But that expression of ‘violently in love’ is so hackneyed, so doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as often applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour’s acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment.
~Jane Austen
Hope in the Storm. Holly stared deep into the painting, her favorite one in the gallery, and studied the realistic detail.
Noelle had painted it two years ago, a perfect English countryside—patchwork lawns divided by quirky, uneven stone walls, sheep dotting the fields in between. But beyond the pastoral landscape, a storm grew. Dark, hateful clouds brewed, threatening the peaceful scene below. The “hope” part of the painting came in the sharp, white rays of sunshine cutting through the other end of the sky—reminding Holly that no matter how dark things became, hope was always visible. The only thing missing was a rainbow.
Distracted by the gallery door, Holly shifted gears, ready to greet the probable tourists, answer their questions, do her job. But instead, she saw Lily—Frank’s official girlfriend—enter and wave.
“I didn’t know you were coming today,” Holly said as Lily reached out for a one-armed hug.
“I brought Frank some lunch. A little surprise picnic.” She held up a small wicker basket.
“That sounds fun. He’s in the back room,” Holly said, stepping aside.
“Thanks.”
She watched Lily go and knew Frank would be absolutely no use to her the rest of the shift. These days, thanks to Lily, his head was more in the clouds than on the gallery. He’d lost important receipts, miscalculated the budget by two hundred pounds, even forgotten to pay last month’s electric bill.
Holly remembered seeing a show on telly once, that proved how being in love could make a person lose control of the rational, practical side of thinking. In an experiment, scientists gave a newly engaged man an MRI and monitored his brain waves as he stared at a picture of his beloved. Instantly, the endorphins kicked in, and the pink blob that represented brain activity used for rational thinking physically shrank. Amazing. And, in a way, something Holly was jealous of. She wanted to feel that way again. In love again. Giddy, intoxicated, irrational. But perhaps not too irrational. That was how Bridget’s situation had occurred.
Still, part of Holly wanted to let go, experience the rush, let those endorphins take over.
Someday.
“Do you have any more of those grape tomatoes?” Holly lugged the gallon of milk and bunch of bananas onto the counter.
“No, dear,” said Mrs. Pickering. “But I’ll get a delivery tomorrow.”
“Mind if I set these down? They’re getting heavy. I’m not finished shopping yet.”
“Certainly.” Mrs. Pickering returned to her copy of HELLO! and took a bite from a crisp apple.
The market was a compact structure—only two narrow aisles—but adequate enough. The shop carried fresh produce and canned goods and toiletries. The only grocer’s in the village, Mrs. Pickering held an almost arrogant monopoly.
“Clean-up on Aisle Two,” an odd voice squawked. Holly saw Fletcher, carrying a basket filled to the brim with crisps and biscuits.
“You’re eating healthy,” she said then winced as she saw his bruised knuckles, evidence of last night’s scuffle. She reached out instinctively. “How’s your hand?”
“A little sore.”
Mrs. Pickering had shut her magazine and was pretending to count pounds at the register. But the obvious strain of her neck gave her eavesdropping intentions away.
“We’d better lower our voices. Or, figure out a code,” Holly whispered. “You know she’s the biggest mouth in the village.”
“I vote for code. It’ll confuse her.”
Holly nodded and reached for a box of spaghetti.
“So.” Fletcher used an unnaturally loud tone. “The rat got the boot at 0900.”
Holly scrunched her eyebrows at him. “What does that mean?”
“It’s code,” he muttered.
“But I don’t get it.”
Fletcher chuckled and shook his head. “Never mind. Let’s talk outside. It’s easier.”
Holly found the last two items on her list, paid for them, and met Fletcher out in the bright afternoon sunshine. Halfway through July, today would reach an unusually warm eighty-one degrees. Wearing a sleeveless shirt, Holly loved the heat on her arms.
Fletcher suggested the stone gazebo as a rendezvous point, so that was where they headed. Though the structure stood blatantly in the middle of the street, visible to everyone passing by, it still provided a degree of privacy with the thick stone producing heavy shadows inside.
They sat on the cool stone ledge together and set their bags down.
“Spill it.” Holly darted her eyes to make sure nobody else was in earshot.
“The rat—that’s Colin—was fired this morning.”
Holly recalled her father’s smug, satisfied expression when he had come home earlier.
“You don’t look surprised.”
“My father apparently ‘took care of things,’” she whispered. Her father’s actions still felt covert, even after the fact. “I guess having Colin sacked is what he meant. But I don’t have any details. How did you find out?”
“There’s not much to tell.” He shrugged. “I got to the set a little later this morning, and that’s all anybody was talking about. Apparently, the director fired Colin the second he got there. That sparked an argument, and Colin trashed his trailer, then took his stuff and left in a rant, spewing profanities. Wish I had seen it.”
“You’re wicked.” She grinned.
“He deserves to be gone, whatever the reason. Bridget can relax now. How is she?”
“She was still sleeping when I left for work. I’ll try to talk to her when I get back home. By the way, Dad said to thank you. That’s two Newbury sisters you’ve rescued. He called you a ‘hero’ this morning.”
Fletcher gave one of his aww-shucks head tilts. A flock of tourists, fresh off a tour bus at the end of the street, began to descend on their private gazebo, chatting and snapping pictures.
“I think we’re being invaded.” Fletcher stood to dust off his shorts.
“Yeah, those obnoxious American tourists. Always interrupting, always making noise.” She stood to join him.
“Hey. Those are my peeps you’re talking about.”
“Did you just say ‘peeps’?”
“I believe I did.”
They gave a mutual wave and separated, leaving the tourists to ogle the village.
Another restless night. It had been two days since Bridget’s escape from London, and in that time, she’d remained inaccessible. Holly had tried to engage her—tap on the door, call her name softly, ask if she wanted to talk. The answer was always a firm but polite “not yet,” or a quick shake of the head.
Occasionally, Bridget would sneak downstairs, bundled in her quilt, to sit on the couch and watch telly with her sisters. But her expression was robotic. She wouldn’t laugh or react, and when the program was finished, she’d float back upstairs to her bedroom like a melancholy ghost. Still, Holly noticed emptier plates whenever Rosalee would bring the food trays down. Bridget was starting to eat again. Either that, or she’d learned how to push her food around to give the right impression.
Tonight, rather than struggle with sleep, Holly gave in and snuck down to Hideaway Cottage after midnight.
She’d just settled in to her rocking chair with Emma when she heard a light tap at the door. Curious, she went to the door and drew it open.
“Hey.” Bridget stood in the doorway wrapped in the quilt, her security blanket. Her hair was tousled, her face free of its usual layers of makeup. Her skin was naturally beautiful, youthful. “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” Holly stepped aside, closed Emma.
“I saw your light on from my window. You come down here a lot, don’t you?”
“Yeah. My little getaway.”
The seating arrangement was lacking—this room was only meant to hold one person. But that didn’t bother Bridget. With some effort, she squatted down on the petite coffee table, the quilt spreading out around her.
“How are you doing?” Holly asked.
Bridget hid her chin inside the flowery fabric.
Deciding to let her sister ease into it, Holly glanced down, moved her thumbnail along a small groove in the rocking chair’s arm and waited.
“I feel like a fool,” Bridget finally said, her words muffled inside the quilt. She lifted her chin. “I really believed him. That I meant something to him.” She closed her eyes so tight that her eyelashes disappeared. Then she opened them again and looked up, unblinking. Her eyes pleaded something, for Holly to understand. “Colin told me he loved me, that we belonged together. He was taking me to see Wicked that night, in London. I knew it was breaking curfew, that I’d get in trouble. But I thought it was worth the punishment. Just to be with Colin, go to London, a night I’d never forget. He was so sweet on the ride there. We were talking and flirting and listening to music the whole way. I felt like I was living in a film. But then, when he pulled into the car park of a sleazy hotel…”
Bridget’s gaze moved past Holly. “He stopped the car, and I asked him what we were doing there, what about Wicked? He said he wanted to surprise me. We could get some dinner there—at the hotel—and then get a room.” Her eyes narrowed, remembering. “And that’s when I knew. It was his plan all along, a hotel. He’d lied to me, just to get me there. So I told him ‘no,’ that I wasn’t going to a hotel with him. He tried to sweet-talk me, but I was fuming by then. Told him to take me home. He leaned in for a kiss, and I slapped him. Hard. I don’t know where it came from—but he was suddenly so ugly, so not the person I thought he was. He was shocked at the slap and grabbed my wrist—and it hurt. That’s when I struggled to get away and left the car. And then I saw Fletcher.” She blinked out of the memory. “How did he know we were there?”
“When you didn’t come home after school, I called him. He found one of Colin’s friends and pressed him for details then went after you.”
“Did he know it was to a hotel? Fletcher?”
Holly nodded, and Bridget lowered her eyes again.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she whispered. “Such a fool. How could I not have seen through Colin? He always said the right things. I knew a lot of people didn’t like him. That should’ve been the biggest red flag. There were even rumors he had a girlfriend somewhere, but I refused to believe them. I should never have gone with him and put everybody through hell. I can’t believe I was so stupid.”
Holly stood up to lean over, wrap her arms around her cocooned sister. “You are not stupid. You are a bright young woman who thought she was in love. Colin is the fool.” She squeezed tightly to emphasize her point. “You’re not alone, being deceived by someone you love. It happens to the best people.” She thought of Fletcher, his cheating ex-fiancée.
“I’m sorry,” Bridget said through sniffs as Holly backed away. “For sneaking off that way. It won’t ever happen again.”
Holly brushed a stray, damp hair out of Bridget’s eyes and sat down again.
“I’m ready to go back to school Monday. I’m so behind, I don’t know if I’ll be able to make up for it, but I’ll try.” Bridget’s voice fell to a whisper. “What if I run into Colin somewhere? In the village, on the street. I can’t avoid him forever.”
“You won’t have to. He’s gone,” Holly reassured.
Bridget’s eyes widened. “What?”
“I wanted to tell you this before, but I was waiting for the right time. I’m not sure of the details, but Dad had something to do with it. Fletcher told me Colin was sacked. The director is scrambling to replace him. They have to reshoot all of his scenes.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“You don’t ever have to see him again.”
The relief on Bridget’s face was palpable. The tense lines around her eyes had softened.
“Have you talked to Dad yet?” Holly asked, wondering if Bridget’s new willingness to talk would extend to their father as well.
“I didn’t know what to say, how to explain. And I didn’t want another row. Isn’t he furious with me?”
“He wasn’t happy about you breaking curfew. But then when he heard the details, he was relieved you were okay. That trumps everything. Of course, get ready—your new grounding will probably be for life or something. But only because he wants to protect you.”
“Fine by me. I’ve been bloody awful toward him. And Mildred. When you told me about her—about them—all I could feel was this terrible anger, nothing else. I don’t know where it even came from.”
Holly leaned back to rock a little. “I struggled with everything too, in the beginning. It’s still weird, thinking of Dad without Mum. Thinking of him with anybody else.”
“Exactly. I mean, Mildred is, you know, fine and everything. As people go. I don’t have anything against her. But it’s just… replacing Mum that way… I don’t know.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Holly agreed. “That Dad was trying to fill the gap with somebody else. But then, I looked at it a different way. Actually, I have Fletcher to thank for it. He helped me take the focus off me and put it onto Dad.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, instead of thinking about how the engagement affects me, I started thinking about how it affects him. Dad. In some ways, he’s been lighter these past weeks, hasn’t he? Home a bit more, a little less work-oriented. Happier.”
“Yeah. He whistles a lot.”
“And when I saw that he was happier because of Mildred, then the engagement wasn’t something awful anymore. It’s not about Mildred trying to take Mum’s place. It’s about Dad needing someone in his life again. He’s waited six years, and now, maybe it’s time. He deserves some happiness, doesn’t he?”
Bridget pondered this. “Yeah. He does. But…” She looked up at Holly. “All this still makes me miss Mum. So much. I can’t help it. It just hurts.”
“I know. But Mum would be proud of us for supporting them. She would want Dad to be happy. Especially after all these years.”
“That’s true, she would.” Bridget’s eyes brimmed with tears. “But I’m just not there yet. Is that okay? I mean, the idea of someone stepping into Mum’s shoes… and then having to call Mildred ‘step-mum.’ I can’t deal with it yet.”
“It’s understandable. But at least keep your mind open. For Dad’s sake.”
“I can do that,” Bridget promised.