‘All done,’ cried Finula with relief, sliding the cake tins into the oven.
‘Me too,’ replied Marcus, closing his laptop. He moved away from the kitchen table to stand before her. He wrapped his arms around her body, not bothering about the flour covering her apron. ‘Love you, Mrs Devlin-to-be.’
Finula felt the stubble of his jaw against her cheek and breathed in that familiar citrus smell of him. ‘You better,’ she replied.
6
Christie woke to the sound of birdsong. Opening her eyes, she saw sunlight flicker through the floral curtains. Filled with an optimism that spring always brought, she threw back the covers and got out of bed. Drawing the curtains, she surveyed the view before her; acres of fresh, green and golden fields rolled before her, separated by stone walls and surrounded by woodland. A brook gently bubbled through, creating a calm, tranquil atmosphere. Christie opened the window wide and breathed it all in.
Despite her circumstances and being thrown in at the deep end, she was remarkably positive. It had been a hectic fortnight at The Templar, but she’d enjoyed every minute of being constantly on call, whilst familiarising herself with the staff, plus the customers had taken all of her time and concentration. Christie felt blessed to have Dermot on hand, always there to guide and advise her when called upon. It had gone down well with the locals too, still having their old landlord about, showing Christie the way. The two worked seamlessly together. She saw Dermot as a father figure, a tower of strength, not just at work, but also on those rare occasions when the gravity of Stephen’s actions had finally hit home. On those moments, Dermot would offer wise counsel and huge support. He was a brick.
All in all, Christie was coping extremely well. She took the responsibility of owning and running her own country inn seriously. She had to – it was all down to her now, no one else. Once or twice amongst the mayhem of her new life, she would allow herself to think about Stephen. Her thoughts travelled to Chester, wondering what he and Sophie would be doing there. Would he be excited, preparing himself for parenthood? She pictured a pregnant Sophie, smiling smugly, patting her swollen abdomen. Amazingly, Christie didn’t feel jealous. It had almost taken her by surprise at just how calm she really was, especially when considering her desperate need for a baby.
Maybe this was telling, she reflected in her most quiet moments. Had she been desperate for a baby, or a fix to her marriage? Was the idea of starting a family some sort of remedy for a relationship not working? And if being completely honest with herself, Christie had to concede she hadn’t been happy. Yes, in the beginning when Stephen had been the same man she had fallen in love with, but not towards the end when her husband had turned into a lying cheat she couldn’t trust.
She tried to imagine him here, in the Cotswolds, drinking in the scenery, and found she couldn’t. He would have been a fish out of water, preferring the bright lights and buzz of a city, somewhere he could party with his rugby mates, not cosy up with her beside a roaring fire. Christie, in a very short space of time, had concluded that being in charge of her own destiny was definitely the way forward. Fulfilling the lifelong dream she had had of owning her own business was all-consuming. It took every ounce of her strength and sapped all her energy. At the end of each day, after an early start and busy evening, she would sink into a heavenly hot bubble bath with a glass of wine and stare out of the bathroom skylight at the stars. I’m here. I’ve made it, she would tell herself and raise her glass.
The Templar was starting to get more bookings now with it being spring. Dermot, in his wisdom, had suggested employing a few more members of staff to help with the housekeeping. Christie had also approved the new chef who had taken over from Dermot’s daughter, Finula. She knew Dermot missed his daughter dearly, but her impending wedding kept him occupied and focused.
Christie chose to skip breakfast and just made herself a filtered coffee. Sipping it by the reception desk, she glanced down at the paperwork before her. Two new visitors were expected today.
‘I’ve just cleaned rooms three and five, Christie,’ said one of the recently employed girls, keen to make a good impression.
‘Thanks, Emma.’ She smiled. It was important to her that she knew each member of staff’s name and used it. It paid off – in turn all the workers liked and respected their new employer. Christie also made a point of paying over the minimum wage and sharing all the tips out fairly. This too had gained The Templar a good name and it was rated a reputable place to work, with a friendly, welcoming atmosphere.
Dermot was more than happy with the way Christie was running the place. Initially it had been a wrench to give up his pub, but to hand over to someone like Christie was a pleasure. The Templar was in safe hands, he had no doubt. He did worry about her though, despite his jovial outward appearance. Often he would catch her with a pained expression, as though the past was jabbing and taunting her. It was gutting, reminding him of the heartache Finula had once suffered. He was determined to make things work for Christie. She so deserved it and he’d do all in his power to ensure a smooth transition.
‘Christie, we need to talk flowers,’ he said whilst passing the reception area, carrying a crate of wine. Christie looked up. ‘For the wedding,’ he explained.
There was enough chintz in this place without any more flowers, she thought wryly.
‘Hmm, maybe let’s think about a little refurbishment first?’ she replied.
Dermot’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What’s wrong with the decoration?’
‘Perhaps a little dated in places?’ she attempted gently.
‘Where?’ he asked, somewhat defensively. This was the first time Christie had ever challenged his taste. He looked bemused at her laughter.
‘Where, Dermot? Well, let’s start with the wood-chipped wallpaper in the hall and landing, the red carpet on the stairs and the bloody awful floral curtains in my bedroom.’
‘That was Finula’s bedroom,’ he retorted, offended, making Christie giggle even more.
‘Oh, Dermot, how long have they been there?’
‘Since she was… a little girl…’ he replied lamely.
‘Exactly. Years.’
‘Oh.’
Seeing how deflated he looked, Christie continued soothingly. ‘I’m not saying we need a whole new makeover, just in one or two areas, mainly the hallway and the bedrooms.’
‘I see.’ He clearly didn’t, judging by his look of confusion.
‘A new pair of eyes can see how we could… freshen the place up. Let’s go for country chic, something a touch more sophisticated; think… rustic charm, warm colours, tweeds.’
‘Right.’
‘Not wood-chip and floral,’ she added dryly.
Emma, who had witnessed the conversation, couldn’t help but laugh too.
‘Christie’s right, the bedrooms are a bit old-fashioned.’
Dermot turned to face her. ‘Oh, are they really? Well, I know when I’m outnumbered,’ he replied with light sarcasm, making Christie smile with real affection.
‘We want the place perfect for Finula’s wedding, don’t we?’ she appeased.
‘Yes, Christie, we certainly do,’ Dermot called over his shoulder as he made his way to the bar. Emma and Christie exchanged grins, which were quickly interrupted by the opening of the front door. In came a tall, blond-haired man carrying a huge rucksack over his broad shoulders. For a moment Christie jolted. He instantly reminded her of Stephen. Then, as he approached, she realised he had a kinder face, with soft, blue eyes.