Reunited at the Altar Page 2

  He took a bite of the muffin. And it was fabulous.

  For a second, he was transported back to the early days of his marriage. When Abby had made blueberry muffins for breakfast on Sunday mornings, and he’d woken to the smell of good coffee and cake. They’d always eaten the muffins in bed and lazed around until lunchtime...

  He shook himself. Long, long gone.

  Coffee. That would sort out his head. And it would help the paracetamol to tackle his headache, too.

  He took the kettle to the sink and turned on the tap.

  Nothing.

  The neighbour hadn’t left a note about there being any problems with the water.

  Frowning, he went upstairs to the bathroom and tried the taps on the sink and the bath. Nothing there, either. When he flushed the toilet, the cistern didn’t fill up. Clearly someone had turned off the stopcock, for some reason, and forgotten to turn it back on. It would be easy enough to fix.

  But he couldn’t actually find the stopcock. The obvious place for it to be located was under the sink in the kitchen, but it wasn’t there—or in any of the other cupboards. It wasn’t in the bathroom, either.

  Great.

  It looked as if he was going to have to disturb the occupant of number one, after all, to see if he or she knew what the water problem was and where the stopcock was located.

  Leaving the little cottage, he walked to the neighbouring house and knocked on the white-painted front door. And he stared in utter shock when it opened, putting him face to face with Abigail Scott for the first time in nearly five years.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘BRAD?’ ABIGAIL LOOKED as shocked as he felt, the colour draining from her face as she stared at him. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked—at exactly the same time as he asked, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was looking for the owner of number one Quay Cottages,’ he said.

  ‘That would be me.’ She frowned. ‘So that means you’re hiring number two this week?’

  ‘Didn’t the letting agency tell you?’

  ‘They don’t always give me a name. They just said it was a single person who’d booked a Monday-to-Monday let.’

  Which was clearly why she’d left him the fresh muffin today as a welcome gift. ‘I didn’t realise you lived here.’

  ‘No.’ She raised an eyebrow, as if to point out that it was really none of his business, since he was no longer married to her. ‘I assume there’s a problem next door?’

  ‘Yes. There’s no water,’ he said.

  ‘Ah.’ She grimaced. ‘Number three had a leaking pipe and the plumber borrowed the spare keys from me to turn off your water this morning, just in case it caused a problem in your house. Obviously he forgot to turn the water back on before he returned the keys, and I didn’t check because I assumed he would’ve already done that.’

  ‘And the stopcock isn’t in an obvious place.’

  ‘When these cottages were done up, let’s just say the building contractors made some unusual choices,’ she said. ‘I’ll come and show you where it is.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Abigail looked hardly any different from the way she’d looked five years ago, when Brad had last seen her. She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, with eyes that he remembered being sea-green when she was happy and grey when she was sad, a heart-shaped face and a perfect cupid’s bow mouth. The striking difference was the way she wore her dark hair; he remembered it falling halfway down her back, and now it was cropped in a short pixie cut that made her grey-green eyes look huge.

  ‘Audrey Hepburn,’ he said.

  She frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Your hair. Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’

  She inclined her head. ‘Thank you, but actually she had long hair for that film. This is more like her hair was in Sabrina.’

  Of course Abigail would know. She and Ruby loved Hepburn’s films and had binge-watched them as teens in the summer holidays. And it was a stupid thing to say. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s not important.’ She ushered him out of the house, and waited for him to let her into the cottage next door. ‘OK. The stopcock’s here in the lean-to at the back.’

  He found the right key, unlocked the door and dealt with the stopcock.

  ‘I’ll wait to make sure the water’s working,’ she said. ‘And I’d better ask the agency to put a note about the stopcock’s position in the file they leave for clients.’

  ‘Good idea,’ he said. Abigail always had been practical and organised. She’d made him feel grounded and back in the real world after a hard day at the lab—and he’d missed that.

  Not that he had a right to miss it.

  He’d been the one to insist on a divorce. Even though he’d been sure he was doing the right thing for her, he knew it had hurt her.

  There was nothing he could do to change the past; but he wanted things to be at least on an even keel between them, for the sake of Ruby’s wedding.

  ‘Thank you for helping,’ he said, turning on the taps and noting that thankfully the water ran clear.

  ‘No problem.’

  * * *

  Abigail knew this was her cue to leave, and to make herself a little bit scarce over the next few days.

  Except Brad looked like hell, with dark smudges under his eyes. And she knew why: because he was back in Great Crowmell for the first time since his father’s death. Home, where he felt he’d failed. Even though Jim’s death most definitely hadn’t been his fault, Brad had blamed himself, and that was when their life together had started to unravel.

  They were divorced, she reminded herself. This was none of her business.

  But Bradley Powell had been her first love. Her one and only love, if she was honest with herself. Right now, she could see he was suffering. She couldn’t just leave him like this. OK, so she knew he didn’t love her any more and she’d learned to accept that; but, for the sake of what he’d once been to her, she wanted to help him.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked, her voice gentle.

  ‘Yes.’

  He was lying. Putting a wall between them, the same way he’d done five years ago. She could walk away, like she had last time; or, this time, she could challenge him. Push him the way she maybe should’ve pushed him back then, except at the age of twenty-two she hadn’t quite had the confidence to do that.

  Now, things were different. She knew who she was and she was comfortable in her own skin. And she was no longer afraid to challenge him. ‘That’s the biggest load of rubbish I’ve heard in a while.’

  He looked at her as if not quite believing what he’d heard. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not OK, Brad,’ she said. ‘You’re lying about it—which is crazy, because I’m the last person you should need to keep a stiff upper lip in front of—and I’m calling you on it.’

  He lifted his chin, as if to argue. ‘I...’ Then the fight went out of him and he sighed. ‘No. You’re right. I’m not OK.’

  ‘Because you’re dreading this week?’ she asked. ‘That’s why you booked into the cottage, isn’t it? So you wouldn’t have to go home and see the ghosts.’

  He raked a hand through his hair. ‘You always could see through me, Abby. Except back then...’

  ‘Back then, I would’ve let you get away with it.’ How young and naive she’d been. In the last five years she’d grown much wiser. Stronger, more able to deal with tricky situations. She’d changed. But had Brad? ‘You’ve just had a three-hour drive from London, in rush-hour traffic. I’m guessing you didn’t have time for lunch and you were thinking about your current project while you were driving, so you didn’t bother to get any shopping on the way here either. Apart from what I left you, your fridge and cupboards are all empty. But there’s an easy solution. Come and sit in my kitchen while I make you something to eat.’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t ask you to do that.’

  She folded her arms and looked at him. ‘You’re not asking me. I’m telling you.’
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br />   ‘Bossy.’ But there was the hint of a smile in the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes. A smile she wished she hadn’t noticed, because it still had the power to make her knees weak.

  We’re divorced, she reminded herself. I’m just doing this for Ruby, to make sure Brad doesn’t get overwhelmed by the past and bail out on her before the wedding. Bradley Powell doesn’t make my knees go weak any more. He doesn’t.

  ‘Just shut up and come next door,’ she said, more to cover her own confusion than anything else.

  * * *

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Brad asked when he’d followed her into her kitchen.

  Abigail shook her head and gestured to the small bistro table in the nook that served as a dining area. ‘Sit down and make yourself comfortable.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He paused. ‘So how long have you been living here?’

  ‘Two years. Didn’t Ruby tell you?’

  ‘She doesn’t really talk to me about you.’ He looked at her. ‘Does she talk to you about me?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Though obviously your mum told me you’d got your doctorate. She showed me the graduation photos.’

  He’d nearly not bothered with the graduation ceremony—until his sister had pointed out that she and their mother would quite like to be there, so it would be a bit selfish of him not to go. Brad had felt he didn’t deserve the fuss, but he’d given in for his mother’s sake.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ He didn’t want to talk to Abigail about his graduation and how much he’d missed his father. How it had been a physical ache. How he’d longed to say to Jim, ‘See, I told you I’d make something of myself doing the subject I love.’

  He grabbed at the nearest excuse to change the subject. ‘Nice house.’ It looked as if it was the same layout as the cottage he’d hired for the week: the white-painted front door opened straight into the living room, and stairs led between the living room and kitchen to the upper floor. But whereas next door was all furnished in neutral shades, as far as he’d seen, Abigail had gone for bright colour. Her living room was painted a warm primrose yellow, with deep red curtains and a matching deep red sofa opposite the cast-iron original fireplace with a huge mirror above it, a wall full of books and a massive stylised painting of a peacock on another wall, which looked very much like his sister’s handiwork. And the kitchen walls here were painted a light, bright teal; the cupboards were cream and the worktop was grey. It was stylish and homely at the same time.

  The perfect size for two.

  He didn’t let himself think about who might have sat at this table opposite her. It was none of his business who she dated. She wasn’t his wife any more.

  ‘Are there any dietary things I need to know about?’ she asked.

  ‘Such as?’

  She shrugged. ‘I know you don’t have any food allergies, but you might have given up eating meat or fish since we last ate together.’

  Had she? He really had no idea. As for himself, he barely noticed what he ate, since she’d left. Since he’d pushed her into leaving, he amended mentally. ‘No. Nothing’s changed. But I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I can walk up the road and get some fish and chips—assuming the chip shop’s still there on the harbour, that is?’

  ‘You’re not putting me to any trouble,’ she said. ‘I haven’t eaten yet this evening. It’s as quick to cook for two as it is for one.’

  ‘Then, if you’re sure you don’t mind, whatever you want to cook is absolutely fine with me,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You told Ruby we could be civil. So did I. We might as well start here and now.’

  ‘A truce. OK.’ He could do that. And maybe, if he could get things on an even keel with her, it would take some of the weight of guilt from him.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Thanks. I’d love one.’ He paused. ‘That muffin you left next door—did you make that yourself?’

  ‘Yes. This morning.’

  ‘I appreciated it. And it was very good.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She’d gone slightly pink. Was she remembering when she’d made muffins in his student days and they’d eaten them in bed together? Not that he could ask her. That was way, way too intimate.

  She made coffee just the way he liked it, strong and sugarless with a just dash of milk. He remembered how she took her coffee, too. And the fact that she never drank tea. Funny how all the memories flooded back, as if their years apart had never happened.

  Wishful thinking. It was way too late to do anything about it now.

  She chopped onions, chilli and garlic, then heated oil in a pan and started to sauté them. The kitchen smelled amazing. She added diced chicken, and he realised just how hungry he was. Abigail always had been good in the kitchen; rather than going away to study for a degree, she’d planned to join her family’s café business when she left school. She was going to work her way up while he studied, and they were going to get married after he graduated.

  Until Brad, after a huge row with his dad, had rebelled; he’d asked Abby to elope with him before they got their exam results. All wide-eyed and trusting, young and full of hope, she’d agreed. And she’d put her plans aside, moving with him when he left for university, getting a job in a café in Cambridge and ending up managing the place within a year.

  Ruby had been economical with the details but Brad guessed that, after Abigail had moved back to Great Crowmell, she’d gone with her original Plan A and joined the family business. Given that her parents were in their late fifties and would be looking at retiring, he’d guess that she was taking more responsibility every year. Maybe she was even running the place now.

  ‘So how’s the café?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine. How’s the lab?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Stonewalling each other with single-word answers wasn’t going to do anything to help the situation. Brad decided to make the effort and try some polite conversation. Offer some information, which might make her offer information in return. ‘My team’s working on developing a new antibiotic.’

  ‘Sounds good—we definitely need that.’ She paused. ‘So are you happy in London?’

  He hadn’t been happy in the last five years. But he did like his job. And she was asking about his job, right? ‘Yes. How about you? You’re happy here at the café?’ If he focused on work rather than the personal stuff, then she wouldn’t tell him about her new love.

  ‘Yes, I’m happy at the café. Like you, I’m developing something, except mine’s rather more frivolous.’ She paused, then said brightly, ‘Ice cream for dogs.’

  ‘Ice cream for dogs?’ The idea was so incongruous that it made him smile.

  ‘Don’t knock it,’ she said, smiling back. ‘Think how many people bring their dogs to the beach, then come and sit with them outside the café.’

  He knew that Scott’s Café, on the edge of the beach, had tables outside as well as inside, plus water bowls for dogs; it had always been dog-friendly, even before it became trendy to welcome dogs.

  ‘Half of the customers buy an ice cream for their dogs to help cool them down, too, but obviously the sugar’s not good for the dogs’ teeth and the fat’s not brilliant for their diet, either,’ Abby said. ‘So we’ve produced something a bit more canine-friendly.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘So you’re telling me you’re making chicken-flavoured ice cream?’

  She laughed. ‘Not quite. It’s more like frozen yoghurt. We do a carrot and cinnamon one, and a cheese one.’

  He stared at her. ‘Cheese ice cream?’

  ‘They serve Parmesan ice cream at the posh restaurant round the bay in Little Crowmell,’ she said. ‘That’s what gave me the idea. Especially as Waffle—’ her parents’ dachshund ‘—will do anything for cheese. He loved being one of my beta testers. So did your mum’s dog.’

  He wondered who’d taken her to Little Crowmell and had to damp down an unexpected flicker of jealousy. He had no right to be jealous. She was a fre
e agent. It was up to her who she dated, he reminded himself yet again.

  ‘Dinner smells nice,’ he said, reverting to a safer subject.

  ‘It’s not that fancy. Just chicken arrabbiata.’

  He’d always loved her cooking. ‘It’s still better than I could’ve made.’ Not that he really cooked, any more. Cooking for one didn’t seem worth the effort, when he was tired after a long day in the lab. It was so much easier to buy something from the chiller cabinet in the supermarket and shove it in the microwave for a couple of minutes. Something he didn’t have to think about or even taste.

  Abigail’s chicken arrabbiata tasted even better than it smelled.

  And how weird it was to be eating with her again, in this intimate little galley kitchen, at this tiny little table. Close enough so that, when he moved his feet, he ended up touching hers.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, moving his feet swiftly away again and banging his ankle on the chair leg.

  She gave him a half-shrug. ‘Not a problem.’

  She might be immune to him nowadays, he thought, but he was far from immune to her. There was a time when they would’ve sat at a tiny table like this together, their bare feet entwined. When they would’ve shared glances. When dinner would’ve been left half-eaten because he would’ve scooped her up and carried her up the stairs to their bed.

  And he really wasn’t going to let himself wonder if she slept in a double bed.

  It was none of his business.

  This was supposed to be civil politeness. A truce. Getting rid of the awkwardness between them, so Ruby’s wedding would go smoothly at the weekend. So why did he feel so completely off balance?

  He forced himself to finish the pasta—she was right, he did need to eat—and then cleared the table for her while she rummaged in the freezer.

  She was close enough to touch.

  And that way danger lay. Physical contact between them would be a very, very bad idea. Because seeing her again had brought back way too many memories—along with a huge sense of loneliness and loss.

  He retreated to the bistro table, and she brought over two bowls, spoons and a plastic tub.