Lemon curd on buttered toast soothed a multitude of problems. Motts had made three slices to get her through the morning. She hadn’t quite recovered despite spending an entire day alone in the cottage.
Although needing more time to recover, Motts had several early meetings. Vina had helped her connect with a few shop owners in Polperro. She hoped to convince them to consider commissioning some of her paper flower arrangements.
Motts stared mournfully into her empty mug. “Can I take a sick day?”
Meow.
She ran her fingers gently over Cactus’s head, rubbing behind his ears. “Is that a yes or a no? Or do you not want to be left behind?”
I could have another piece of toast.
Procrastinating won’t erase your need to meet Marnie and Peggie.
It helped Motts that she knew both women. She’d met them several times on the Mottley family holidays to Polperro. They were lovely people who’d make her feel welcome and comfortable.
And yet, her anxiety refused to settle.
She had a lifetime of experience forcing herself to get through dealing with the world. Her autistic diagnosis had come late—in her midthirties. She’d felt relief at having answers, yet in some ways, even four years on, she continued to struggle to adjust to the paradigm shift.
Changing out of her comfy pyjamas into jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt, Motts stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. You can do this. Origami flowers are your bread and butter. Talk about the paper arrangements—you don’t need to make small talk.
Motts redid the buttons on her shirt. “I’m Motts.”
You don’t have to introduce yourself. You’ve met them before. They know your name.
“Right.” She didn’t make eye contact with her reflection. “Okay. Hello. Lovely to see you again.”
Do I ever say lovely to see you?
No.
“Hi. Do you want to buy my flowers?” Great. Now I sound like some Victorian street urchin without the accent and coal-smudged face. “Hello. Thanks for meeting with me. I brought sketches.”
Well, it’s better. Not brilliant, but better.
She pulled on an oversized grey hoodie that had originally belonged to her younger and much taller cousin, River. She’d stolen it from him last year. He hadn’t complained—much.
“You can do this.” Motts tried to summon the courage to leave for her first appointment. She refused to be late. “If we’re doing this, we’re going now.”
With an apologetic pet to Cactus and Moss for leaving them behind, Motts raced out the door. She shivered in the brisk breeze off the sea. Hello, February in Cornwall. I’ll just be here freezing my toes off.
Grabbing her blue bicycle, Motts secured her sketchbook in the left pannier bag and her backpack in the right one. Her bike was her pride and joy. A 3-speed Pure City Step-Through in seafoam green with dusty pink vegan leather seat and handles. She’d had it customised with the saddlebags and a wire basket in the front. Her dad had paid for it to be shipped over from the maker in Los Angeles.
She adored it. And not just because it matched her seafoam green Vespa scooter. She thought both modes of transportation would be perfect for living in a tiny village.
Pausing to glance behind her, she once again found herself appreciating the beauty of the area. Her auntie had inherited the cottage many years ago from her great-uncle. Their family had a long history in Cornwall.
Motts could understand why they’d clung on to the cottage; it was ideally situated up almost at the top of a hill above Polperro. She had a stunning view of the coastline and across the village itself. In the bright early spring morning, the harbour practically sparkled like someone had dumped glitter into the sea.
After carefully making her way down the narrow stone stairs, Motts hopped on her bicycle. She pedalled her way to Marnie Shaw’s Bridal Lace Designs for the first meeting. Her nerves kicked into high gear—and her fingers refused to work the buckles on the saddlebag.
Bugger.
“Want a hand?”
Motts glanced up to find her cousin River Chen-Mottley standing across the street next to his car. “I have two hands.”
River crossed the street and waited for her to move her fingers out of the way. “Vina sent me a text earlier. She thought you might want some moral support.”
“Could’ve brought Cactus.”
“Cactus can’t speak and doesn’t have a degree in business.” River made short work of undoing the buckles. “Ready for the big presentation?”
She took her sketchbook and bag from him. “Mostly.”
“You’ll be fine, Motts.” He reached out to straighten her jacket. “You can always imagine them naked.”
“Why on earth would I do that?” Motts frowned at him in confusion.
“It helps you feel less afraid.”
“How?” She thought it would make things worse, if anything. “Nudity tends to amp up the awkward to a maximum.”
“Only a suggestion.” River nodded towards the bridal shop. “Are we going in? Or do you want a minute to gather your thoughts?”
“Don’t let me embarrass myself,” she muttered.
“I have complete confidence in your ability. I’m only here to do the heavy lifting. Carry your sketchbook. Think of me as a prop holder.” River opened the book to one of the drawings. “See?”
“Come on.” Motts knew her cousin had enough of the Mottley stubbornness not to back down. He also shared her slightly off-kilter sense of humour. “I can’t rehearse this in my head anymore. I’ll forget something. Did you cut your hair?”
“Mum threatened to take a trimmer to my head if I didn’t.” He tilted his head and gave her a wide smile. “What do you think?”
“The left side is slightly longer than the right.”
“Well, that’s filled me with confidence.” River snickered. He pulled the door and held it for her. “You’re a terrible wingman.”
“I’m not a man—and I sadly lack wings.” She flapped her arms. “No lift.”
They laughed together, though Motts wasn’t entirely confident she understood why.
Her first presentation went well. Marnie loved her floral arrangements—perfect during the winter season and for any bride worried about allergies. They put together a loose plan for commission work along with a few standard pieces that could sit in the shop.
Her luck ran out at the second meeting of the day with Peggy Shine, who ran a local shop that catered to tourists. Motts stumbled over her words. She forgot everything she’d practised in front of the mirror.
In her panic and embarrassment, Motts ran out of the shop, bumping into the doorframe in the process. She rubbed her arm while standing outside in the cool air. Why? Why? Why do I do this to myself every time?
Wanting to put space between herself and her humiliation, Motts got on her bike to pedal away as quickly as she could. She strained to get her bicycle up one of the steep hills leading up to the cliffs, eventually pulling over to the side and sitting on a nearby railing.
When her breathing finally returned to normal, Motts glanced around in surprise. She’d made it further out of Polperro than she’d realised. Bugger. River would be worried; she’d abandoned her meeting and her things with her poor cousin.
When she’d been a young woman, her family had made excuses for her behaviour. “Don’t mind Motts, she suffers from poor nerves.” Anxiety might’ve been one problem, but being autistic had answered more questions than having a “nervous disposition” ever had.
Knowing why she had meltdowns over stressful situations helped—it didn’t make the problems go away. Motts wrapped her arms around herself. She wanted to be home with her cat and turtle, not sitting on a guardrail along the road; it would take her a good twenty minutes to cycle back.
“Miss Mottley?”
Motts lifted her head up to find a police car had pulled up beside her. She’d gotten so lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t heard. “Sorry?”
“Constable Hugh Stone.” He stepped out of his vehicle and came over to her. “Are you alright? Inspector Ash’s wife gave him a call. She said you’d had a panic attack. The inspector wanted me to see if you wanted a ride back home.”
“I can manage.”
“Sure. But the wind’s blowing something fierce. We wouldn’t want to fly off the cliff or tumble down the road, would we? Marnie’s a harsher taskmaster than the inspector.” Constable Stone kept his voice low and glanced over his shoulder dramatically. “Think she can hear me?”
“Not from the village.” Motts had to smile when she realised he was trying to help her relax. “I’d appreciate a lift, Constable. Thank you.”
“Hughie. Everyone calls me Hughie.” He gave her a broad grin. “And welcome to Polperro. Heard you moved into the cottage up on the hill. You let me know if you run into any trouble.”
“In Polperro?” She’d always found the place so safe and calm.
“My job’s to keep everyone safe.” He carefully secured her bicycle on the bike rack at the back of his car. “Hop in. We’ll get you home in the warmth in no time. And I’ll give River a call to meet us there.”
Great.
I’ll be dealing with an overconcerned cousin and a curiously cautious constable.
Crikey.
Slow down.
And where did crikey come from?
Okay, that might’ve been one too many c-words.
“Everything okay?” He paused by the door when she started to laugh.
Motts waved him off. “Sorry. Made myself laugh.”
“Right.”
Brilliant.
The constable chatted cheerfully all the way to her cottage. He carried her bike up the steps and helped secure it by the side of the house. Motts invited him in, but he left once River arrived a few minutes later.
River followed her into the cottage. He set her sketchbook and bag on the table by the door. “Want me to whip up some hot chocolate? We can have toast, drink away our sorrows, and gossip about the family.”
“Gossip?” Motts narrowed her eyes while River took over her kitchen. He made better hot chocolate than she did. No matter how many times her dad tried to show her how to make the family recipe. “What’s happened now?”
“Why don’t you feed your menagerie while I get the hot chocolate going?” River nudged her towards Moss. “I’ll tell you all about my dad getting lost and almost driving off a mountain.”
“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” Motts froze in the process of cutting up a bit of apple for her turtle to snack on. “How do you almost drive off a mountain?”
“Well, you get lost. In the dark. You go too fast around a corner, drive off the road, past the guardrail, and down the embankment.” River stirred the pot of cream on the hob gently. “A tree stopped them, so technically they didn’t go all the way off the mountain.”
“Goodness.” Motts rested her hand on her chest. “Are they hurt?”
“Pretty sure dad’s pride hasn’t recovered. Mum keeps prodding him about his driving.” He broke off a couple pieces of chocolate to prepare to throw into the pot. “They’re fine.”
“They drove off a mountain.”
“Pretty much.”
“Off a mountain,” Motts repeated the words a few more times. “I’m never riding with your parents ever again.”
“Wise decision.”
Over their impromptu late lunch or early tea, River updated her on all the family gossip. He also handed over an order from Peggy. She’d been sold on all the designs despite Motts having a meltdown and running out of the shop.
Not her best moment.
“Are your parents coming down from London?” River gathered up their plates and set the dishes in the sink for her. He knew her well enough to know she preferred doing the cleaning up herself. “You know my mum and dad would be here in a heartbeat if you asked.”
Uncle Tom, or Uncle Tomato, as she called him, was her dad’s brother. They lived in Looe, next door to her grandparents. Her extended family tended to be less smothering than her parents.
Her mum and dad struggled to see her as a grown adult. They’d always been supportive. But even before her official diagnosis, they’d often been overly helpful.
Her auntie, uncle, cousin, and grandparents, on the other hand, all encouraged her to simply do her best. If she wanted help, they’d be there. She appreciated their being willing to let her struggle along without interfering.
“Motts?”
She glanced up from her hot chocolate. “Sorry?”
“Are your parents coming to visit?”
“They’re letting me be independent.” Motts hadn’t understood the edge in her mum’s voice at the time.
“You’re thirty-nine years old.”
“I’m aware.” She didn’t know if her parents understood. “Maybe they need time to adjust to my moving out here by myself.”
“Even if you’re almost forty and completely capable of managing your life?” River stretched his arm across the little kitchen table to squeeze her hand. “They’ll come around.”
“Mum probably thinks I’ll come home sobbing like a child.”
“You’ll prove her wrong.” He sounded so confident.
“I ran out of the shop.” Motts covered her face with her hand, feeling embarrassed.
“And? You had a brilliant first meeting. And next time, you’ll know to only plan one meeting per day—or maybe a week.” River squeezed her other hand gently. “Just because it takes you longer, doesn’t make you any less of an amazingly talented human being.”