Sweet Home Summer: A heartwarming romcom perfect for curling up with. Michelle Vernal
under Gran’s roof.
‘I’m not sure. It’s all been a bit of a whirlwind since I decided to come home.’ Isla felt bad for not having given Upscale Developments notice of her intention to leave. Her extended leave of absence had just turned into a permanent leave of absence. Then again, they’d had their pound of flesh from her over the last seven years. Besides, it was such a competitive industry she knew there’d be plenty of fresh, bright young things, chomping at the bit to step into her shoes.
Sitting there in her gran’s kitchen where she’d always been right at home with a full tummy, she felt like she could breathe properly for the first time in a long while. Of course, knowing she had a nice little nest egg sitting in the bank was a comfort. It meant she didn’t have to panic about what her next step would be. She hadn’t come back from London completely bereft. ‘I was thinking while I was on the plane about setting up an online design business. That way I can base myself here.’
Bridget’s pleased expression didn’t escape her granddaughter.
It was seven o’clock that evening when Isla’s second wind began to wane. She wiped the kitchen bench down and hung the tea towel over the oven door before popping her head around the living room door to announce she was done in. Her gran had just settled herself into her recliner for her daily current affairs fix, and Isla kissed her on the cheek goodnight. Her room was still a shrine to the sixties, right down to the orange Candlewick bedspread neatly covering the single bed. It’d been a long time since she’d slept in a single bed, Isla thought, as her eyes settled on what was leaning up against the pillow.
The sight of Caroline, the pretty porcelain doll she’d itched to get her hands on as a child, made her smile. An ice maiden who’d been out of bounds, she had sat in her yellow crinoline dress on top of the chest of drawers in this room for as long as Isla could remember. She’d belonged to her great-grandmother, and Gran had always told Isla that one day, when she was old enough to look after the doll properly, it would be hers. Ownership of the family heirloom was skipping a generation as Gran said she didn’t trust Mary not to try and make her over.
Isla picked the doll up. ‘Hello Caroline, I guess I’m finally old enough to look after you.’ She stroked the dainty, delicately painted face peeping out from beneath her bonnet, before carefully placing her back where she lived on top of the chest of drawers. Peeling back the bedspread, she climbed into bed and still feeling the floating motion of the plane, her last conscious thought was that she’d unpack in the morning.
Isla was hanging up the last of her clothes and trying to shake off the fuddle-headed feeling of having slept solidly when Gran knocked on the door. The smell of fresh scones once more tickled Isla’s nose. ‘You’ve been busy this morning, Gran. You never stop.’
‘Margaret’s picking me up in five minutes for Bingo and the Bingo ladies love my scones.’
Bridget had never driven, she’d never felt the need living in Bibury. Tom had always taken her where she wanted to go if she couldn’t walk there herself, and now Margaret was more than happy to have a little bit of petrol money tucked away in her glove box.
‘Margaret, with the insufferably superior attitude who goes on and on about how well her daughter is doing in banking up in Auckland?’
‘That’s her, and do you remember Elsie Graham? She lived opposite the school and used to have the pesky terrier; it’s a Jack Russell these days, horrible thing, but that terrier played merry hell with you children on your way home of an afternoon.’
Isla nodded, she remembered the ankle-biter well.
‘Well, she drives Margaret mad going on and on about how light my scones are. Margaret’s scones could be used as a permanent building material,’ Bridget sniffed. ‘Elsie’s got an ulterior motive, though. I’m the current President of the Bibury Women’s Bowls Association, and she’s determined to be made Vice President. The only thing is, I wish she wouldn’t talk with her mouth full. It’s a very unattractive trait of hers.’
Isla bit her lip to stop the grin that threatened, as they heard a horn toot Margaret’s arrival. Oh, how she’d missed her gran! There was no one quite like her.
‘Hold your horses, I’m coming,’ Bridget muttered. ‘What’ve you got planned today then my girl?’
‘Well, I think I might pop over to the Kea for a coffee now that I’ve unpacked. I’ll have a bit of a wander around. You know, reacquaint myself with the town.’ The instant stuff Gran was fond of had not given her a sufficient caffeine hit. ‘Enjoy Bingo. Wipe the floor with Margaret.’
Isla got her competitive streak from her grandmother.
Sometimes you meet somebody and know instinctively that this person is someone you’re going to be friends with. It might be a certain light in their eyes that hints at a kindred spirit, or it could be the way they smile that lets you know there will be a shared sense of humour. That’s how Isla felt as the redheaded vision who looked to be of a similar age to her, standing behind the coffee shop counter, greeted her cheerily.
It wasn’t just down to her warm welcome, though – it was more than that. Later, when she mulled their meeting over, she’d tell Caroline that it was because of the woman’s mane of curly, red hair. Isla could imagine how many hours she would have spent agonizing over it when she was younger. Kids could be cruel, latching onto any point of difference. For Isla, the point of difference had been her name. She’d had a lifetime of explaining it was pronounced like ‘island’ but without the n and the d. The fact that her name did, in fact, mean ‘island’ in Irish was neither here nor there. Every time she repeated this mantra she would send a silent, ‘Thanks very bloody much,’ to her parents. It was alright for them with the ordinary, if slightly biblical, names of Joe and Mary.
Isla had been her mother’s nod to her Irish ancestry as had Ryan. ‘It’s not fair,’ she’d wail on occasion to Mary. ‘Why couldn’t you call him something unpronounceable too?’ In protest, she’d taken to calling her brother Ennis after coming across the Irish town’s name in a book and deciding it sounded suitably rude. He’d retaliated by calling her turd face. Ennis had stuck, turd face had not.
Isla could imagine the redhead sending silent, aggrieved messages to her parents for the genetics that had blessed her with Little Orphan Annie hair as a child. Yes, she thought, the parents probably both had mouse brown, boringly straight hair. Now, this woman probably loved those red curls. She imagined the woman’s hair would be part of who she was just as she quite liked the fact her name was different these days. Of course, the Shopaholic actress, Isla Fisher had helped both their causes!
‘The savoury pinwheels are really good, if I do say so myself.’ The redhead indicated the cloche covered goodies, next to the till. ‘I baked them an hour ago.’
Mm, they did look yummy and accounted for the delicious smell hovering in the air, and Isla noted that she hadn’t been stingy on the cheese. ‘Why not? I could do with a bit of comfort stodge. Ih and I’ll have a double-shot latte too, please.’
The woman who looked to be around Isla’s age giggled. ‘Sorry, I’m trying to drag my aunt out of the stone-age but its plunger coffee or nothing.’
‘Really?’ Isla didn’t know why she was surprised; she was back in Bibury now after all. Not wanting to sound obnoxious, she quickly covered up her reaction. ‘Ah, I wondered what I could smell along with the baking, you can’t beat the aroma of plunger coffee. Blue Mountain?’
‘Liar,’ the redhead laughed. ‘And yes, it is, I’ll put an extra spoonful in if you like?’
‘Yes, please. I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.’
‘Big night?’ The woman took the note Isla fished from her purse and after ringing up the order, she handed her a couple of coins back. Isla watched as she lifted the cloche, removed the biggest pinwheel with a pair of tongs and placed it on a plate. A woman after her own heart. ‘Heated and served with relish?’
‘Ooh yes please.’ She was right; this