Ah! There is nothing like staying at home, for real comfort.
~Jane Austen
The straps from the cloth bags bore into Holly’s shoulders, and no amount of shifting would ease the burden. She should’ve taken her bike, or even the family car—rarely used because everything was in walking distance at the village—but she’d thought she could handle the load of groceries on her own. Knowing that a special guest would be at the table this evening, she’d made a stop at Mrs. Pickering’s market after work, paying close attention to the menu. Pork tenderloin, assorted vegetables, and an all-American apple pie. Holly had hoped to have a larger attendance this evening by inviting a few more guests. But in the end, Mac had a job in another village, and Joe and Lizzie had to work, so the party would be small and intimate.
Even so, she wanted to make it special, so before work, she rang Mac to ask about setting up a table in the garden, just as her mother used to do. Mac had access to things like tiki torches and sturdy tables for such an occasion and offered to deliver and set them up before he left for his other job. Holly had also checked the forecast and noticed a rare mild evening with no rain. Dinner in the garden, it was!
When Holly entered the kitchen at Foxglove House, Mildred was there to help relieve her heavy load.
“Oh, dear. Let me get this.” Mildred reached out.
“Thank you. I couldn’t have made it another step.”
Mildred Smith had been Gertrude’s caretaker and housekeeper for over a decade. Last year, Holly’s father had asked Mildred to help out at Foxglove once a week, even knowing Holly and the girls were capable of handling the household chores together. When Holly questioned her father, he told her the real reason for the decision—the medical bills for Mildred’s brother were piling up. She was a proud woman and would never take a handout, so this was a small way they could help. Holly had agreed.
Secretly, she enjoyed having another adult in the house, even if it was only once a week. Besides, Mildred wasn’t a housekeeper. She was more of a family friend. She and Holly would often chat about village goings-on, share tea during breaks, exchange recipes. In her late fifties, Mildred looked older than her years. From what Holly knew, she’d lived a hard life—battled cancer and won in her early thirties; never married or had children, but wanted both; and now spent her days caring for her ailing brother who lived with her. And, of course, she worked for Gertrude. Holly pitied anyone who had to put up with that woman’s balking and griping on a daily basis.
“Is Dad here?” Holly asked Mildred now. About six months ago, her father had begun working from home on Tuesdays. It kept him from having to commute so often.
“He was here earlier,” Mildred motioned, unloading the groceries. “But then he left. Some dinner meeting in London this evening. He’ll be home late.”
“Shame…” Holly mumbled then clarified. “I was hoping he would be here for our party. You’re coming, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I wish I could,” Mildred said in her slight Irish brogue. “Perfect evening for a party, isn’t it? Lovely, cool spring weather.” She paused. “But my brother needs me. In fact, the doctors are talking about hospice care.”
“Oh, Mildred.” Holly set down the frozen broccoli and placed a cold hand on top of Mildred’s. “I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
“Nothing, love. Thank you.” She sniffed back tears and reached for the next item. “It is what it is. We’ll get through it, won’t we?”
“Yes.” Holly squeezed her hand. “Yes, we will.”
“So. Is the American coming to this party of yours? Fletcher?”
“Yes. In fact, he’s the whole reason for it. I figured he needed a home-cooked meal. Plus, he still feels like a stranger in the village, I think. This was just a friendly gesture.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Mildred raised an eyebrow.
“Mildred, you do know we were joking, about that whole dating thing, with Gertrude? It’s all a big act. Strictly for her benefit.”
“Whatever you say, dear.” Mildred reached over to place the margarine into the fridge.
“Abbey! Get the door, please!” Holly called, removing the buttered wheat rolls from the Aga.
An hour before, Holly had looked a right mess, her hair twisted into a messy knot, dark blue T-shirt dusted with patches of flour. Under other circumstances, she would’ve been fine with Fletcher seeing her that way. He wouldn’t have cared, and neither would she. But this was a proper garden party, and she wanted to dress the part. So, minutes ago, Holly had scurried upstairs, slipped into a favorite skirt and top, brushed out her hair, spritzed her arms with a little body spray, and dabbed on some lip gloss.
“Hey,” she heard now, from behind.
Fletcher stood with Abbey, who held his hand and positively beamed. Holly remembered that it had been ages since a man had been in the house—one besides Mac, or their father. Their dinner guest would become quite the spectacle this evening.
Tonight he wore jeans and a dark blazer, along with his cowboy boots, and gripped a bottle of wine in his left hand.
Holly shook her head and pointed a pot-holdered finger at him accusingly. “You weren’t supposed to bring anything.”
“It’s nothing special,” he countered. He released Abbey’s hand with a squeeze and set the bottle down. “Smells amazing in here.” He joined Holly at the counter as she spooned the veggie mixture into a bowl. “How can I help?”
“Maybe the salad? Lettuce and dressing are both in the fridge,” Holly said, back to business. “Abbey,” she called behind her. “Would you go find your sisters? They’re supposed to be setting the table.”
Fletcher carried the lettuce head to the cutting board beside Holly then found a knife and carved out the core, removing it with ease.
“You’ve done this before,” she said.
“Once or twice.”
The twins filed in, looking annoyed about their new table-setting task—until they saw Fletcher. Just as Holly suspected, the girls were rendered dumbstruck at the first sight of those dimples.
“Hey there. You must be Bridget?” he said, pointing to Rosalee. She shook her head. “Rosalee,” he corrected himself. “Then, you’re Bridget? I’m Fletcher.”
Seeing that the girls had no intention of responding, Holly took the initiative. “Okay, girls, please set the table. Dinner’s nearly ready.”
The kitchen bustled with activity during last-minute preparations. Holly directed everyone out the back door to the garden, each carrying heaping bowls of food or baskets of bread. As Holly stepped over the threshold, she had to stop, take it all in. She hadn’t seen it all come together, at least not in this twilight setting—the flittering lights of the tall, slim torches strategically placed around one long table, donned with crisp, white linen. The sun had set minutes ago, casting an orange glow beyond the trees. Even the breeze cooperated, offering a hint of cool air on Holly’s cheeks. The recollection of her mother’s parties struck her in a way she wasn’t prepared for. She stepped back in time several years, saw her mother dressed in white—always, in white—making the rounds about the table, making sure everyone was comfortable. Then, throughout the evening, steering conversations and laughing that pure, uninhibited cackle when something struck her as hilarious.
Blinking, bringing herself back to the garden, without her mother in it, Holly wondered if this had been such a good idea.
She felt a nudge at her elbow and saw Fletcher, his eyes browner and warmer than usual in the dusky light.
Her expression must have betrayed everything, because he whispered, “You okay?”
Holly remembered why she’d set up the party in the first place and found a half-smile. She could do this. “I’m great. Thanks.”
Fletcher reached down to take the heavy glass pan she’d forgotten she was carrying and walked it to the table for her.
When they all got settled, Fletcher said a brief prayer of blessing over the food, then the dinner guest quickly became the center of attention. The girls tossed questions at Fletcher, mostly about the film set—Which actors are playing the roles? Can we watch the scenes being filmed? Can we be extras??
Fletcher fielded them well, obviously comfortable with becoming the entertainment for the evening. Holly remembered that he had a sister of his own. He was used to this.
She also noticed how well-behaved the twins had become. They hadn’t been this cordial to each other in… well, a lifetime. They displayed pristine table manners and hung on Fletcher’s every word.
By the end of the meal, Holly’s sisters had hogged every Fletcher conversation. Holly hadn’t spoken a single word to him since they sat down. And she probably wouldn’t be able to afterward, either. She had another term paper due in the morning.
Taking advantage of a rare lull, she pushed back from the table and lifted her plate. “Anyone up for dessert?”
A chorus of “Me!”s went up.
“I’ll help,” Fletcher offered, taking her plate and reaching for Abbey’s, too.
“Thanks,” Holly said. “I’ll go get the pie.”
A minute later, he met her in the kitchen with a stack of dirty dishes.
“Sorry the girls peppered you with so many questions about the film set.” Holly scooped vanilla ice cream into petite dessert bowls. “You only thought tonight would be an escape from work.”
“I didn’t mind. They’re adorable. I had no idea so many people would be this interested in the movie. The whole village is buzzing.”
“I guess it gives us small country folk something exciting to do with our mundane days,” she teased, licking her finger.
“Dinner was amazing, by the way.”
“Thanks. I—”
The slam of the front door distracted her, and she saw her father enter the kitchen, toss his keys onto the table.
“What’s for dinner?” he bellowed then looked at Fletcher. “And the better question is—who is this stranger standing in my kitchen?” His tone was entirely playful. One side of his mouth even crooked upward into something resembling a grin.
“Dad, stop that. Don’t scare the dinner guest. This is Fletcher Hays, a new friend of mine. He wrote the script for Emma, the film at the Manor.”
“Well, co-wrote,” Fletcher said, stepping forward to extend his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Her father caught Fletcher’s hand in a hearty shake. “He’s American,” he told Holly.
“Yes, Dad. He is. Be nice,” she muttered, enforcing the request with narrowing eyes.
Fletcher played along. “American by birth, British by choice, sir.”
“Whereabouts are you from, son?”
“Texas. San Angelo. Small town, far west of Austin.”
Holly’s father nodded and tried to ask another question when the girls came in to see what all the commotion was about. Within seconds, their dad became the most important male in the room again.
“This ice cream is melting,” Holly announced, shoving dessert bowls into their hands and ushering them all back outside.
“Dad, I’ll make you a dinner plate,” she offered.
“Absolutely not. I’ll do it myself,” he insisted. “I have some work to do. You go back outside and join your friend.”
Though surprised by his offer, she decided not to question it. “Thanks. I will.”
“Your family is great.” Fletcher stood in the doorway, running a hand through his thick hair. “They remind me of my family.”
She knew, with that statement alone, that her dinner party had succeeded in the only way that mattered. To make him feel at home.
“I’m not sure if you got the most accurate picture, though.” She winced, remembering the twins’ incessant squabbling at breakfast this morning. “They were on their best behavior tonight. Trust me, they’re not usually this… tame.”
“A little spunk is a good thing. You’ve done a wonderful job with them. It’s obvious how much they love you.”
“It is?” Holly felt an unexpected sting of tears.
“It is. They feel comfortable with you. I’m sure it’s hard, not knowing whether to be their sister or authority figure. You seem to have balanced those really well.”
“Thank you,” she said in a whisper, not able to trust that her voice wouldn’t crack.
“Well, duty calls.” He stretched his arms behind him. “I’ve got some revisions waiting for me. Hey, y’all should come up to the Manor soon. Watch one of the scenes.”
“The girls would love that. And so would I.”
“Well, you’ve got an ‘in’ whenever you want. I’ll give you a behind-the-scenes pass. Just ask for me at the entrance, and they’ll bring you back.” He started to walk off into the night air. “I’d better get to the pub. Thanks again for tonight,” he called back with a wave.
Holly waved too then shut the door and wondered if this was how her mother felt after a dinner party—blissfully exhausted.
In the kitchen, Duncan stood at the counter, reaching to place the dry glasses into the cupboard.
“What are you doing?!” Holly asked.
“Can’t a man put away glasses in his own kitchen without it being national news?” He closed the cabinet and turned around.
“I like the effect Fletcher has on this household.”
“Maybe you should invite him over more often, then.”
“Dad.”
“What? I think it’s about time. Your having a ‘friend’ over for dinner.”
“That’s right, a friend. A mate. Only a mate.” She joined him at the counter and turned on the tap.
“Whatever you say, love…” He kissed the top of her head and disappeared around the corner toward his study.
By the time Holly entered the garden, she could see that the girls had already cleared the entire table. She hadn’t heard a peep from any of them since she’d said goodbye to Fletcher and assumed they were in their rooms, tapping away on their phones or computers—or, she hoped, finishing up any leftover homework. Using a folding chair, Holly stood to extinguish each of the torches. Mac would come by in the morning for the tables and tikis, and with the mild weather, she could leave them where they stood. She gathered the tablecloth, folded it, and went back inside, closing the door on her first official garden party.
Creeping upstairs a few minutes later, she heard a small voice call out her name. She tipped open Abbey’s door across the hall and peeked in.
“C’mere,” Abbey said, waving Holly inside.
Holly obeyed and perched on the edge of her sister’s bed. The lamp cast a soft glow, illuminating the lime-green quilt. With her right hand, Abbey clutched a stuffed lamb, her bedtime companion given to her by their mother a few weeks before she died. A Wrinkle in Time sat, splayed open, beside her.
“Did you finish your homework?” Holly asked.
“All of it. Even the algebra. And I didn’t need any help.”
“Good for you.” Holly combed a stray hair away from Abbey’s cheek. “So, how did you like our little garden party tonight?”
“Such fun. I like Fletcher. I’m glad you invited him.”
“Me, too.”
“Holly, is he your boyfriend?” she asked, her round, blue eyes unblinking behind her glasses.
“No, he’s just my friend.”
“But, why just a friend?” She almost seemed frustrated, disappointed in Holly somehow. “Don’t you think he’s dishy?”
Holly smiled. “He’s very dishy. But that doesn’t mean we have to be boyfriend and girlfriend. Sometimes it’s nice to be friends. Sometimes, it’s best to be friends.”
“Adults are confusing.”
Until now, Holly hadn’t needed to give inquiring minds any reasons that she and Fletcher were “only” friends. And until now, she hadn’t genuinely stopped to answer that question for herself. “Well, I think it’s partly because I’m so comfortable with him. I don’t have to pretend with him or put on a show for him. I can be myself.”
“And you can’t do that with a boyfriend?”
Holly tilted her head. “Well, not all the time. A boyfriend is someone you try to impress, show more of your best side to.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
Holly chuckled and tucked the quilt around Abbey’s legs in a cocoon. “It is. But I don’t have to impress Fletcher. It’s very natural with him.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“And besides, he’s not staying in our village. He’ll have to leave someday.”
“When the film wraps?”
“Exactly. So, even if I fancied him ‘that way,’ it would be rather futile.”
“I wish Fletcher would stay.” Abbey removed her glasses and rubbed at her eyes. “Maybe we can change his mind.”
After tossing around for a while, Holly decided to let insomnia win. Strange, that her body experienced the euphoria of exhaustion while her mind refused to turn off. Rather than fight sleep, she threw off the covers and wrapped up in a thick robe, heading downstairs to Hideaway Cottage. Perhaps reading a chapter of Emma would help.
The garden was bathed in luminous moonlight, and Holly wanted to linger in it. Even at the beginning of May, the evening held a chilly snap, so she was glad she’d worn this particular robe, fleecy and warm. Holly sat on the step leading up to her cottage, facing the house. She always loved this view. Foxglove was so charming, even for its grand size. It never felt anything but cozy. She remembered the night she’d left Foxglove for university, recalled the ache in the pit of her stomach at the thought of not sleeping in her own bed. Of leaving behind something so comfortable and familiar.
But she had gotten used to it, so that whenever she came back to visit during those university years, returning home was… odd. Foxglove House wasn’t hers anymore, not the way it had been. She was a guest. A lodger. There was a formality in the air she couldn’t shake. Sometimes, even now, she didn’t quite know where she fit in. Or what her role was, or how long she could stay in it.
Lately, in the back of her mind, far into the hard-to-reach corners, was the thought, “How long?” How long would she live in this space, be this person who ran a house that didn’t really belong to her?
“As long as I need to,” was always the dutiful answer she gave. But that answer was becoming inadequate, thin. And she didn’t know why.
Holly picked up a pebble and chucked it, watching it bounce off the stone steps like a rock skipping on a lake.
The low hoot of an owl came from somewhere deep in the forest beyond the edge of the property. Hearing it brought Holly out of herself, back into the moment. Back to this spot where the warm, gold shaft of a hall light inside the house reflected elongated rectangles on the grass.
So what, that her life didn’t look the way she thought it would by now. Did anyone’s? Surely she wasn’t the only one in the world with something missing. Something just out of her grasp that she couldn’t see or name.
So what, that she didn’t have what she’d expected to have by now: a husband and baby, a home of her own, a university degree with solid plans for a career. It shouldn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate what she did have. She named them now in her mind, ticked them off, one by one: active, healthy sisters; a supportive and loving father; a satisfying job; a book club; and now, someone to throw garden parties for. A fake boyfriend. A true friend.
And for now, in this moment, it was more than enough.