Page 27 of The Lavender Bride

26

The lodge is a little way off the highway. It’s not much more than a wood cabin. The owners, Anya and Eric, are willing to take us in though even though they don’t usually have guests at this time of the year. Bruce helps me and my parcels into the living room and then disappears into the kitchen with Eric.

I stand in the tiny, pineclad hall – hooks full of bulky coats, wellingtons lined up beneath – and feel suddenly self-conscious. Jack’s beside me, peeling off muffler and cap. What if we’ve nothing to talk about when there’s only the two of us? Our entire acquaintance has been condensed into these few intense meetings. There’s been stolen moments at The Cocoanut Grove and beneath the tree at the wedding but we’ve never been alone together.

Anya emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She’s in her mid-fifties with the kind of weathered face that indicates she spends a lot of time outdoors and grey hair pulled into a bun. She shows me through the sitting room to the stairs and then up to my room. It’s got pineclad walls, a square window with tartan curtains and a rag rug on the floor. An oil lamp burns on the bedside cabinet. There’s a definite chill in the air.

‘The bed’s not aired but I’ll bring up a hot water bottle for you later on. The bathroom’s down the hall.’ She hands me a towel and pats the sprigged garment folded on top. ‘There’s a nightgown here if you need it.’

I thank her for her kindness. Taking off my new coat, I spread it over the eiderdown. It’ll help keep me warm tonight.

As it’s too chilly to loiter, I return to the sitting room. It’s also pineclad with two tweed-covered sofas, a small dining table under the window and a bookcase packed with novels and wildlife guides. It’s lit by oil lamps which cast a gentle glow within the circle of light and deep shadows outside of it. The wind moans down the chimney. I shiver.

Eric, who’s got a full head of grey hair and must be as tall as Rex, is adding logs to the fire.

‘Do you have a telephone?’ I ask. ‘I should let my husband know where I am.’

‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he says. ‘We don’t. Too expensive for the telephone company to bring the line all the way out here.’

‘I see. Yes, of course.’ There’s a stab of guilt that I won’t be able to contact Rex. Yet I doubt he’ll be anxious about me. He’ll probably be happy I’m not around and he can spend more time with Tony. ‘I’m sorry to put you to all this trouble.’

‘It’s no trouble. We like having visitors.’ Eric gives me a gentle smile as he rests his hand on the mantlepiece. ‘It’s just the old house isn’t set up to keep folk warm at this time of the year. It’s fine for Anya and me. We’re used to it but most folks like a bit more in the way of comfort.’

‘We’ll be fine,’ I say firmly although I’ve no right to speak for Jack. He just doesn’t strike me as a man who needs a lot in the way of material comforts. Rex, in this situation, would be fussing that the beds are too hard, the room too cold, the food not to his taste.

Eric leaves the door slightly ajar as he leaves the room. Feeling the draught on my back, I give in to the urge to kneel by the fire. My knees sink into the rag rug beside the hearth. I hold my hands out to the flames and watch the fire crackle and spit. I used to do this at home when I got back from work. When my face is blazing, I sit back on my heels. There’s a creak behind me. I look over my shoulder to see Jack descend the stairs. He’s shed his coat and is wearing a Fair Isle jumper in blues and greys that brings out the beautiful colour of his eyes. As he comes towards me, I stand up.

‘Are you sure don’t mind spending the night here?’ As Jack frowns, lines are scored between his eyebrows. ‘It’s not what you’re used to.’

I laugh as I sit on one of the sofas. ‘You’re forgetting I grew up in wartime Britain. I survived ten years of rationing and the Sheffield Blitz. I’ll be fine. And Eric and Anya couldn’t be kinder.’

‘They remind me of my grandparents.’ Jack takes a seat beside me. ‘They’re just the same. Welcome anyone and never mind the trouble.’

‘Are they in Oregon too?’ I ask.

‘My dad’s folks moved into Bellingham, that’s our nearest town, when Dad took over the farm. Mom’s family were shopkeepers. Hardware store. My uncle runs it now. My grandparents moved into an Arts and Crafts home on the bay.’

There’s an affection in his voice which makes it sound wonderful, as if they all get on together splendidly and there’s never any arguments.

‘Are you close?’

‘I guess.’ Jack shrugs as if he’s never really thought about it which is more of an answer to the question than his words. ‘I’m the only one who’s moved away. Astrid, my sister, married a farmer and lives ten miles from home.’

There’s a squirm of what feels uncomfortably like envy at the easy way he speaks about them. Like me, he’s the only one who’s roamed but it doesn’t sound like he was running away.

‘Astrid’s an unusual name,’ I say.

‘Swedish grandparents. My middle name’s Anders after my grandfather.’

My hands knot in my lap. I should reciprocate, talk about my family. I’ve avoided it since I came to America and yet if I want to know Jack, I have to let him know me.

I take a deep breath and say, ‘I have one sister, Esther. She’s two years older than me. I’m dotty about my nephew and niece. David and Ruth. They’re the sweetest. I just wish I didn’t live so far away.’

We’re comparing notes about being an aunt and uncle (Jack’s got two nieces who he clearly adores) when Anya returns with a bottle of amber liquid and two glass tumblers.

‘A nip of this will warm you up,’ she says, unscrewing the bottle of Canadian Club.

‘My granddaddy drank this during Prohibition.’ Jack stands to accept a tumbler.

‘There was plenty smuggled over the border.’ Anya pours him a very generous measure.

I blanch slightly at the huge slug Anya’s poured into the glass. I’ll be very tipsy indeed if I drink that on an empty stomach.

Anya waves the thanks away. ‘Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be back with the rest.’ A moment later, Anya carries a heavily stacked tray into the room. She rests it on a chair before tossing a gingham cloth over the table.

‘Let me give you a hand.’ I stand and go over to her. Between us, we unload plates, cutlery, a loaf of bread and a butter dish onto the table. I set places for Jack and me as Anya returns to the kitchen. Moments later, she returns with two steaming bowls, a wedge of cheese and jar of homemade chutney.

‘The soup’s chicken. I made it yesterday.’ Anya moves one of the oil lamps to the table. ‘I’m sorry it’s not more but it’s all I can rustle up on short notice.’

‘You’ve done us proud,’ I tell her.

Then we take our seats for the first meal Jack and I have shared. It’s not Romanoff’s or Villa Nova. There’s no plush carpet or crisp linen napkins. No ma?tre d’ or à la carte menu. Just a gingham cloth and homecooked food.

And I don’t want to be anywhere else.