7

Just before six, Grace locked up the shop and clutched the bunch of yellow carnations in her hand. She headed across the road to Elliott’s house. Her heart broke again at the sight of the street lighting illuminating the pile of rubble where her house once stood. The clearing of the site would happen tomorrow.

Her headache increased. An aura tinged the edges of her vision again. She really needed something stronger than the pain reliever she’d used but of course, her meds had been destroyed along with the house.

Joel must have seen her coming because the door opened just as her finger reached for the doorbell. He smiled. “Hi, come in. Elliott’s in the kitchen.”

“Thank you.”

“Let me take your coat.”

She slipped out of it and went to find Elliott.

He stood next to the stove, tea towel slung carelessly over his shoulder, steam rising from the pans. Whatever he was making smelled delicious.

He knows his way around a kitchen all right. She leaned against the door, taking in the way he moved and hummed as he stirred one of the pans, tasting what he was making, and then tossing in a little more pepper.

She shook her head in wonder. “Very domesticated.”

Elliott turned and grinned at her. His brown hair stood up at all angles and his blue eyes glinted with pleasure. “I can be. Cooking makes a change from bricks and mortar, but it’s just as satisfying.”

She held out the flowers. “These are for you.”

“Thank you.” He took them, his fingers brushing against hers. “I’ve never been given flowers before.”

“Never?”

He shook his head.

Right there and then Grace resolved to give him flowers more often.

He found a vase and put the flowers on the table. “Dinner won’t be long.”

“It smells wonderful. I don’t remember the last time I cooked.”

He shot her that raised eyebrow look that had the usual effect of making her weak at the knees. “Really?”

“I don’t have time,” she explained quickly. “Between the house, shop, and account books, I barely have time to sleep. It’s microwave ready meals or toast.”

“And before you moved here?”

“Work was my life.” The words were out before she realized. She’d never admitted that to anyone before and wasn’t sure why she’d done so now. Except the fact that she couldn’t lie to him. Not like she lied so easily to other people. What surprised her more was the fact she didn’t want to lie to him. “I did eighteen hour days, six days a week.”

Elliott reached for the plates. “Well, that is going to change.”

“Oh, really?” She wrapped her arms around her middle, mildly amused at the firm tone of voice he’d adopted.

“Yes, really. You need to stop and smell the roses.”

She shook her head, fighting to keep a straight face. “That is either a really bad joke or a busman’s holiday. I’m not sure which.”

He rolled his eyes as he dished up. “You know what I mean.”

“I guess so.”

Joel picked up his plate and took a fork from the drawer. “I’ll see you later.”

“Aren’t you going to eat with us?” Grace asked.

He shook his head. “I really need to get on with this book.”

“What are you reading?”

“I write. Usually crime fiction, but I’m working on a kid’s book right now.”

“You’re an author?” Joel...Wallac...No... “Oh, wow—you’re the Joel Wallac. I hadn’t made the connection. You write the Dirk Shepherd books.”

Joel’s smile grew. “Guilty as charged. You’ve read them?”

“All of them.”

“Well, I shan’t ask what you thought. Anyway, the computer is calling, and I have to finish this one, so I can read it down the phone to Brad tomorrow.”

Elliott handed Grace a plate as Joel left the room. “We won’t see him again tonight. Once he gets in the writing zone, the earth could quake around him, the sky fall, and he’d be none the wiser. I set the table in the lounge.”

“OK.” She followed him.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

“I didn’t think so. What’s up?”

Grace set her plate on the table, noting the candles and bottle of juice. It was laid for three. “It’s just this place is so like Aunt Tilja’s, but not. It’s—”

Elliott sat and rubbed the back of his neck. “I know what you mean. The layout is the same, but it’s the personal touches, trappings, and décor that make it a home, rather than a house.”

“Yeah.”

“You still don’t see this as a new start?”

“No.” She looked at the plate. “Thank you for this.”

“Welcome. I’ll say grace and we can start.” He reached out and took her hand as he prayed.

As they began to eat, she glanced up at him. “Hope used to cheat when asked to say grace. She’d literally say grace and then start eating. Or just point at me.”

He chuckled. “Sounds like the sort of thing Joel would do. How do you want the house done?”

“Same as before, I guess.”

“You don’t want it changed around or anything? We could add a conservatory without extra planning permission. You’d lose part of the garden, but the extra space would be worth it.”

She ate slowly for a moment, trying to work out which spices he’d used in the curry. She could pick out turmeric and cumin, but there was something else as well. “Actually a conservatory would be nice. With doors that can be flung open when it’s warm and a radiator for when it’s cold. Maybe a real fire too, rather than a gas one in the lounge.”

“As well as radiators?”

She moped up the sauce with the na’an bread. “Like you have. I won’t always use it, just would be nice sometimes. Christmas tree, roaring fire, carols…”

“Woman after my own heart,” he grinned. “Sure, I can do that.”

Once they’d finished eating, he cleared the table and pulled across a huge sheet of paper. “Did you want an attic room?”

“Won’t that change the front of the house?” she asked. “Thought it had to be the same?”

“We can put skylights into the roof,” he said. “That will give you ample light without changing the look of the bungalow.”

“OK.”

Elliott drew a square on the paper and rapidly marked off the rooms. “The architect will do this properly with measurements and what have you. This is just a rough plan of what you want. So we’ll add on a conservatory and doors from the lounge into it.” He drew a rectangle and paused. “You know if we extended the kitchen slightly, like this,” he sketched another rectangle next to the conservatory, “we could put in a breakfast bar, along with all the fitted units including a built-in oven and dishwasher. What about the bathroom?”

“What about it?”

“Would you want a shower as well as a bath?”

“If there’s room.”

Elliot narrowed his eyes. “Sure there is. Tell you what, come and look at mine.”

Grace tilted her head slightly. “Is this the builder’s version of come and look at my etchings?”

Elliott snorted as he stood. “It could be.”

Grace followed as he led her across the hall to the bathroom. “Wow.”

“All it needs is a little imagination. And a lot of love.”

“You’ve certainly given it that.”

“Come see what we’ve done in the bedrooms.”

Raising an eyebrow, she nonetheless followed him. Built-in wardrobes, drawers, and fitted cupboards going around and above the bed, quadrupled the amount of storage space. There was even a dressing table with drawers underneath. Amazement filled her. “This in incredible. It looks so much bigger than Aunt Til—mine.”

“It isn’t though. I simply made the best use of the available space. Joel’s is the same, only he uses the dressing table as a desk. So I adapted it for laptop, monitor, and tower.” He pointed. “I can give you as many sockets as you need, along with radiators in place of the gas fires if you want. It’d make sense to upgrade to modern central heating while we’re at it.”

“Yeah, that would be easier to manage. And safer.” Her enthusiasm grew as he showed her the kitchen in more detail.

“Safer?” he scoffed. “Is this the same person who wants a real fire in the lounge?”

She rubbed her temples. “Yeah, well, with a fire guard obviously. Do you really think you can do this?”

He looked at her, concern filling his eyes. “Yeah. This time with a solid foundation. Are you all right?”

She rubbed her temples. “I’m tired, I haven’t been sleeping very well.”

“Seems to me you’re more than simply tired. “

The headache which had been plaguing her since the weekend, was turning into a migraine, blurring what little vision she still had. The pharmacy hadn’t been able to fill her prescription. “Just a bit of a headache.” She sucked in a deep breath. “I should go. I need to work on the website before I turn in.”

“OK. I’ll drop these in tomorrow for you to see, before I hand them to the architect.”

“It’s fine. I trust you. Thank you for dinner.”

~*~

Elliott arrived at the florist the following morning with coffee, to find Shana and Mandy standing outside. “Slacking off?” he teased.

“I wish. It’s locked up. We can’t get in. Had to send customers away already,” Shana complained. “And it’s cold.”

“Is Grace not there?”

“She isn’t answering the door or her phone.”

Elliott peered through the window. There was no sign of life. Concern gnawed at him and the hair prickled on the back of his neck. Grace had seemed a bit off just before she’d left last night. He glanced at Shana and held out the cup. “Hold this for me. I’m going to break in.”

“What about the alarm?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his penknife. “I know the code. Once I’ve picked the lock, we’re set.” He pulled a small nail file from the knife and slid it into the lock. “Keep an eye out for the cops,” he joked.

Shana giggled. “Why would you want to break into a florist?”

“It’s pick your own bunch and run.” Mandy added.

Elliott groaned. “That is terrible.”

“I aim to please.”

The lock clicked. “There.” He pushed the door open, took three long strides over to the control panel and tapped in the code. The beeping stopped. “OK, ladies. You want to open up while I go and find Grace?”

“Sure.”

The phone rang and Mandy answered it. “Carnation Street Florist. How may I help you?”

He headed out the back. “Grace? Grace, are you here?” The rooms were empty. He opened the door to the upstairs apartment and flicked on the light. “Grace?”

Not getting a reply, Elliott charged up the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding. Reaching the landing, he pushed open doors, calling her name as he ran.

The kitchen was a disaster. The laptop sat open, with a tea towel over the keyboard, an overturned cup next to it. An empty wine bottle stood on the draining board, a broken glass beside it. His worry grew.

“Grace!”

The bedrooms were empty. He ran over to the bathroom and tried the door. Locked. He banged on it. “Grace? Are you OK?”

No answer.

He grew more desperate. “Grace, speak to me or I’m going to break down the door.”

Still no answer came.

He shouldered the door. The wood splintered but didn’t give. He shouldered the door again, harder, and it gave. Shoving it open wide, his gaze fell on the woman lying on the bathroom floor. Pills lay scattered around her, something clutched tightly in her hand.

Memories rushed at him like a tidal wave. For a moment, the woman lying there was blonde and wore an orange sweater. His world ended as he looked at her. He blinked hard and the image changed.

“Grace?”

Elliott dropped to his knees. There was no obvious sign of injury, but the pills caused rivers of concern to surge through him. He turned her over and checked for a pulse. Relieved to find one, he shook her hard. “Grace, open your eyes for me. How many of these have you taken?”

He freed the bottle from her hand and read the label; diazepam and not hers. The prescription was Tilja’s.

Elliott sighed. “Grace, what have you done?”