Hi Gerry,
Thanks so much for this information.
Can you explain the difference between your two product walls?
Best wishes,
Sophie
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: re: re: re: re: Doughnut Wall
Hi Sophie,
Of course.
It’s exactly how the names suggest—the doughnut walls have hooks on which to hang doughnuts and the bagel walls have hooks on which to place bagels.
I hope this helps!
With very best wishes,
Gerry
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“It’s like a scene from a postcard,” I say dreamily.
Tom raises his eyebrows as he locks the car and comes to stand next to me, shoving his hands into his wax-coat pockets. “A very boring postcard.”
“An idyllic, sleepy-English-village postcard,” I correct. “It’s stunning. Exactly how somewhere in the middle of nowhere should look.”
Paxton is made up of a small, picturesque church at one end of the high street, its graceful spire perfectly framing the village skyline, and an ancient pub called the George at the other, with a row of shop fronts set into wonky houses in between. The shops are everything you’d expect, from the secondhand bookstore with stacks of mismatched books in the window to the quaint tearoom that proudly has a sign on the door announcing that dogs are very welcome inside. There are some charming B and Bs, several cottages with colorful hanging baskets and doors that are much too small, and a little supermarket with boxes of fresh fruit and veg stacked outside between a family-run butcher and the post office.
“It is a pretty village,” Tom admits, as we meander down the street. “And it’s much nicer to see it on a day like today than in the summer when it’s buzzing with tourists. You should see the queues in the tearoom. Tempers fly, punches are thrown. The stories I could tell you.”
I laugh. “All right, then, when’s this tour I was promised going to start? So far, I have to admit, I’m not that impressed with the level of information provided by the guide.”
“What are you on about? I told you that interesting stuff about the cockerel ghost on the way here.”
“Yes, it was fascinating to hear all about the local rumors that the spirit of a cockerel roams the hills at night, waking everyone up,” I say sarcastically. “It sounds to me like it is, in fact, an actual cockerel, alive and well, and the owner of said cockerel doesn’t want to own up to having a bird that keeps the village awake all night.”
“Excuse you, but cockerels do not live for twenty years. Ah, here we have the infamous florist,” Tom says, leaning toward me to whisper in my ear. His breath on my neck makes me shudder. “Cordelia ever tell you about that summer she worked here?”
I stop outside the shop to admire the buckets of fresh flowers. “I think she may have mentioned it, but I can’t remember much.”
“As tour guide, I feel it’s my duty to fill you in. She was fifteen and a total nightmare, as you can imagine,” he informs me, keeping his voice down. “She was such a diva, thinking she was a really big star.” He chuckles at the memory. “She was always in trouble, and the cherry on the cake was when one night she got drunk with some friends and didn’t come home. Didn’t tell Mum or Dad where she was. They got the police involved and found her the next afternoon at some actor’s house.”
“That’s not good.” I wince.
“It was definitely not good,” he agrees. “Dad was furious. He grounded her for the whole summer. She wasn’t allowed to be in London. She was sent back here to Dashwell.”
“If only my teenage punishments were to have been sent to stay in a beautiful country mansion all summer.”
He gives me an apologetic smile and I feel bad for embarrassing him, so I quickly add, “It must have been lonely for her.”
