to Sunday school, remember? So I’m not about to turn my back on my worldly possessions indefinitely, sit around meditating under the stars and then having group sex, or anything like that.’

‘Isla! Watch your mouth please, remember who it is you’re talking to. Oh, and I do recall your Sunday school career because the only peace your dad and I ever got when you and Ryan were kids was on a Sunday morning. The Andersons were angels letting you join their family for church.’

The Andersons, Isla recalled were a zealous family who had lived at the end of their street. They had four kids of their own but still felt it was their duty to take two extra little lambs, Isla and Ryan, to the Lord’s house each Sunday. They’d given up on trying to bring Mary and Joe into the fold. Despite this being a normal telephone call and not Skype, Isla just knew her mum was elbowing and winking at her dad as she recalled what it was they used to get up to on their child-free Sunday mornings. She was spared from having to dwell on the sordid scene further by her mother’s next question.

‘But what about serial killers?’ Mary was a huge NCIS: Los Angeles fan who held her hand up to fancying the trousers off Chris O’Donnell.

‘I won’t talk to any strangers, Mum.’

‘Promise not to help any disabled men to their cars too. Think Ted Bundy, Isla.’

‘I promise.’

Her dad got on the phone next to ask her to buy him a Stetson hat and some cowboy boots. He had, he told her, always hankered after both. It was Isla’s turn to seek reassurance. ‘Dad promise me you’re not taking up line dancing or’ – and she shuddered at the image that flashed to mind – ‘planning on posing for a Mills and Boons cover targeting the octogenarian cowboy romance market.’ He assured her he was just wanting to fulfil his boyhood dream of looking like Clint Eastwood as he cruised around the mean streets of Bibury.

‘Not on a horse surely?’ she gasped.

‘No, in my new Ute and when I get the Harley done up, I’ll need to look the part at the Brass Monkey.’ Joe’s latest garage project was a Harley Davidson he was restoring. He lived for the day he could ride it down to the Brass Monkey Motorcycle Rally in chilly Central Otago, Mary on the back. Although, from what Isla could gather her mother wasn’t so enamoured with the idea of riding pillion. Her exact words were, ‘Blow that, I couldn’t be doing with helmet hair, and who wants to stand about all day in sub-zero temperatures drinking beer in a muddy field with a bunch of petrol heads talking about bikes?’

Isla decided she could live with her dad parading around in his Stetson and boots so long as Billy Ray Cyrus never graced his radio waves.

Two days later she sat with her head resting on the back of her aisle seat pretending to watch the air hostess do her demonstration. She was about to wing her way far, far away from the scene of her almost nervous breakdown. It gave her a profound sense of relief to know that in approximately eleven hours she would be in Los Angeles.

A few days after that, she’d be stretched out on a couch in a lovely, peaceful white room with one of those expensively yummy diffuser thing-a-me-bobs scenting the room with vanilla. No, scratch that, it would make her hungry. The smell of vanilla always conjured up images of her gran’s homemade custard squares. Vanilla was the secret ingredient. Gran was fond of secret ingredients. Lilies then. Lilies signified peace. Yes, there she’d be, talking about herself and inhaling the scent of lilies while whale’s sung softly in the background. Her therapist would be an older woman called Anne, a wise woman with a serious steel hair-do who nodded a lot and said, ‘I see.’ Wisely of course. After a fortnight’s worth of these daily couch visits, Isla would feel well-rested and clear-headed. She would have both direction and focus and be able to get on with the rest of her life.

Now, smiling to herself she re-read the brochure she’d printed off on to what to expect during her fortnight’s stay at Break-Free. She’d already read the most important bits, like what she should pack. It was comforting to know that in her carry-on bag she’d managed to squeeze two leisure suits and a ten-pack of Marks and Sparks knickers. Gran always reckoned you couldn’t go wrong in life if you had a clean pair of knickers with you at all times.

Around about now…

The town was dying, Bridget Collins thought as she rubbed the condensation from her front room window with a tea towel and peered outside to the stretch of road that was Bibury’s High Street. The heavens had opened last night and despite it being February she’d had to get the fire going, hence this morning’s unseasonal condensation. People said it was global warming, but she knew better, most Coasters did. It wasn’t a new thing, this unpredictable weather; she’d known it to snow in February more than once. Still, at least the sun was trying to make a reappearance today.

Bridget had lived here her entire life and had seen the town through its boom times when the mines’ money had flowed, and the town was prosperous. She smiled recalling how she used to mince off to her first job in the offices of the Farmer’s building each morning, full of the joy of being young and pretty. What a pity one didn’t understand then that youth was fleeting and try to bottle some of that wonderful joie de vivre to bring out and sniff now and again in one’s golden years. That wasn’t the way life worked though, and this only became clear when time had faded every year, stretching them long and thin until they become worn and tired. A bit like knicker elastic, she thought.

The store where she’d once worked had long since departed, just like the money from the mines. These days the Four Square Supermarket operated out of the old Farmer’s building, and if you wanted a decent pair of pantyhose, a person had to go all the way into Greymouth. Today, the High Street was deserted apart from the campervan parked outside the Kea Tearooms. Mind you, Noeline had told her just the other day that most of the tourists only bought a pot of tea between them so they could use the loo.

‘Bloody cheek,’ she’d muttered in strident tones, her ample bosom puffing out in indignation.

Bridget had been assailed with a waft of Noeline’s perfume. She was heavy-handed with it, whatever it was. It was a shame she wasn’t so heavy-handed when it came to the amount of filling she put in her mince pies.

‘None of them want an egg and ham sarnie on white bread anymore. Oh no, it’s all bagels with smoked salmon and cream cheese or goat’s cheese tarts. And don’t get me started on the Gluten Free Brigade. I don’t mind telling you Bridget; I’m about ready to hang up my apron.’

Bridget had been tempted to say that with Noeline’s niece, or whatever a second cousin’s daughter was called, installed in the café these days it had been awhile since she’d seen her don an apron and do any work. Annie was the girl’s name, and she’d arrived on the scene with the foreign fellow who’d taken the teaching post at the High School for the start of the new school year. She was determined to introduce some new ‘modern’ ideas to the tearoom. Thus far, Noeline was holding firm.