The House on Sunset Lake (27 page)

Epilogue

‘Best-looking bride I’ve ever seen,’ grinned Jeanne as she squeezed Jennifer tight.

‘Some might say you’re biased,’ giggled Jennifer, smoothing the cream lace over her curves.

Jennifer realised she had turned into a cliché, but she couldn’t stop smiling whenever she caught a glimpse of herself in the beautiful gown her old friend had found for her big day. She had originally got in touch with Jeanne to complete her documentary, now tentatively called
Twenty-One
, and had not been entirely surprised to discover that Jeanne no longer worked in the Seven Eleven but owned Savannah’s most celebrated vintage clothing store. When she had invited Jeanne to her wedding, her friend had insisted that she would find her the perfect gown, and had flown to London three months later with the most exquisite dress Jennifer had ever seen, a delicate creation of pale silk and lace that had made her feel like a goddess from the second she put it on.

Jeanne took Jennifer’s hand and led her to the dance floor.

‘Are we going to boogie, then?’ she giggled as Jennifer’s Aunt Donna waved at them from across the room.

Jennifer’s divorce had been uncontested and had been quickly finalised. Jim had taken her to Salcombe in Devon shortly afterwards, promising a weekend of good food and sailing, and had proposed during a walk on the headland.

She had fallen in love with the English seaside town, loved its pace of life and the silver light that glistened over the sea, so much so that it seemed like the perfect place to exchange their vows. Through Jim’s property contacts, they had found a gloriously faded hotel on the outskirts of town. It had views of the estuary and the boats bobbing in the harbour, three acres of English country gardens, and a ballroom that could not only fit a hundred guests but whispered of a glamorous past – art deco era dances and flapper girls – that Jennifer found intoxicating. Savannah would always be Jennifer’s home, but it represented her past, not her future, and in this small Devon town, she knew she had found a place where she could plot and dream and sail and be happy.

She spun around on the dance floor, feeling giddy and light-headed as the song faded.

‘This one is for my beautiful wife,’ said a voice from the stage.

Jim’s eyes met Jennifer’s through the crowd, their gaze connecting as if no one else existed. She felt her heart lift like a balloon, full of love, lust and joy. The most handsome man in the room – in the world – was on stage and he was singing a song for her.

‘I love you,’ he said into the microphone as Donna held her hand to her chest and gave a dramatic sigh.

‘Four husbands in and I’ve never had anyone look at me the way your sexy man has just looked at you,’ she laughed to her niece, as Frank grabbed her playfully and told her he would rectify the situation in the bedroom later.

As Jennifer swayed to the music – a cover version of a Mamas & the Papas song – she admired her husband on stage. Jim had the big job at Omari Hotels now, but since Jennifer had moved to London to be with him, he didn’t seem to spend as much time in the office as a CEO might.

Their lives had settled into a comfortable and contented rhythm. By day, Jim worked at the Omari London office, while Jennifer developed her fledgling film company in between short courses at the National Film School in Beaconsfield. They lived in Jim’s North London flat and went out most nights – to jazz clubs and museum late openings, to restaurants and dinner with Jim’s old friends – but somewhere in the middle of all that, Jim had found time to reconnect with his music, and had become the man she had loved all those years ago, the Jim she thought might have disappeared when she met him again in New York.

The song faded and he jumped off the stage. He came to her and wrapped his arm around her waist.

‘How was your rock star moment, then?’ she laughed.

‘Forty-one and I think I’ve still got it,’ he grinned, and Jennifer smiled to herself about the wedding present – one of them – she would give him later. A vintage Les Paul guitar she had found at auction and knew he would love.

‘Come on. We should go,’ he said, taking her hand.

‘Go where?’

‘To our room,’ he whispered into her ear.

She felt puzzled as he led her outside into the garden. A chill had settled into the English summer evening air, and Jim took off his suit jacket and put it over her shoulders.

‘Jim, our suite is upstairs,’ she frowned, looking back at the hotel.

‘We’re going somewhere else,’ he said mysteriously as he beckoned her to follow him down a path that led to the coast. She had found the trail earlier in the day. It snaked down the hillside to the harbour, and at some point one of the event planners had lined it with lanterns that cast a golden glow over the track.

Jennifer had thought getting married on Midsummer Eve was romantic enough, but as they walked in the moonlight, hearing the sound of the waves, the cow parsley tickling her arms, there was something especially magical in the air. Or perhaps it was just the idea that she was now Mrs Jim Johnson.

‘Here,’ said Jim as they reached the harbour.

She laughed out loud when she saw the fishing boat tethered to the dock. It had tin cans strung from the stern and a wonky hand-painted sign that read
Just Married
.

‘Where are we going?’ she grinned, as someone waved from the cabin.

‘Climb on board. We’re going for a spin.’

‘Jim, our wedding . . .’

‘We’ll be back. Go on. I just want to show you something.’

She took off her heels and hitched up her skirt and did as she was told.

Cushions had been laid out along the seat at the back of the boat. Sunset was fading to dusk and the sky floating above the estuary had darkened to saffron-streaked violet.

The fisherman operating the boat cast off and the vessel chugged to life, the noise of the cans rattling against the stern as they carved through the water.

Jennifer curled into the space between Jim’s arm and his chest, consumed by the warm and peaceful feeling of coming home. She didn’t fool herself that she was a young woman any more. She would be forty-three soon. Almost certainly in the second half of her life and she had lines on her face and the scars of experience to prove it. And yet, as they powered down the estuary, watching the village recede into a series of lights, there was a sense of possibility, excitement and new beginnings that had seemed inconceivable a year earlier, when, living with Connor in her grand town house on the Upper East Side, she felt as if she was just treading water and slowly sinking.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m wondering where we’re going. It’s exciting,’ she said softly as Jim gave her shoulders a squeeze.

She heard the engine of the boat begin to slow.

‘We’re here,’ said Jim, getting to his feet.

She realised that they had anchored just off the opposite shore to Salcombe. It was a short distance to the beach, and a small tender lowered them from the bigger boat to take them there.

She was careful not to let salt water splash the hem of her dress and, barefoot, she followed Jim across the sand. He took her hand and led her away from the beach, past rocks covered with mussels and seaweed towards a small white cottage set in a thicket of trees.

‘It’s a micro-climate around here, so exotic plants can grow,’ he said, pointing out a perfumed myrtle, a magnolia bush and a banana plant.

‘Magnolia,’ sighed Jennifer, recognising all sorts of subtropical blooms from Savannah.

‘I know we were going to wait until after the wedding to buy a new house, but I saw this and thought it would be perfect as a weekend place.’

‘It is,’ she said. She didn’t have to go into the cottage to know that it was just right. ‘It’s my dream house. The red door and the magnolia bush. How did you know?’

‘I’ve always known you,’ said Jim, his voice full of love, and he took her hand and led her inside.