Saving Saffron Sweeting (37 page)

‘That’s a deal. We open next month, I hope. Now,
excuse me, I’m off to find my next victim.’

Alone, I surveyed the room and took the chance to waylay the
waiting staff, who were circulating with tasty morsels. The
caterers had done a fine job and the mood in the ballroom was
enthusiastic.

‘Hey, Grace’ said a voice, and I turned with delight
to find Nancy. Peter was just behind her.

After greetings and compliments on everyone’s outfits, I
said to Peter, ‘I hear you might be taking on the post
office?’

‘It’s a possibility,’ he replied.
‘Don’t see how it can survive unless we combine it with
another business. Might get a few new folk into my place
too.’

‘Sounds ideal,’ I said.

‘And how are you?’ Nancy asked. ‘Is the
honeymoon over yet?’

I smiled and coloured. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Any luck finding somewhere to live?’

I wrinkled my nose. ‘Not yet. But we’re having fun
looking.’

Two nights after James had arrived in the village, it had
snowed. Delighted, we had found suitable boots and gone for a long
walk along the river the next day, from Anglesey Abbey to Quy.

En route, we had discussed our future.

‘I’ve only been here six months, but it feels like
forever,’ I’d said.

The snow had settled prettily on all the hedges and branches,
but now that the sun had come out, it would disappear fast.

‘You definitely want to stay?’ James kept his voice
light.

I didn’t answer for a moment, listening to the chirp of
finches and the muffled crunch under our feet.

Then I said, ‘Yes. I really do.’ The East Anglian
countryside lacked the glamour of the San Francisco Bay, with its
mountains, bridges and wide Pacific Ocean. But it felt like home to
me, and now that James was here, I was awash with contentment. I
stopped to look at him. ‘Is that asking too much?’

James had one of my gloved hands in his already, and now he took
the other one too. ‘No,’ he said, brown eyes serious.
‘We can make that work.’

I reached up for a quick kiss, but was waylaid by reality.
‘You’ve got no job.’

‘Something’ll turn up.’ James shrugged as we
began walking again. ‘This is Cambridge, after all.’ He
was confident his skills would find a use.

He’d also been perfectly serious about buying a house,
cryptically mentioning that his mum might help with the deposit.
Even allowing for that, and assuming he found a great job, we would
be on a painfully tight budget. Still, it had been a good excuse to
visit some of the smaller properties on Amelia’s books
together.

‘Ooh, that was nasty,’ I’d said after the
first, experiencing an unpleasant flashback to my early days in the
village, looking for somewhere to rent.

‘Agreed, the smelly carpets weren’t a big turn
on.’ James took big gulps of fresh winter air. ‘But if
we’re buying rather than renting, we can rip the whole lot
out and start from scratch.’

‘Hmm, that might be fun.’ There was definite appeal
in starting with a blank slate and designing it all myself.

‘Or maybe we’ll find someone with a spare chicken
shed, after all.’

I laughed. ‘I’ll keep my ears open.’

In fact, Amelia already had both ears open and I suspected the
other villagers could be persuaded to do the same. Something told
me they’d rather tip off James and me about a vacant
property, than Scott.

Now, I put my head on one side and looked at Peter. ‘Um,
if you do move the post office into the antiques store, what
happens to the existing building?’

The current post office was housed in a narrow, quirky cottage,
in prime position on the High Street.

‘No idea,’ Peter said. ‘I imagine it would be
sold.’

‘I think I see where Grace is heading with this,’
Nancy said.

I blinked at Peter with mock innocence. ‘Maybe you could
let me know, when you know?’

Peter smiled meaningfully. ‘I’ll keep you
posted
.’

‘Hi, all.’ James arrived, bearing a plate laden with
mini quiches and bite-sized scotch eggs. ‘Thought you might
be hungry,’ he murmured, passing the bounty to me.

‘You treasure.’ I nibbled happily while he chatted
with Nancy and Peter. We were interrupted by Amelia tapping a spoon
against a glass.

‘Ladies and gentlemen …’ She smiled
confidently as the room hushed. ‘I have the great pleasure of
welcoming you all to the official launch of the Save Saffron
Sweeting Campaign.’

We clapped proudly.

‘We all know how much work is ahead of us to preserve the
unique charm and character of our village, and especially its malt
house. However, I’m delighted to see so many of you here
tonight to support this vital endeavour.’ Amelia paused,
comfortable in her role, no doubt knowing she looked fantastic.
‘Now, please make sure you have purchased your raffle tickets
from Mary Lou, as we’ll be starting the draw in just a few
minutes.’

A murmur of anticipation ran through the attendees. Presumably,
they were excited at the prospect of winning a case of wine from
Tesco or dinner at the pub. A fresh crowd of purchasers formed
around Mary Lou.

James surveyed the scene with amusement, then bent to speak into
my ear. ‘Want to get some air?’ he said in a low voice,
running his hand up and down my back.

‘What about the raffle?’ I said, surprised.

‘Good point.’ He looked around the room. ‘I
think they’ll manage without us.’

I smiled and tipped my head in agreement.

‘Here, would you two mind doing the honours?’ James
offered our strip of orange tickets to Nancy and Peter.
‘We’re just going to step outside for a few
minutes.’

He led me through the elegant French doors of the ballroom to
the shadows of the covered terrace.

‘It’s a great party,’ he said, ‘but I
fancied a few minutes alone with my wife.’

I turned to snuggle into his warmth as he wrapped both arms
around me.

‘You’re a big hit with everyone,’ I said,
grinning up at him. The height gap was less than usual, due to my
impractical shoes.

‘No,’ he said. ‘If they like me, it’s
only because they’re smitten with you.’

I shook my head in protest.

‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘I should
know.’ His gaze was soft but sincere.

I reached my hand up and played with his tie as I waited for the
wave of emotion to calm. In the pause, clapping floated out to us
from the ballroom.

‘They’re really getting into it,’ I said,
seeing the fever of raffle winning on the villagers’ faces.
They were taking no notice of the couple in the frosty shadows
outside, who were holding onto each other as if they had scooped
first prize. ‘I think Saffron Sweeting might bounce back
better than ever.’

James looked at them, then at me. ‘Tough times make you
stronger,’ he said gently.

He didn’t just mean the village. I felt tears welling.

‘I’m so sorry, Grace.’ James hadn’t
taken his eyes off my face.

‘It’s okay.’ I swallowed. ‘We’ll
be okay now,’ I whispered, and let myself sink into his soft,
sweet kiss.

The road behind us couldn’t be changed, but I was eager to
walk the path ahead.

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I count myself exceptionally lucky that not a
single acquaintance told me how nutty I was to attempt a novel.
Nonetheless, certain individuals provided more than a splash of
support and deserve special thanks.

Feddy Pouideh was undoubtedly the catalyst who got me started
and also served as cheerful proof that one can indeed write a book
and live to tell the tale. The talented Kristin Harmel was gracious
enough to supply the encouragement I needed to venture beyond
chapter one. And I learned a huge amount about indie publishing
from the information shared by Joanne Phillips on her blog.

Intrepid beta readers Jennifer Cunningham, Marissa Tejada and
Julianne Lawrence helped me smooth off many rough edges, and
proofreader Jude White brought the quality of the text to a
standard fit to be seen in public. Any lingering errors are
mine.

My parents, Philip and Ann Dendy, willingly accompanied me on
treks around Cambridgeshire villages to ensure my description of
Saffron Sweeting was authentic. It’s true this willingness
evaporated when they found they were also required to research the
vertiginous roof of the Varsity Hotel, but they swallowed their
fate with equanimity and a glass of white wine.

My husband Darius earns immeasurable gratitude for technical
support, cover design and trusting that his wife had not lost her
marbles entirely. He bore the indignity of reading his first ever
Chick Lit novel and still managed to give constructive feedback.
Moreover, as far as I’m aware, he has never cheated on me at
a conference in Las Vegas. Not yet, anyway.