Brandon gives me the catalogue. “Okay you can choose. Knock yourself out.”
There is a new easiness to our relationship since the Christmas-that-wasn’t. So, in my new capacity as friend, I suggest we need inspiration because the cottage should be in keeping with its environment. I’m rather big on environment lately. So, we pull on walking boots, warm coats, hats, and gloves and go for a walk in the snowy countryside for inspiration.
By the time we arrive at the village square a couple of hours later, we have taken endless pictures of trees, fallen logs, and bird footprints in the snow. Brandon is at pains to point out that the primary inspiration, as far as colours go, has proved to be white.
“Ah yes, but the village bazaar will be more colourful.”
It should also be more productive for me. A new job, a new mission, a chance to make a difference. No more database jobs.
My heart beats faster with anticipation. Now, where is the head of the Women’s Centre?
Slowly, slowly, my inner campaign manager advises.Don’t rush.With an effort, I force myself to look around and take in the scene.
The village square has been cleared of snow and is full of people. Trestle tables have been arranged around the perimeter. Large red and green rosettes and bows decorate most tables and hang on the doors to most shops.
“For a small village, they have an expensive taste in Christmas decorations.” Brandon nods at bunting made of alternating layers of red, green, and gold silk. It’s pretty but looks absurd on the front of a shoe repair shop.
“I have to say, this island gets weirder by the day.” I set down the bag of berries. “It doesn’t quite say charity when everyone can afford to drape luxury fabrics on every table.”
He laughs, so I go on joking. “What about this women’s refuge, do you think they need the money to buy them Jimmy Choo’s?”
It’s a joke, really, it is. But a woman nearby suddenly stops and turns to look at me.
She has a clipboard and pen. It’s a safe guess she’s one of the organisers. “Can I help you?” She glances at the two of us as if we’re strangers who just crashed a private wedding.
Her face is familiar, but I can’t place her.
“We’ve brought these.” I show her the berries.
She peers into the bags and gives me a baffled look.
"Philomena!" A tall young woman carrying a bundle of more silk fabric walks ove.
Philomena. Yes, now I remember where I’ve seen her. On the Lady Isobel Centre website. Philomena Hill is the managing director of the charity.
Rats!
“We can add those…” The woman with the silk says, then she notices us. “Oh, hi. You’re Brandon Hazelwood, aren’t you?”
Brandon shakes her hand.
“I’m Laura. I knew your brother well.”
Brandon, no doubt sensing my unease, puts a hand on my shoulder. “This is my wife, Lessa.”
“Yes,” Philomena addresses Laura. “Mr and Mrs Hazelwood don’t think much of our charity or your silks. They’ve brought something that no one needs.” She indicates the bags.
“They’re berries.” I try to sound friendly.
“Not Jimmy Choo, then?” She starts to turn away. “The island is full of berries. Anyone can pick them for free. Or did you think we’re simple village idiots who’ll buy anything.”
“Millie Du Montfort said they were rare and she, for one, was very interested.” I say, refusing to give up.
“Then you can take them directly to her house. I can’t give you a table for something nobody wants to buy.”
Her voice is frosty like the snow. The back she turns on me is even colder as she hurries away before I can stop her.
How did I mess this up so badly?
