The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams. Kellie Hailes
Why hadn’t she put her pompom hat on before leaving? Why had she tucked it in the bottom of her suitcase? At this rate her ears would fall off before she arrived at the cottage. Although the bonus of that would be not hearing Brendon’s nutty insinuations that she and Callan ought to become an item.
Nutty? More like completely insane.
Her eyes darted to the left and right as she walked. The fronts of the honey-coloured buildings that flanked either side of the street were in darkness, though the flats above glowed as lamps and lights were switched on. Beyond the buildings, she could make out the hillsides that stood sentry on either side of the village, their tops shrouded in cloud.
She followed the road around, leaving the shops behind, and breathed a sigh of relief as she spied Margo’s cottage with its thatched roof and twin chimneys poking out almost jauntily from either end, up ahead.
A quiver of anticipation stirred within as she pushed open the front gate, went to the front door and fished about in her pocket for the keys Margo had dropped in when picking up the fruitcake. The lock turned with ease and she crossed the threshold.
Josie set her suitcase to the side of the door and sent a silent ‘thank you’ to Margo as she spotted the fire cracking softly in the hearth. Judging by the ashes it had been going for some time, which meant Margo had made an effort to keep the fire burning.
A tendril of sadness curled around Josie’s heart as she moved to the fire, dropped into a squat and reached her hands towards the fire. Her fingers tingled as warmth melted away the numbness.
What must it feel like to have been brought up by someone who was so caring? So thoughtful? Who put others’ needs ahead of their own? Who didn’t ignore you, forget you were there or leave you altogether?
She shoved the pity away. It was pointless to dwell on such things.
She couldn’t change her parentage. Couldn’t go back in time and change her mother’s mind or her father’s reaction. His grief had turned, briefly, to anger. Harsh and sharp. His anger quickly morphing into never-ending mourning, sprinkled with a melancholic hope that his wife would return. Meanwhile, Josie’s hope, along with any dreams of happily ever after, had skulked off as the days, then weeks, months, then years had passed without so much as a call, email or postcard.
Josie stood as three knocks filled the air. She made her way to the door, stopping when it opened and a bright red beret-style woollen hat poked its head through, followed by a soft ‘yoo-hoo’.
‘Margo. Come in. It’s horrid out there.’ She ushered her in and shut the door against the frigid air. ‘It was so kind of you to start the fire. It was nice to come ho—’ Josie stopped herself, remembering the vow she’d made to never think of anywhere as home. To never let herself settle. ‘It was nice to arrive to find the place not freezing. It was such a lovely welcome.’
Margo threaded her arm through Josie’s without asking permission and walked her towards the door that led to the kitchen. ‘Wasn’t me, my dear. It was Callan’s idea.’
‘Callan’s?’ Josie forced herself not to lean into Margo. To let her nurturing nature infuse her soul. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because he’s got a good heart on him. A bit battered these days, but it’s still in there.’ Margo released her and turned her attention to the kitchen bench. ‘Tea?’
‘Please. Or there’s wine if you’d like?’ Josie took a seat at the kitchen table and straightened her tired legs into a deep stretch.
‘From Brendon?’ Margo’s cheeks pinked up as she pulled two mugs down from the cupboard to the right of the sink, then placed tea bags that were kept in a duck-egg-blue tin jar next to the kettle along with identical jars labelled ‘coffee’ and ‘sugar’. ‘He’s a good man. It’s a nice tradition.’
Good man? Josie suspected Margo thought Brendon was a little more than good, if the heightened colour in her cheeks and the way her gaze was focused on the mugs and refusing to meet Josie’s, was anything to go by.
‘He is nice. Asked me to bring you along to the pub next time I go.’
‘Did he now? I suppose it’s been a while since I popped in.’ Margo’s gaze didn’t waver as she poured steaming water into the mugs. ‘And save the wine for a special occasion. Like inviting Callan over as a thank-you for lighting the fire.’
Josie bit back a grin. She knew a diversion tactic when she saw one.
‘Good idea, Margo. I’ll keep it in mind. Maybe I should invite you and Brendon around at the same time?’
‘Oh, I’m sure he’s too busy.’ Margo placed the mug in front of her. ‘Sugar?’
‘No, thank you.’ Josie decided to drop the subject. It wasn’t her place to get involved. She pushed out the chair opposite and Margo sank into it with a contented sigh.
‘I do love this place. I’d forgotten how warm and cosy it gets on a wintry night. My husband and I spent hours snuggled up on that sofa talking about our hopes and dreams. It got a bit cramped once the kids joined us, but I wouldn’t trade in those moments for all the cricks in the neck in the world.’ She wrapped her fingers around the mug and lifted it to her lips.
Fingers that still wore her wedding rings, Josie noted.
‘You still miss him?’
‘I do. Every day. I don’t know that I ever won’t. He was a great, towering, bear of a man with the sweetest, softest heart. Even after the cancer that saw him leave us took hold, his spark never left him, his humour, his smile. It was all there to the end.’
Margo’s eyes had misted over. Putting aside her promise to keep her distance from others, Josie slid off her chair, made her way round to Margo and wrapped her in a hug. Their hearts pressed together in a moment of solidarity.
Two people who had experienced loss, who knew no words could change the past or the way it had transformed them.
Margo released her with a shuddering laugh. ‘Look at me welling up after all these years. You must think me a silly old duck.’
Josie slipped back into her chair. ‘Not silly. Not old either. Most certainly not a duck. It’s not easy being left behind.’ She sank her teeth into her cheek and silently reprimanded herself for saying too much. ‘At least I imagine it’s not easy being left behind.’ She managed a half-smile and hoped Margo wouldn’t ask questions. Wouldn’t push.
She glanced up from her tea to see a speculative look in Margo’s eyes. Not suspicious. Not enquiring. Almost worried. Definitely kind.
‘It wasn’t easy at the start.’ Margo pushed the chair back, stood, then picked up her mug and walked to the bench. ‘The furthest thing from easy, to be honest. Me and the kids, alone, without the humour John brought. The easygoingness that was so needed on the days when the kids were driving me up the wall with their teenage monosyllabic grunts and almost daily dramas.’ She tipped the remaining tea down the sink, then turned around and leaned against the bench, her arms folded over her chest. ‘But we muddled along. Found a new rhythm. Developed more patience, more understanding for and of each other. The sadness never left. But it abated. Now it feels more like a sense of peace in here.’ She tapped her heart. ‘I was lucky to be part of his life while I was. I think he felt he same way about me.’
And yet Margo wouldn’t allow herself to entertain her affection for another. Did peace not bring closure? Was Margo happy alone? Or was she not willing to risk that kind of pain a second time round with someone else? If it were the latter, Josie understood all too well.
Relationships, connections, were dangerous things. Why stand in the storm and risk being struck by lightning, when you could take cover and be out of harm’s way?
‘I’m sure John felt the same about you, Margo. Anyone would. I’ve known you all of five minutes and I already know I like you.’
So much for not getting close to anyone