Page 4 of Sweet Dreams at the Forever Home on Muddypuddle Lane (The Forever Home on Muddypuddle Lane #2)

Nora clutched the shopping list in her hand as she wandered up and down the supermarket aisles.

Her cupboards, fridge and freezer were woefully bare of anything edible (and by edible, she meant tasty ) because in a state of panic last night she’d thrown out everything with even a hint of carbs or sugar.

Which hadn’t left a lot: her fridge had only milk and butter in it, and a sorry-looking iceberg lettuce, and the cupboards held little more than a jar of Marmite, three eggs and a small bottle of brown vinegar – and she was having second thoughts about the vinegar.

The thought of what wasn’t in her freezer made her want to weep – the bag of frozen broccoli didn’t have the same appeal as the tub of salted caramel ice cream she’d binned.

If it hadn’t already thawed to a runny gloop, she might have been tempted to fish it back out last night and have it for supper.

After her frantic emergency appointment with the optician this morning (thankfully her vision had sorted itself out overnight, but she went anyway, in case it happened again), she’d not gone into work for the final hour.

Instead, she’d come to the supermarket in Thornbury, even though she’d felt as guilty as sin for leaving her staff in the lurch, despite the salon closing early on Saturdays.

Kendra had been fine about it, but still, Nora hated to impose.

The salon was her business, her responsibility, and taking time off went against the grain.

However, she’d been realistic enough to realise that she wasn’t in the correct frame of mind to trim a hedge, let alone a client’s hair, so it was better all round if she stayed away.

Unfortunately, Nora wasn’t in the mood for grocery shopping either, since she could no longer linger over the selection of biscuits or creamy desserts such as chocolate mousse.

But it had to be done if she wanted to eat, which she most certainly did.

She was starving: two hard-boiled eggs had been all she’d managed to force down today, and to be fair, even if she’d been hungry at breakfast, there hadn’t been much to choose from since she’d thrown almost everything else away.

Wasteful, she knew, but considering she couldn’t eat it, what else was she supposed to do with it?

Besides, she typically did her weekly food shop on a Saturday anyway, so her kitchen wasn’t as well stocked as it otherwise might have been.

Nora eyed the contents of her trolley with dismay.

So far, it contained an abundance of leafy green vegetables, salad stuff, and berries.

Oh, and two sets of weighing scales: one for the kitchen and one for the bathroom, because apparently she was going to become one of those people who weighed herself and her food.

Oh, and she was also going to be studying the back of everything she bought to check the carb content.

Deep joy.

She was going to be a bundle of laughs on a night out, wasn’t she?

Nora gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth.

Would she be able to have a drink? She loved a glass of wine or a cocktail, but how would alcohol affect her blood glucose?

In fact, how would anything she ate or drank affect it?

Because she wasn’t on medication (not yet anyway, and hopefully she wouldn’t be), she hadn’t been provided a way to monitor her glucose levels.

Apparently, that’s what some diabetics, especially those on insulin, had to do.

Oh, heck, there was so much she didn’t know and such a lot of conflicting advice out there, that she had no idea which way to turn. There were a few things everyone seemed to agree on though, and the main one was losing weight, but regular exercise and reducing carbs also featured heavily.

Suddenly Nora felt like crying, and her eyes brimmed with unshed tears and her chin wobbled.

‘Are you alright, lovie?’ an elderly lady asked, peering at her with concern.

Nora pressed her lips together and sniffed loudly before she gained enough control to say, ‘I don’t know.’

‘Is it a man?’

That made Nora smile in a wobbly, watery way as she shook her head. ‘I’ve never cried over a man in my life. Well, not since Barney Giles in Year Eleven, but I was only fifteen at the time.’

‘Had some bad news?’ the woman persisted.

It really wasn’t any of her business and Nora had no idea why she told her, but she found herself blurting, ‘I’ve just been told I’ve got diabetes.’

‘Type 1 or Type 2?’

‘Uh, Type 2, I believe.’

‘What are your numbers?’

‘My what?’

‘Your HbA1c, your blood glucose level.’

‘Er, sixty-six, I think the doctor said.’

‘That’s not too bad. Forty-one and under is considered normal, but you can get it down.’

‘So I believe.’ She glanced at the trolley and pulled a face. ‘I’m not looking forward to it. It’s a complete change of lifestyle.’

‘It is, but you can do it. Look at me, I’m seventy-six.

I’ve been diabetic for over thirty years and I’m still here.

Watching what you eat becomes second nature after a while.

I’ve got one word of advice for you – distraction.

Whenever you feel like raiding the biscuit tin or shoving the contents of the fridge in your mouth, drink a large glass of water and go do something.

Clean the oven, paint the bathroom, do twenty laps of the living room, take the dog for a walk.

’ The woman patted her on the arm. ‘Heed my advice and you’ll be in remission in no time. Good luck, dearie.’

Nora, mouth open in bemusement, watched her toddle off down the dairy aisle.

Clean the oven, indeed? Huh! And neither was she going to paint the bathroom (she didn’t do DIY), do laps of the living room (it was a decent sized room, but not big enough to do laps around), or take the dog for a walk, because she didn’t have one.

There must be something she could do, she mused as she followed the old woman towards the cheese selection, but right now, she had no idea what.

Nora was currently eating a late lunch whilst trying to think what form of exercise she could do. Swimming? Uh, no. It would ruin her hair.

Go to the gym? she grimaced. She’d never been one for pounding away on a treadmill or getting a sore backside from sitting on a pedal machine.

Staring into space, her eyes narrowed as she went through her options, she tried not to think about the chicken salad she was ploughing her way through.

The chicken part was quite nice – she’d grilled it with some seasoning out of a jar that she’d sprinkled over it.

It was the salad part she was struggling with.

Talk about uninspiring! And her jaw ached from all the chewing and crunching she was having to do.

It was worse than eating nut brittle toffee.

Oh, don’t, she groaned silently. It was best not to think about forbidden delights such as toffee.

Depressed, she shovelled another forkful of mixed salad leaves into her mouth and munched despondently as her thoughts returned to the problem of exercise.

How about outdoor cycling as opposed to cycling in the gym, she debated, then wrinkled her nose.

Not only would she have to buy a bike, she’d have to be prepared to go out in all weathers, and she knew what she was like.

She was lazy when it came to exercise. If she lived far enough away from the salon to warrant cycling to it, that might be an incentive, but it only took her seven minutes to walk to work.

Jogging? Nora pulled a face. Not with her boobs and backside. To even consider jogging, she’d have to lose weight first, which was somewhat of a catch-22 situation.

Aerobic classes? Hmm, that was a possibility, but she couldn’t exactly rush off to the leisure centre every time she felt tempted by a slice of hot toast slathered in butter.

She needed something she could do at eight in the morning, at ten at night, and any time in between, which didn’t involve specialist equipment or membership of a gym.

The only thing she could think of was good old-fashioned walking and Picklewick was perfect for that.

Surrounded by rolling farmland and not-too high mountains, the village was set in stunning countryside.

But once again, she had her doubts: she was under no illusion that after a long and busy day at work she would be extremely reluctant to unwedge her behind from the sofa to go for a brisk walk.

What she needed was a walking buddy. Someone to bully her into going when she didn’t feel like it, someone to hold her accountable. Someone who wouldn’t take no for an answer and made sure she put her trainers on and went out there.

A lightbulb flashed in her head, and in its wake it left a very distinct image in her mind’s eye.

What she needed was a dog.

‘Aw, Dad, that’s a crappy thing to happen,’ was Cameron’s response when Elijah plucked up the courage to tell him that their dream of running the Marathon de Sable together had gone up in smoke. ‘Are they sure? I mean, could they have made a mistake?’

Elijah shook his head. ‘I asked for a second opinion.’

‘Man, that sucks,’ his son declared.

Elijah heartily agreed with him.

‘But you’ll still be able to go running, right?’

‘I don’t think I will.’ Elijah had given it a lot of thought – it was all he’d been able to think about – and he knew he would be risking permanent disability if he went against medical advice.

No more marathons for him. No more running. A gentle jog was the best he could hope for, and even then he’d have to make sure the surface he was on wasn’t too hard. Which basically meant a lap or two of the park on the grass. It wouldn’t be worth the bother of putting his trainers on for that.

Cameron was looking concerned. ‘What will you do? I’ve never known you not to run. Mum used to say—’ He broke off, twin spots of colour appearing in his cheeks.

‘It’s okay. I know what your mother used to say.

’ She’d said it to his face enough times, so Elijah didn’t need to hear it second hand.

His addiction to keeping fit (okay, to running ) hadn’t been the cause of their breakup, but it hadn’t helped that he’d used to spend inordinate amounts of time pounding the streets, lanes, and hillsides in his quest to run a route in his best time ever.

Elijah didn’t so much race against other people when he took part in a marathon, because there would always be someone faster than him (that was a fact of life) – he raced against himself .

It also hadn’t helped that whenever an argument loomed, Elijah used to don his trainers and disappear out the door.

He’d been a gold medallist in avoiding confrontation.

‘Emotionally absent,’ his ex-wife used to say.

And maybe she’d had a point. ‘Selfish’ was something else she’d called him.

And maybe she’d had a point there, as well.

It was all water under the bridge now, of course.

They’d split over a decade ago, when Cameron was only twelve.

It had been hard on the boy, but Elijah had tried his damnedest to be a good father and a good role model – as much as he could, at least. He worked hard, didn’t drink to excess, and didn’t have any vices apart from an addiction to running marathons.

And he’d spent as much time with his son as possible, only moving from Thornbury to Picklewick after Cameron had passed his driving test and had become more mobile.

The stars had all aligned at that point, because the bakery had come on the market at roughly the same time and Elijah had leapt at the chance to buy it.

Not because he loved what he did (by then he’d become rather indifferent), but because it had given him the opportunity to be his own boss, which in turn allowed him more flexibility when it came to the hours he worked, so he could go for longer runs whenever he wanted.

See, he said to himself, his life had revolved around running.

What the hell was it going to revolve around now that he’d had the one thing he lived for, taken away from him?

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ he admitted, in answer to Cameron’s question. ‘Take up golf maybe, or lawn bowls.’

‘ You , take up golf? ’ Cameron scoffed. ‘You’d hate it. And I can’t see you playing bowls, neither.’

‘Why not?’ Elijah hadn’t been serious about bowls; however, he was curious as to why his son couldn’t envisage him playing the game.

‘You’re too much of a loner.’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘It’s what I know. I’m like you in that respect. I’ve always hated team sports. Don’t mind watching them, but don’t want to take part in them.’

‘What do you suggest?’

Cameron became sombre as he asked, ‘You will be able to walk properly, won’t you?’

‘I hope so!’ Elijah replied. ‘I mean, the bone has mended, so there shouldn’t be any reason why I won’t be able to. I’ve got a bit of a limp now, but that’s only because I had to wear that boot. I’ve been doing stretches and stuff to strengthen it.’

‘Why not take up hiking?’

‘What, like stroll around on my own?’

Cameron shook his head. ‘No, not stroll . A fast walk.’

‘Where would I walk to? All my local routes will just remind me that I should be running them.’

‘Find some new ones.’

Elijah blew out his cheeks. He knew he was being negative and probably coming across as awkward and obstinate, but – damn it! – he didn’t want to find new anything. He wanted his life to go back to the way it was before.

‘And if you don’t want to go for a hike on your own,’ Cameron continued, ‘get a dog.’

‘A dog? ’ Elijah was incredulous. ‘I’m at work all day.’

Cameron raised his eyebrows. ‘Five-thirty til one-thirty isn’t all day.’

‘It’s a seven-hour day, six days a week. I don’t have the time. And when I’m not at work, I’m running.’ As soon as the day’s baking was complete and the kitchen was scrubbed ready for tomorrow, he was out the door.

‘But you won’t be running anymore,’ Cameron reminded him. ‘A dog will get you out of the house and keep you company, too.’ He looked incredibly pleased with himself.

‘A dog,’ Elijah repeated.

‘Yeah, something big and active. One that’ll like going out for hours. Not a lap dog.’

‘And where do you suggest I get this fictional dog from?’

‘The Forever Home Kennels, of course!’

‘Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?’ he grumbled.

But the more he thought about it, the better the idea seemed, and he found himself reaching for his phone.