Daisy James - The Summer House of Happiness - A delightfully feel-good romantic comedy perfect for holiday!

There was no way she could contemplate losing him too.

Chapter Four

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.

As she finished the washing-up and returned the crockery to its rightful place, she knew what he had been about to suggest and why he had pulled back from pursuing it when he’d seen the fear in her eyes.

Even now, two years on, it was the one place she could never go, the place she had to avoid at all costs in order to keep her sanity intact – and she certainly had no intention of going there the morning after she had arrived.

In fact, she could see the pitch of the summerhouse roof beneath the cherry tree from where she stood, elbow-deep in suds, so she studiously averted her eyes to focus on the garden, and the grass that was so overgrown she wouldn’t have been surprised to find Doctor Livingstone lurking about in there. After she had mowed the lawn, she would take a stroll to the village shop to see Martha and ask for her suggestions for a healthy supper.