Etienne: Got to go, boys. Commitment warning bells are ringing.
Fox: Some things never change.
Walker:
Chapter Forty-Three
Isabella
Nonna already seemed to know almost as many people as Isabella did in Honeybridge. As they walked the high street and admired the pumpkin displays, Nonna waved her mittened hands and called out and promised people biscuits.
‘How many clubs have you joined, Nonna?’ Isabella asked, thinking she seemed to be out almost every night.
‘Five,’ Nonna said. ‘Tai chi, chess, book club, the Women’s Institute and DJ skills. Wait there.’ Isabella paused on the pavement as Nonna disappeared into the baker’s. She herself might not have joined any clubs– unless you could call The Bolthole and The Lit Lounge clubs– but she felt completely at home now in Honeybridge. Her old life with Daniel felt a million miles away. In fact, she realised, she hadn’t thought about him in weeks. Probably not since she heard the news that he was engaged. God help that woman. But it wasn’t just her life with Daniel that seemed a world away. Her old nine-to-five job in a marketing agency felt like another life too. She’d got used to being her own boss, setting her own schedule, being the master of her own career. She loved creating the vision for the restaurant and the way in which Amber and the team were bringing it to life. And now, having Nonna here was the icing on the cake. Or the rum in the biscuit.
Nonna reappeared, clutching a paper bag, which she opened to show Isabella the contents: white biscuits sprinkled with sugar.
‘Checking out the competition like you,’ Nonna whispered. She plucked one mitten from her hand and selected a cookie with her fingers, holding it between their faces. ‘Overpriced, I think, for the size of them.’ She bit into it and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Good flavour, though, I’ll give him that.’ She finished the biscuit and brushed the crumbs from her lips, waving at the baker happily through the window.
The siren made them both jump. The fire engine rounded the corner towards them, the noise deafening as it passed. Isabella spotted Walker in the front passenger seat but didn’t wave. It didn’t feel appropriate. Nonna crossed herself, whispering, as they watched it turn towards the park. Isabella bit her lip, the thought of another arson attack making her anxious.
‘I think Sinead would make a good chef,’ Nonna said as she plunged her hand back into her glove and they started walking again. ‘My initial suspicions were right.’
‘We haven’t even opened yet,’ Isabella protested. ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of leaving already? And Mamma and Papà are still travelling, so there’s nothing to rush home to.’
‘Not at all,’ Nonna said. ‘I’m succession planning. It’s crucial to your business.’
Isabella grinned.
‘Have you talked to her about it?’ she asked.
‘Not yet, but I’ve sounded her out. She’s not fazed by batch cooking, she did it for her boys. And she follows recipes all the time, saying she doesn’t like to deviate from what’s proven to work well. So, I know our family recipe would remain true.’
‘We could always make that part of the contract,’ Isabella said.
‘Better if we don’t need to. That she sticks to it because she believes in it.’
Nonna was right. Isabella nodded.
Another siren sounded. A police car this time, lights flashing, whizzed past. A second later a second fire truck followed in its wake. Whatever was happening was serious.
A crowd gathered on the pavement, watching as an ambulance tore past and another police car. A shopkeeper came out and scanned the high street. Isabella recognised him from the community meeting.
‘Not another one,’ he said, and people muttered their assent.
‘What’s happening?’ Nonna asked, grasping the forearm of the person next to her. A young mum, with a child in a buggy.
‘By the looks of it,’ she said, pointing towards the park where a roof could be seen with black smoke pluming from it, ‘Heart of Honeybridge is on fire.’
Nonna crossed herself again. ‘Is that the retirement village?’ she whispered and Isabella nodded.
‘Brigitta from chess club lives there. She’s the stylish one I told you about.’
‘So does Fred Barrow,’ said Isabella, thinking of the last time she visited him. He had invited her into his flat and made her a cup of coffee. They had sat for an hour looking through the maps together, while he reminisced. He was such a lovely man. ‘Let’s go. Maybe there’s something we can do to help.’
Nonna didn’t need persuading. Handing the bag of biscuits to the child in the buggy, she linked arms with Isabella and urged her on.
A crowd had already gathered at the park, held back by a hastily erected police cordon. Some people were talking on phones, others huddled with friends and family, watching. Sure enough, Heart of Honeybridge was burning. Isabella and Nonna picked their way through, until they were at the police ribbon where they could feel the heat of the blaze even through the October chill.
