Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of
disappointed love.
~Jane Austen
“More tea, Mrs. Mulberry?”
“Oh, yes, dear. Thank you.” She held her cup steady while Holly poured.
Nearly the entire village had turned out for William Smith’s funeral two hours before. Seeing the generous crowd spill over at the church, Holly was glad her father had offered Foxglove House as a place to hold the reception afterward. Mildred’s cottage would never have sustained even half the guests.
The service itself had been brief but emotional, with Mildred bravely sitting through the testimonies and stories of longtime friends: the vicar, who had made frequent visits to the cottage throughout William’s illness; Mr. Elton, who had given William his first job nearly fifty years before; even an elderly Sunday school teacher who had taught William when he was a boy. Mildred and her brother had grown up in Chilton Crosse, had even lived together as adults in the same cottage where they were both born. And though Mildred was now officially alone, she undoubtedly knew the support of everyone sitting in that packed, overheated church.
The turnout reminded Holly of her mother’s funeral, of all the lives her mother had touched during her too-short years. Today, during Mrs. Bates’s solo, Holly’s eyes wandered to the place where she’d sat with her father and sisters, at the front of the church on that horrible day. The only thing she remembered was how hard she tried not to look at the casket. Because looking at it would mean it was real.
“This was lovely,” a voice said now, and Holly pivoted to see Noelle in the hallway, standing with her husband, Adam. “I’m sure Mildred appreciates you for doing this.”
“I’m glad you both were able to come,” Holly said. “It meant the world to her, seeing the village turn out today.”
“That’s what I love about this place.” Noelle agreed. “Everyone is so supportive.”
Adam squeezed his wife’s shoulders. “Yeah, I’m always itching to get back here whenever I have to venture into the bowels of London. This place is a haven in comparison.”
After Noelle and Adam left, others filtered out of Foxglove, offering final condolences to Mildred on their way out. The twins had become bored an hour ago, so Holly had nudged them upstairs, knowing they could keep themselves busy Facebooking or Tweeting, or whatever it was they did these days.
But Abbey had chosen to stay downstairs, and Holly enjoyed watching her sister stick closely to Mildred most of the time, protective. Abbey later helped Julia in the kitchen, replenishing the food trays and fanning out white paper napkins. Later, when Holly asked if Abbey was a little nervous about being around stoic Julia, Abbey only shrugged and said, “She was nice to me. I think she’s just misunderstood.”
Near the end, when only a few guests remained, Holly’s phone buzzed—a text from Fletcher: Meet @ pub? Late lunch?
On paper, it sounded crazy. Already mentally drained, Holly still had clean-up to do, and the last thing she wanted was more socializing. But she knew she didn’t have to put on “the face” around Fletcher—that frozen, robotic half-smile that told everyone she was in a consistently pleasant mood. Maybe a trip to the pub wasn’t so crazy.
What Holly loved most about Joe’s pub wasn’t its traditional heavy wood beams attached to the low ceiling, or the light jazz playing, or even the heavenly smell of Joe’s potato soup simmering. It was the crackle and pop of the flames in the rustic fireplace at the back of the room. Winter or summer, that fire was always ablaze, some eternal flame one could always count on. She’d never seen it unlit. Consequently, the table in front of the fire was also the most coveted one in the place, and Fletcher held it for her now.
Still in funeral clothes, she walked over to him. After Fletcher’s text, she’d spent an hour cleaning and saying goodbyes and getting the girls settled so she could leave with a clear conscience.
“How did you score this spot?” she asked as he stood. “It’s always occupied by the old men, smoking cigars and playing Spades.”
“Here, let me have this.” He helped her out of her light raincoat and placed it on the rack behind him. “I ordered you a pint.”
Holly chided herself for failing to add “perfect gentleman” to her list of Fletcher-traits when defending him to Gertrude the other day.
She sat opposite him in the squeaky leather chair. “I’m not very hungry. I’ve been snacking all afternoon.”
“Maybe just some soup?” Fletcher suggested.
On cue, Lizzie arrived with the pints and took their order—potato soup for both.
“How was the funeral?” Lizzie asked in a whisper. “I was heartbroken I couldn’t be there.”
“It went well,” Holly answered. “I think Mildred’s pretty numb right now.”
“Poor thing,” Lizzie said with a “tsk.”
When she left with their order, Holly stared deep into the fire, letting the warmth envelop her face. There was something terribly hypnotic about watching flames lick the air.
“You okay?” Fletcher asked.
Holly blinked. “Oh, yeah. Knackered, is all.”
“I can’t imagine why.” He teased. “Sorry I couldn’t make it, either. The director called at the last minute for some script changes. There was no getting out of it.”
“That’s okay. You didn’t know Mildred’s brother, anyway.” Holly took a drink of her pint then said, “As funerals go, it was nice. I tried not to let it remind me of my mum’s, but it wasn’t easy.”
“Understandable.”
She crossed her legs under the table and leaned back, resting her head against the edge of the chair. “Change of subject, please. Distract me. I want to know how your job is going.”
“Some meetings, occasional questions about the script. Nothing exciting. I’m required to be on set most of the time, but there’s not much to do. You should drop by tomorrow. Entertain me.”
“I might do that.”
“Oh, and I’m working on a possible job lead.” He tapped a finger on the table’s rich, dark wood.
“In England?”
“The States. My brother has this connection. Something in real estate.”
“That doesn’t sound like you. I mean, I’m sure you’d be great at it, but it doesn’t sound very… creative.”
“No, but it’s immediate work. It would pay the bills. And it’s flexible. I could have time to figure out what else I wanted to do.”
The soup arrived, and before she lifted her spoon, Holly asked Fletcher, “But Finn could still come through? Find you a job here?”
“Unlikely. He’s not answering my messages. I can’t wait around on him much longer. And my lease at the Bristol apartment is up in two months, so there’s a real time factor involved. Gotta make some firm decisions.”
Not knowing what else to say, Holly focused on her soup and sipped enough spoonfuls to empty her entire bowl.
“That was outstanding,” she said, wishing she could order another but knowing how sick it would make her. “Joe makes a mean potato soup.” Seeing Fletcher grin, she tilted her head. “What? Something on my face?”
“No. I just thought you weren’t hungry.”
“Well, I guess I was. Can’t a girl change her mind?”
“Yes, ma’am, she can,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat.
In the hush of silence that followed, Holly grew suddenly pensive again, recalling the funeral, the vicar’s words about the grieving process. About the importance of keeping those we love alive in memory.
Seeing her expression change, Fletcher swallowed his last drop and set down the lager with an exaggerated slam. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Where?”
“You need a surprise.”
She hesitated. “Oh, no, no. I don’t like surprises. Really, I don’t.”
“You’ll love this one. I promise.”
The reassurance in his eyes melted her resolve. How could she resist? “Okay. I’m in.”
By the time they’d walked to their destination a quarter-mile outside the village, Holly had forgotten to care about the surprise. She was enjoying the slow pace of their stroll and the clean spring air. Every flower in the village had blossomed in the past week without her even realizing. Now, she had time to notice them in the late-afternoon sun.
She and Fletcher hadn’t said a word since the pub. With anyone else in her life, even her own family, Holly struggled to fill awkward gaps in conversation with more conversation. It made her uncomfortable, holding silence with a person nearby. But with Fletcher, even the empty spaces felt full.
“Mr. Elton’s farm?” she asked when Fletcher stopped at the edge of the property. “This is my big surprise?”
“I never said it was big. In fact—they’re actually quite small,” Fletcher said cryptically, opening the rusted metal gate.
“They?”
Fletcher led her along the dirt path to the edge of the farmhouse. “Around here, I think.”
Holly could hear the squealing of some sort of animal—several of them, in fact.
“Someone on set told me about them today.” He pointed to the wooden kennel, where a little boy stood on tiptoes, peering over the top.
Holly stepped closer to look inside. Seven puppies, black and white, squeaking and biting each other’s ears and tumbling about in the dirt.
“Border Collies,” she said, feeling a smile rise.
“Six weeks old.”
Fletcher reached in to scoop one up. It wriggled in his hand, whining as Holly reached out. The puppy quivered as it sniffed her fingers then stuck out a tiny pink tongue and gave her a hesitant kiss.
“Ooooh,” she said, unable to resist, reaching out. “You adorable little rascal,” she cooed as Fletcher passed the puppy to her.
She brought it close to her chest, stroking it. Almost instantly, it fell asleep, snuggling into the crook of her arm with a puppy-sized sigh. She looked up at Fletcher and saw him cross his arms with satisfaction.
“Admit it. Good surprise.”
“Okay. I admit it,” she whispered. It had been an eternity since she’d held a puppy. “They’re gorgeous. How could I not love this?”
Mr. Elton, the wrinkled old farmer, approached them from behind. “Chosen that one, eh?”
“You have no idea how tempted I am,” Holly said. “But, no. We only came to look. Way too much responsibility, raising a puppy. They’re beautiful, though.”
“They’ll have all their shots in two weeks’ time, if you change your mind,” he said, placing a dirt-caked hand on top of the kennel. “They’re going fast. I’ve already got two of ‘em promised.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Holly said, wishing she could take this one home with her right now. But the rational side of her brain knew it wasn’t a wise move. She simply didn’t have time for yet another living creature to take care of.
She had already become too attached, so she handed the puppy back over to Fletcher, who rubbed its velvet ears and returned it gently to the kennel.
“Thank you,” she told Fletcher as they walked away. “You have no idea how much I needed that today.”
“I think I do,” he said, opening the gate for her again.