My idea of good company… is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation.
~Jane Austen
Not once in four years had Holly hesitated at the gallery door. Of course, not once before today had she feared what was on the other side.
It had been five days since her faux-date with Frank, and now the gavel would fall. In those five days, she’d gone from thinking the best—that Frank would be unaffected by her avoiding his kiss—to the worst—that he would be so affected he would sack her on the spot. Realistically, she knew, it would probably be somewhere in between.
Grasping the brass handle, she braced herself and walked inside.
“Holly, nice to see you!”
Noelle Spencer, the gallery’s American owner, stood at the front table. Petite and blonde, dressed in a sweater and jeans, she greeted Holly with a warm smile. When Noelle had first arrived in the village, Holly had recognized a kindred spirit in her right away. It wasn’t until months later, though, that Holly discovered they had a more profound connection. Noelle had also lost her mother, at nearly the same age Holly lost hers. And although they hadn’t discussed their mothers past that one conversation a year ago, it changed things for Holly. They now spoke a language no one else could speak. A knowing tone, a secret handshake. Holly could go to Noelle, if she ever needed to.
Usually, Noelle stopped by the gallery once a week to check in and sometimes to paint. Two years ago, she’d turned the space back into a working gallery, where artists, including her, worked on their paintings while patrons observed. Unfortunately, Noelle’s gallery days always seemed to coincide with Holly’s days off.
“Noelle! How are you?”
“Really good. How are your sisters?”
“Oh, they’re great. Busy with school, just the usual stuff.”
Before meeting Noelle, Holly had always pictured Americans as stuck-up or cold. Or arrogant. She wasn’t sure what had perpetuated the image. Maybe just a collection of observations she’d made, or propaganda she’d swallowed over the years from the media. But Noelle shattered Holly’s American stereotypes. Perhaps it was her easygoing California upbringing that made Noelle so naturally gregarious. Or maybe it was her infectious happiness, a direct result of her move to England. Nearly three years ago, Noelle had uprooted her life from the States and moved to the Cotswolds after inheriting Primrose Cottage—and this art gallery—from her famous-artist aunt, Joy Valentine. Since then, Noelle had settled comfortably into village life, becoming involved in committees, helping renovate the local school, and saving the gallery from bankruptcy. She’d also married the love of her life, Adam Spencer, last summer. Nearly the entire village, Holly included, had turned out for the ceremony.
“Oh!” Holly remembered. “Did you hear about the book club?”
“Frank just told me. I’ve been in London with Adam until this morning. But sign me up for the next meeting. I’ll be there!”
“We had a nice turnout yesterday.”
“I love the idea of a book club. And Emma’s my second-favorite Austen book.”
“Pride and Prejudice, the first?” Holly guessed.
“Yep,” Noelle admitted. “I can’t help it. I fell head over heels for Mr. Darcy at fifteen.”
“Sounds exactly like how I fell for Knightley.”
They shared a smile just before Frank walked around the corner, and Holly remembered her anxiety again. He avoided eye contact and spoke directly to Noelle, asking her a budget question.
So, there it was. Holly was invisible to him. That told her all she needed to know. This would be a long afternoon.
By Thursday’s shift, things still hadn’t warmed enough between Holly and Frank for him to treat her as a human being again. But it didn’t matter, because today, she had the whole gallery to herself. When she’d arrived this morning, he’d met her at the door and said, “I’m going to Bath—hold down the fort,” then brushed past her to leave, as though escaping a small fire inside.
She didn’t need further explanation. “Going to Bath” meant he was in search of new artists, scouring galleries for additions to the collection. Holly was perfectly capable of “holding down the fort” for those few hours. Still, he could’ve at least been cordial, asked if she had any questions, or given her the usual quick rundown of his own shift, before abandoning her so curtly.
Relieved he was gone and looking forward to a quiet morning, she stepped into the back room, prepared to finish whatever leftover paperwork Frank had begun this morning.
But before she could even sit down to assess it, she heard the tinkle of the bell. Rolling her eyes, she put on her best customer-service face and rounded the corner again, hoping this was a self-sufficient tourist. One who would browse quietly then leave.
“Oh. It’s you!” she said, her courtesy smile warming to something genuine as she saw Fletcher Hays close the door behind him. His stance was awkward, hesitant, as though he’d mistakenly walked through the wrong door and had been caught. He wore a khaki blazer and jeans, and this time, she noticed cowboy boots.
“Holly, right?” He pointed at her. “What a coincidence.”
“I normally would agree, but since I work here, maybe this is only half a coincidence?” she offered.
“And it is a small town.”
“Very small.”
“So, I guess coincidence isn’t really the word.” He shrugged. “A pleasant surprise, then?”
“I’ll take that.”
He shifted his weight, and she noticed he held the script again. She wondered if it was attached to his hand permanently, like a tattoo.
“Some beautiful stuff here.” He walked deeper into the room, browsing the first painting—the one Noelle had finished last week. He paused and tilted his head.
“Do you like art?” she asked.
He made a “sort of” gesture with his free hand then turned back around to face her. “I took a course in art appreciation once. But that’s about as far as my appreciation goes.”
“Where’d you go? To university, I mean?”
“Oxford.”
“Seriously?”
“Why so surprised?” He smiled, his dimples appearing. His country twang deepened. “Y’all probably think us dumb Americans could never make it at a posh place like Oxford.”
Holly felt her cheeks go warm. “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m only surprised you’ve been in England that long. I assumed you’d only been here a few months or something.”
“Nope. Been here nearly ten years. Went to Oxford as an exchange student for one semester and didn’t wanna leave. So I finished out my degree and worked some odd jobs then landed a writing gig at the BBC.”
“Seriously?!”
“Again, with the surprise! You’re giving me a complex.”
“You have to admit. The BBC? That’s pretty amazing.”
“Yeah, but it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. High-pressured, getting stuck with teams of writers. Lots of egos, backbiting. I lasted about four years, until Finn and I decided to write this Emma script. It eventually got accepted, so here I am. You officially know more about me than most people.”
“Well, I’m honored.” Feeling a pause she didn’t know what to do with, she suddenly went back into gallery mode and added, “So… you’re welcome to look around at the pieces. Joy Valentine’s are displayed upstairs. She’s the gallery’s original owner.”
Something in his expression had changed—an ease in his eyes replaced by… she couldn’t tell what. Discomfort? She watched him lean in slightly and half-whisper a confession, “To tell you the truth, I was only looking for a quiet place to work. The pub is a bit… raucous for the creative process. Loud music, people talking. I thought a gallery might do the trick.”
She played along, whispering, too, “You mean, like one of those bookshops with cushy seats, where they let customers sit there all day and read?”
“Well, yeah. Sort of.” His eyes searched hers, maybe to see whether he’d insulted her.
“Hmm,” she said. “Well, that’s not quite how it works here. I mean, people come from all over England to view our fine gallery. To get some culture.”
“Fair enough.” Fletcher took a step backward. “Well, I can go, then.”
Holly reached to grab his sleeve with a chuckle. “I’m only having a laugh—I thought you knew. You can stay. Of course you can stay. In fact, you’re in luck. We happen to have an enormous cushy chair in the back that’s not in use at the moment.”
Watching his comfort level return as he contemplated it, she actually favored the idea. Especially with Frank out of the way. He would never have allowed this—a script-toting American squatter in his gallery. But Frank wasn’t here right now, was he?
To convince Fletcher further, she said, “Seriously. Stay. I’ll just be doing some paperwork in the back, anyway. You’d be keeping me company.”
“Only if I won’t get you into trouble.”
“You won’t,” she reassured, leading him toward the back room. She pointed to the aubergine plush chair. “All yours,” she said then sat at the table, determined to make a dent in the pile Frank had left behind.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Fletcher sink into the chair and spread out the script on his lap. After a minute, he looked up and stared at the wall. “What’s that?”
Holly heard the chimes. “Oh. There’s a clock shop next door. Dozens and dozens of clocks, all set to chime at the same hour.”
“Every day? Doesn’t that drive you nuts?”
“I hardly hear them anymore.”
“Can you imagine having to set them for daylight savings?” Fletcher snickered.
“Old Mr. Rothschild actually hires someone to help him. They spend half the day setting all the clocks in the shop. Lots of grandfather clocks, but then, all sorts of other ones, too—watches, alarm clocks, table clocks. Probably a couple hundred, in all. He’s a stickler for it. Every single clock must hold the accurate time. I think he was in the Navy or something. Or has OCD. Maybe both.”
As the last chime rang out, Holly lifted the first receipt, and Fletcher settled in, flipping a page of the script.
Holly only made it to the second receipt when she heard the front door’s bell tinkle again. This time, it came with a familiar voice.
“Holly! Where are you? Look!”
Abbey bounded around the corner, waving a piece of paper. She plopped down in the seat across from her sister, out of breath.
“Well, I can’t see it if you don’t hold it still.” Holly grabbed the paper. “Oh—your exam?” she asked, even before she looked. She remembered the crash algebra study session that had kept them up until 2:00 a.m. a few days ago. Holly had tried to explain quadratic equations to her frustrated, tearful sister—in vain, she’d thought, until she looked down now and saw the red-circled A.
“Outstanding!” She gave back the paper and leaned in for a warm hug. “I knew you could do it,” she whispered, smelling the strawberry shampoo Abbey was so fond of.
Abbey squeezed her back, still slightly out of breath. She must’ve run all the way from the school.
“Why are you out so soon?” Holly asked, backing away, remembering the time.
“Teacher training. They released us early. Rosalee and Bridget went home, but I had to come here and show you this first.”
“I’m glad you did. I’ll be home right after work, and we can start an early supper. Maybe with a special dessert to celebrate?”
“Okay!” Abbey folded the exam and noticed Fletcher. “Oh. Hello.”
The wall had come up. Abbey had never been very good with strangers.
Fletcher put down his script and flashed a smile. “Hello.”
“Who is that?” Abbey whispered to Holly but loudly enough for Fletcher to hear.
“That’s my new friend, Fletcher Hays. He’s from America.”
Abbey’s eyes widened behind her glasses, as though Fletcher had transformed into some kind of alien in front of her eyes. “America?”
“That’s right,” he confirmed. “From Texas.”
“Do you have a ranch?” Abbey asked him. “With horses and cows? And servants?”
Fletcher looked confused and said, “No, none of those.”
“Oh.” Abbey seemed almost disappointed.
“I think she’s thinking about Dallas,” Holly explained. “She likes to watch the re-runs.”
Fletcher chuckled into his fist and shook his head. “I see. Unfortunately, not all Texans have ranches or horses. Or even wear cowboy hats.”
“But, you’re wearing boots,” Abbey countered, pointing down, her timidity all but gone.
“True. But that’s only because they’re comfortable. I’ve never been on a horse in my life.”
“Well,” she said, scooting back her chair. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Abbey Newbury. Holly’s my sister.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Abbey Newbury.” He rose and took two steps while reaching out his hand.
When he sat back down, Abbey whispered to Holly, “I like his accent. He says my name sort of funny.”
“I’ll bet he thinks the same thing about us,” Holly whispered back.
“You’re probably right,” Abbey agreed. “Well, I have to go,” she announced in full voice. “I told Rosalee I’d be home by now.” She stuffed the exam into her backpack and, with a final wave, disappeared around the corner. “Bye, Fletcher Hays!”
“She’s adorable,” he told Holly.
“Thanks.”
“Is Rosalee another sister?”
“Yes. And her twin’s name is Bridget. They’re sixteen.”
“Wow, big family,” said Fletcher. “And teenagers. Your mom’s got her hands full.”
Holly paused, caught off guard. “Yeah, well…” She had a big decision to make in a split second. She hadn’t planned on having this particular conversation today. Still, rather than lie or avoid the issue entirely, she decided to say it. Nothing to hide from or be ashamed of. Just a fact of her life. “Actually, Mum passed away. Six years ago.”
His eyebrows rose as he processed the information. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“It’s okay. I live with my sisters. And my father. We take care of each other now.”
“You’re lucky,” Fletcher said.
“Lucky?”
“To have each other, I mean.”
“Yeah. I guess we are.”
Somehow, Holly’s admission about her mother broke through the social wall that normally exists between near-strangers, and she and Fletcher spent the next two hours talking. The usual polite standoffishness was waived, the shallow chitchat bypassed, in favor of deeper conversations that actually meant something.
Fletcher still held his script, and Holly still held her receipts, both intending to return to them at some point. But they never did. She found out Fletcher had a sister and older brother, that he had a scar on his shin from a car accident years ago in which his best friend had died, and he had an inexplicable fear of clowns. Holly confessed her love of cheesy classic eighties films and her embarrassment about singing horribly off-key. She also revealed her feelings of incompetence with her sisters—always measuring her own care of them against what she thought her mother’s would’ve been—and that the burden of it nearly suffocated her sometimes.
Inside those two hours, not a single tourist came through the door. This happened periodically, no visitors at all, for a whole afternoon. But when the bell’s tinkle finally came, Holly sucked in a quick breath, thinking it might be Frank. She knew he wouldn’t fire her for this, but the thought of him coming in right now, seeing her with Fletcher and not having made a dent in her work…
Fortunately, it was only an elderly couple from Australia, wishing to browse. When Holly returned after greeting them, Fletcher was on his feet.
“I’d better go. Thanks for this,” he said. “Letting me sit awhile.”
“But you didn’t get a single ounce of work done,” she protested.
“Neither did you.”
“It’s okay, though. I enjoyed our chat.”
“Yeah, we should do this again sometime. On purpose. Maybe at the pub.”
“Definitely.”
When they walked toward the front door, an idea struck Holly. “Would you be interested… well, there’s this book club thing,” she explained. “We’re discussing Emma. We meet at a cottage. My dad’s cousin Gertrude—”
“That grumpy woman you mentioned? With the high-strung dog?”
“That’s the one. I was wondering if you might be the guest speaker at our next meeting, Monday morning. I think the ladies would love to hear about Emma from an expert.”
“Not sure about the expert part.” He shrugged. “I think we have a director’s meeting then, but I’m not sure. I’ll check and let you know.”
“Brilliant. So, it’s at 10:00 a.m., if you can make it. Hickory Cottage, at the bend in the woods, south of Storey Road, our main street.”
“What’s your cell number? I’ll phone if I can’t come.”
She recited the number as he tapped it into his mobile. “Oh,” she added. “If you are able to come, wear your boots.”
“Why?”
“Just trust me.”
Poor Fletcher. He really didn’t know what he was in for, meeting Gertrude.
When he left the gallery, Holly revisited her receipts, utterly bored by them. Her thoughts still lingered on the lovely talk with Fletcher. Her mind hadn’t been that stimulated with adult conversation in ages, and it left her satisfied, filling up little gaps inside that she didn’t realize were empty.