Saving Saffron Sweeting (23 page)

She made a slight nodding gesture. ‘Thank you,
Grace.’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not thinking
clearly just now. If I come up with anything else, I’ll let
you know.’

‘Okay. You do that.’

We parted, certainly not friends. But we had each shared a
problem and revealed a chink in our armour, and the other had
passed up the opportunity to stick the sword in. The truce was
palpable.

I headed back to the bakery, glad to have an awkward
conversation out of the way, and feeling much in need of strong
coffee and the promised tart. What I didn’t need was to run
straight into Nancy.

Nancy and I both went into reverse, like two
nervous drivers on a single-track road. Then we both seemed to
realise that avoidance was futile.

‘Hi.’ I spoke first.

‘Hey there.’ She had just come out of the bakery, a
white paper bag in her hand.

‘How are you?’ This is pretty much what the English
say to everyone, whether best friend or sworn enemy.

‘Doing great, thanks – how about you?’

‘Yes, fine, thanks.’ I paused, thinking it was
strange to bump into her on a weekday. ‘Not at work
today?’

‘Working from home.’ She smiled. ‘Allegedly.
Big report to write, so I figured I’d ease in gently, with
some pastries.’

‘Look,’ I blurted, ‘I’m sorry I jumped
down your throat. It was none of my business.’

I saw her relax.

‘Got time for a quick coffee?’ she asked.

Was this to be my morning of making truces? I looked at my
watch. ‘Okay, just a quick one.’

Brian had packaged up the custard tarts and he poured us two
coffees. In the interim, Mary Lou had arrived in his shop.
Thankfully, her fiendish boys were absent: they must finally have
started school. She was talking earnestly to Brian and scribbling
on a yellow notepad. Perhaps he was giving her baking tips.

Nancy and I settled ourselves at one of the outside tables. It
was still just warm enough, but summer was fading fast. The morning
had an autumnal nip and the trees by the church were displaying the
first hints of gold.

‘I meant to come see you, Grace,’ Nancy began.
‘You sure hit a nerve with what you said …’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I do realise
that just because my husband was cheating, it doesn’t give me
the right to stick my nose into your affairs.’ Oops, bad
choice of word.

She shook her head rapidly. ‘Well, I’m kinda glad
you did.’

I looked at her tentatively over the rim of my coffee and waited
tactfully.

‘I was a schmuck. I’m kicking myself for pinning my
hopes on a married man.’ Nancy tore off the ends of two
sweetener packets at once and poured them as a pair into her
mug.

‘Has something happened?’ I picked up on her use of
the past tense.

‘Well, we had a big fight, and I gave him an ultimatum
that he has to tell her and move out by the end of the
month.’

‘Really?’ It was October next week. ‘I read
somewhere it’s not usually a brilliant idea to give
ultimatums,’ I said carefully.

‘Only if you’re not prepared for the outcome.’
She gave a wobbly smile. ‘I’m ready to end it. At
least, I think I am. But anyway, thanks, Grace. I wasn’t
acting smart and I needed a push.’

‘Okay … wow.’ I wasn’t sure I was ready
for this catalytic responsibility on my shoulders. What’s
more, I seemed to be making waves everywhere I went. The plan of
hiding away and licking my wounds wasn’t quite panning out.
‘Well, I admire you for that. I really do,’ I told her
quietly.

She shook her head, looking gloomy. ‘Better late than
never.’

‘It seems to me,’ I said, ‘all kinds of smart
women end up looking like complete idiots where men are
concerned.’

‘Amen to that, sister. But when October rolls around, I
need you to hold me to my word.’

‘I can do that,’ I said. ‘In fact, I
can’t think of anyone better to nag you.’

‘That’s a deal, then. Now I guess we should both get
to work.’

We hugged briefly and I watched her walk purposefully off along
the pavement, paper bag swinging from one hand.

I wasn’t quite giddy enough to spend that
week walking on air, but the date with Scott did put a certain
spring in my step for the next few days. Amelia hadn’t asked
for details, which struck me as odd, and I still wondered if they
had some history. However, we didn’t have a lot of time for
chit-chat. Hargraves & Co was pleasantly busy and I had to make
time for my promised visit to Saffron Hall.

The white Beetle was no stranger to extravagant houses, but even
so, I considered parking it somewhere other than the sweeping
driveway outside the Hall. My humble vehicle definitely
didn’t belong amongst such grandeur.

Having crunched self-consciously across the deep gravel, I
looked in vain for a doorbell and had to settle for the heavy brass
door knocker instead. I then stood like a wally, waiting for
somebody to appear. After counting to ten, I decided to risk a
gander through the downstairs windows.

I was inching my way off the doorstep when the door was thrown
open by bow-tie man.

‘Miss Palmer! Good morning to you!’

‘Hello.’ I shook the hand that was offered to me,
sure now that this was Bernard Pennington-Jones.

‘So good of you to come.’ He ushered me into the
entrance hall.

‘Thank you for inviting me.’

Bernard’s careful manners verged on formal as he gave a
little cough before running through a brief speech on the history
of Saffron Hall.

Inside, the house didn’t feel as big as I had expected. It
was impressive, but not forbiddingly grand, in the way a real
stately home might be. Instead, it felt more like someone’s
residence: comfortable, practical and a little battered around the
edges. There was wood panelling, of course, some chandeliers and
the occasional oil portrait. However, most of the downstairs rooms
made me feel that somebody’s rich grandmother had just popped
out to the shops.

‘Does the family still live here?’ I asked
Bernard.

‘No. There’s just my wife and me, in our
self-contained flat. Nobody’s lived in these rooms for a
couple of years now.’

‘And you host wedding receptions? Where are they
held?’

We were standing in the middle of a small library. The smell of
hundreds of leather-bound books blended with wood panelling and old
carpets. I was reminded of Peter’s antiques store.

‘Here,’ Bernard replied, leading me through a modest
connecting hallway. ‘In the ballroom.’

We were at one end of a large, high-ceilinged room, empty except
for a couple of wooden chairs. A dozen tall windows ran along one
wall, flooding the room with light. The other walls were painted
burnt orange and held enormous paintings of Cambridge colleges. The
floor was an intricate parquet pattern, in a wood I couldn’t
identify.

‘This is stunning.’ I was still taking it in.
‘I see why people would want their wedding here.’

‘It looks super when the caterers bring in all their gear.
Oh, and flowers, of course.’

‘I’ll bet.’ I tried to picture the scene:
bride, relatives, over-excited kids ducking under tablecloths.
Cake, speeches, the first dance.

‘Has it ever been used for film or television?’
Despite myself, I was getting ideas for the house.

‘Not that we know of.’

‘Shame.’ I wanted to suggest he registered with a
film location website, but stopped short. I wasn’t qualified
to meddle here. Then I wished I had spoken: it might have disguised
the growling of my stomach.

‘Gosh, look here,’ said Bernard, ‘I’m
forgetting my manners. I promised you some lunch.’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Ignore it, I’m
fine.’

‘No, no, it’s time we ate. On we go, last stop on
our tour.’

We retraced our steps to the hallway, and from there went
through some double glass doors and down a couple of steps. I found
myself in the most beautiful long conservatory. Its windows, made
up of multiple white-framed panes, were arched. Sitting
majestically on the terracotta-tiled floor, generous wicker chairs
gave a colonial feel. Tall potted palms reached up to the peaked
ceiling, which seemed to be made entirely of glass. Some of the
roof panes were open, by means of a complicated system of levers.
My nose told me that citrus bushes were thriving in here.

Sure enough, ‘And this is our orangery,’ Bernard
told me proudly.

‘I love it,’ I breathed. ‘I could spend all
day in here, with a book.’

‘Many of our visitors feel the same way. I’ve
arranged a spot of lunch for us.’ He gestured to some wicker
chairs drawn up to a round table, which was set with a cloth and
cutlery.

‘This is lovely,’ I said, as I sat down and shook
the linen napkin into my lap. ‘You didn’t have to go to
all this trouble.’ I hoped he wasn’t going to make some
kind of pass at me. Lunch for two in the orangery looked terribly
romantic, but he was almost my dad’s age. With foolish
relief, I saw the table was set for three.

‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘My wife is the
housekeeper – she’ll join us in a minute.’

‘Super,’ I said. Scott’s flirting had clearly
gone to my head, if I had doubted Bernard’s intentions.

I liked Daphne Pennington-Jones instantly. She bounded with
gracious ease into the orangery, unhindered by a tray of sandwiches
and a pitcher of elderflower cordial. I put her at close to
seventy, but her silver hair was cropped in a trendy cut and her
eyes, the colour of sapphires, twinkled merrily.

‘Grace!’ She shook my hand heartily.
‘I’ve heard heaps about you! Bernard’s so glad
you came.’ She waved me back into my seat. ‘Egg and
cress or cheese and tomato?’

For every ounce of Bernard’s stiff formality, Daphne
compensated with double helpings of warmth. She asked endless
questions, and I found I was comfortable explaining that my
marriage had ended and I was in the village by chance. We talked
about my parents, their chickens, Amelia’s business and my
hopes for Halloween in the village.

‘Bernard!’ His wife grabbed his arm. ‘We
should have a Halloween party!’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that, dear. Sounds
rowdy.’ He looked distressed.

‘Do you do the catering for the events here, Mrs
Pennington-Jones?’ I asked.

‘Call me Daphne, please. Goodness, no, what a lot of
bother that would be. We use one of the Cambridge firms.’ She
turned to her husband. ‘Bernard, Halloween would be
brilliant. You’re always saying we need new ideas for this
place. I don’t know how we’re going to pull ourselves
out of the doldrums if you won’t try things.’

Bernard sighed, looking down at his lap. ‘Just not quite
what I had in mind,’ he said glumly.

There was a pause. I opened my big mouth, purely to fill the
gap. ‘Never mind, there’s always
Thanksgiving.’

‘Pardon?’ Bernard put down his sandwich and looked
at me.

I had taken a bite and was chewing politely before I answered.
Too late.

‘Thanksgiving!’ Daphne repeated. ‘You know,
Bernard, they have a sort of Christmas dinner. Don’t they,
Grace?’

‘Sort of,’ I confirmed, beginning to feel
uneasy.

‘That’s it!’ Daphne threw her hands wide in
delight. ‘Thanksgiving lunch, in the ballroom. We’ll
advertise to all the Americans. When is Thanksgiving,
Grace?’

I furrowed my brow, basing my calculations on Harry’s
birthday. ‘It’s early this year. November twenty-third,
I think.’ My mind was racing, torn between potential and fear
of what was unfolding. The ballroom, with its scale and foliage
colours, would look wonderful. The house was impressive and might
be a huge hit with our friends from the States. But surely, the
cost of an event like this would be enormous? I knew nothing about
planning large parties.

Daphne evidently shared my vision but not my fears. ‘This
is it. I know it. Grace, that’s a splendid idea.’

‘Uh, hang on, I didn’t have an
idea
,’
I backtracked. ‘I wasn’t actually
suggesting
anything.’

Daphne and Bernard weren’t listening. Her head was on one
side as she looked expectantly at her husband. He was rubbing his
chin thoughtfully.

‘Thanksgiving …’ he said slowly, then gave a
tiny nod.

‘We love it!’ Daphne clapped her hands and beamed at
me. ‘Now, if you’ll be a sweetie and help spread the
word, we’ll do the rest.’

‘Oh, I don’t know –’ I floundered.
‘This isn’t my area.’ I looked at Bernard
pleadingly. He’d remember our phone conversation, surely?

‘Nonetheless, Grace,’ he said, ‘I think
you’re onto something marvellous.’

So there it was, two against one. I had meddled again, without
even trying.

Worse was to come. The three of us finished
lunch: two animated and the other wondering what she’d got
herself into. They even bullied me into taking a small percentage
of the profit from Thanksgiving as my ‘marketing
fee’.

As they walked me to my car, I agreed to help Daphne with menu
choices and other details. She was even bouncier than she’d
been before lunch.

‘Now, don’t get carried away,’ Bernard said to
her. ‘It’ll take more than just one event to turn this
place around.’

‘I know that,’ she said, ‘but if we can get
eighty Americans here and excited about it, that’s a start.
Keep our greedy son at bay for a bit longer.’

This comment intrigued me. I looked at Bernard for his reaction,
but didn’t like to ask what she meant.

He saw my glance and ran his hand through what remained of his
hair. ‘I told you we’re in a bit of a pickle,’ he
said, in a way that made me guess it was in fact quite a big
pickle. ‘The Hall is managed by a trust – Daphne and I
are both trustees. Trouble is, so is our son.’

None the wiser, I unlocked the white Beetle.

Daphne tutted impatiently. ‘Scott’s a property
developer. Keeps trying to convince us to turn Saffron Hall into
flats. We argue about it all the time.’