Page 61 of Summer at Rachel’s Pudding Pantry

Her eye was then drawn to a trio of paintings. She shifted a few steps across the room to take a better look. She recognised the setting; it was Low Newton, a beach not far away, southwards along the coast. Together, the paintings worked as a panorama, and yet singly they were stunningly beautiful too. It was a night scene, almost haunting, mesmerising, with the waves catching silver trails of moonlight as they rolled to the shore, the moon itself half hidden by clouds and that iridescent glow that the artist had captured so well, the ruins of Dunstanburgh Castle brooding on the darkened cliffs.

‘You look beautiful when you’re concentrating like that.’ Aiden was suddenly behind her. His breath warm near her shoulder.

‘Oh.’ She didn’t know what else to say.

Oh my, oh my. Just friends. Just friends. But no one had called her beautiful in a long, long time. He sounded so earnest too.

She then felt Aiden’s arms pass around her waist and clasp together somewhere near her bellybutton, drawing her close. She held her breath. It felt almost surreal … yet very real. Then she turned, ever so slowly, aware of him close. So close, in fact, that she could feel the firm contours of his body beneath his shirt. Aware that she was finally feeling what it was like to be in his arms.

Their faces were just inches apart, eyes fixed; his, a liquid blue with flecks of grey. And then his lips met hers, as his hands drew her in tighter still. His lips were warm, moist, moving with a pressure that was new and fast, and exciting, yes, but—

‘Stop … I can’t do this. I didn’t come here for this.’

The burn of his lips was still imprinted upon hers, her face reddening with shame. She had a husband, a child. What the hell was she thinking? ‘I have to go …’ She gathered her handbag. Stumbled, as she dashed for the door. ‘Good luck with the exhibition. With everything …’

And she left the gallery in a fog of reluctant desire and confusion. Yet, what she had done was all too clear in her mind. What had she even been thinking, agreeing to go there, when there was that obvious frisson between them? She shouldn’t be here kissing some other guy; she should be at home trying to put things right between her and Ben. Yes, she knew that this had been building; she would be lying to herself if she pretended that she hadn’t liked – even craved – the attention from Aiden. But the kiss had brought the reality crashing in with cold, hard clarity.

She crossed the street and slumped down in the driver’s seat of her car, gazing ahead blankly whilst she gathered herself. She had done it, she had just kissed another man, and yes, it had felt exciting, and sort of passionate … but it was so, so wrong.

And … she couldn’t ever now change what she’d done. She suddenly felt quite sick.

And, oh hell, imagine if someone had seen? Thank God – in some senses – she and Aiden had been alone, that it was just her at the exhibition. She glanced across the street to the gallery. Thankfully, the village looked pretty quiet this evening. A couple, most likely tourists, were wandering about further down the street; someone was going into the Castle pub, and there was a bloke heading for the beach with a spaniel. No one was staring at her. Life appeared to be carrying on as normal, although Eve’s felt as if it had flipped on its head.

Brenda from the Kirkton Deli had closed up a little early and, deciding to make the most of this lovely balmy evening, had taken her seven-year-old grandson, Luke, down to the coast for a walk on the sands and a short game of beach cricket. She had fielded and he’d batted. After ten minutes of dashing about like that, she was blooming shattered and had worked up a very unladylike sweat; he was getting to be a good strong shot now that he was growing up.

‘Right, that’s it. You’ve worn your grandma out, pet. Let’s go and see if the ice-cream shop is still open. I think it opens later through the summer.’

They were in luck. Luke chose a choc-dipped cone with a scoop of raspberry ripple, and Brenda went for a vanilla with chocolate sauce. Delicious. They meandered slowly back to their car which was parked further up the little main street, near to the village green. They were in no rush as they were licking and munching their ice creams as they went.

‘Good, isn’t it?’

‘Lush,’ answered Luke. ‘Thanks, Grandma. And thanks for trying to play cricket with me.’

She had to laugh at the ‘trying’.

Oh, look, there was a new exhibition in the Coastal Gallery. A painting in the window caught her eye … and then something else too. Unusually, but rather sweetly, a couple were having a smooch inside the gallery. Aw, how romantic.

Brenda paused. There was something very familiar about the girl’s gorgeously wavy dark hair … Oh gosh, it hit Brenda like a steam train. It was Eve. Married-to-Ben Eve. Brenda did a double take, pausing outside on the pavement for a second. Surely, it was just someone who looked like Eve. But the young woman from their village was quite distinctive and Brenda could have sworn on it. She looked closer. The girl pulled away … oh yes, it had to be Eve. And the man who she was with was certainly not her husband. Oh … Brenda didn’t know quite what to think, and moved on swiftly. Her grandson was oblivious to the scenario inside the window, munching away on the chocolatey biscuit of his cone.

‘Let’s head back then, Luke.’ Brenda tried her best not to sound flustered. ‘Your mum’ll be expecting you for your tea.’

32

Earlier that afternoon, Rachel had been up in the attic, raking through a box of old photographs. She wanted to take some special memories and mementoes along with her to Tom’s farmhouse. A couple of extra photos of Dad and Mum would be a lovely boost for her and Maisy to have around them there.

There was one photo in particular that she was searching for. It captured her as a kid, sitting on her dad’s shoulders with the fields and farmyard behind them. She used to love it when Dad used to sweep her up high in the air and then prop her there, hands to hands, as she leaned against the back of his head, jiggling about the farmyard or taking a trek to check on the sheep or cattle together. She’d felt on top of the world then, invincible. She would have been about six in that photo: Maisy’s age.

She sifted through the images: pics of their caravan holidays in Yorkshire, one of Granny Ruth and Grandad Ken looking oh-so-young, Mum all dressed smartly for her silver wedding anniversary celebrations, and then oh … one of Mum and Dad together, sitting on a hay bale in sunnier times. Right, that one was definitely going with her. She picked up a few of her as a baby – hah, what on earth was she wearing? It looked like some kind of Victorian smocked milkmaid outfit. Oh, and then there was the golden ticket, the photo of her riding high on her dad’s strong shoulders, looking out across Primrose Farm.

She held the picture in front of her, and her eyes misted. She held it further away, not wanting her impending tears to spoil the image. ‘Oh, Dad.’ She’d go and buy a new frame in the village to keep it safe and special, and pop it somewhere where she’d see it every day at Tom’s.

She was just packing away the other photos when there was a call from the bottom of the attic ladder.

‘You okay up there? Ready for a cuppa, love?’ shouted Jill.

‘Yeah, I’ll be down in a minute.’

‘Did you find what you wanted?’