Page 11 of A Recipe for Romance in Brambleton

Luca nodded. Lauren got the impression that he may well have been the twin who found the pine cone in the first place, but for the sake of keeping things calm he’d learned to allow his brother to take the credit.

Marc turned back to Lauren. ‘Well, I hope you enjoy the rest of your walk.’ There was a slight pause between them. Their eyes met for a second longer than necessary, and Lauren’s heart did a funny flip, just like it had the first time she’d encountered him.

‘I hope you manage to find another really good one,’ she stammered, suddenly feeling shy in front of this attractive, softly spoken man with his two adorable twin boys. Stop it, she told herself. The poor guy lost his wife!

‘I’m sure we will.’ Marc gave her another smile before heading back off down the path.

Despite the slight awkwardness as they went their separate ways, Lauren couldn’t help thinking about Marc and his sons. The boys were so sweet, and Marc seemed to be managing so well on his own with them. It couldn’t be easy, lone parenting, and to twins at that. Lauren wasn’t sure if she ever wanted children. So much of her childhood had been spent supporting her mother, she felt decidedly ambivalent about having her own offspring. Then she shook her head. Perhaps she just hadn’t found the right person yet.

As she walked back home, she found that she was no longer feeling conflicted about her mother’s announcement. The fresh air, the beautiful landscape around Willowmere Lake and the brief but lovely encounter with Marc and his children had lifted her spirits. She let herself in through the back door of the maisonette and smiled when she saw that her mother had drawn her a little sketch and left her a deliciously concocted hot chocolate in her favourite Stanley thermal mug.

I thought you might appreciate something to warm you up when you got back from your walk!

Love,

Mum x

Lauren flipped the lid on the Stanley and took a cautious sip just in case it was still too hot to drink, but she needn’t have worried. Myriam had heated the milk to the perfect temperature and even left a small ramekin of marshmallows for Lauren to add when she returned. The sweet creaminess of the hot chocolate was the perfect welcome after a chilly walk. There was a good reason Lauren used Myriam’s recipe in the café. Lauren glanced again at the note and the sketch, which was a small rendering of a cute-looking Christmas elf holding an enormous mug of marshmallow-topped hot chocolate.

‘Thanks, Mum!’ she called up the stairs.

‘You’re welcome,’ Myriam replied.

That was the thing about the infrequent disharmonies of their mother-daughter relationship; they never lasted long. And although Lauren was still concerned about her mother going away, the walk had at least allowed her to get it into some perspective. Sipping hot chocolate, she wandered upstairs.

That night, she and Myriam settled down together on the sofa to watch a couple of episodes of their favourite FilmFlix drama, and Lauren tried to quieten the worried little voices inside her head. She was still worried about her mother’s health, and whether or not she’d be physically resilient enough to manage a fortnight of teaching and cruising, despite Myriam’s confident assurances. Those concerns felt perfectly logical and reasonable. The other voice was squeakier, more insistent, more selfish and kept nagging at Lauren: how are you going to cope with no-one to come home to of an evening? She needed her mother’s support regularly, to talk things through. The thought of not having Myriam at home to do that made her brain ache.

The problem was, no matter how firmly she kept putting those thoughts to one side, they just wouldn’t go away.

11

Monday morning dawned and after a decent night’s sleep, Lauren’s mood had improved. She was pleased to see a beautiful pink sunrise as she finished her coffee and got ready to open the café. She’d learned early on to unlock the doors at eight thirty during term time, which meant she would catch parents either on their way to or coming back from the school run to Everscombe.

Lower Brambleton’s primary school had closed its doors more than a decade ago, but there was a newly opened cycle path that ran from Lower Brambleton to Saint Peter’s Primary School in Everscombe that many parents used, since the narrow country roads that connected the two villages often got clogged with school traffic, and parking was a nightmare.

The entrance to the cycle path was only about ten metres from the café so on dry days, even in the winter, many parents from the Brambleton popped in for a coffee either to drink in or take away after they had deposited their precious offspring at school.

Lauren made sure the coffee machine was switched on and ready to go, topped up with the organic Costa Rican mellow blend that had proved so popular, and, now that the weather had turned chilly and frosty, she had plenty of what she termed ‘comfort confectioneries’ and ‘blissful bakes’ to tempt even the most self-disciplined school-run parent.

Lauren was savvy enough to realise that what she lacked in sales patter, she could make up for in cake. Food was her love language, she thought with a smile, as she laid out the first ten of the mini sweet potato and marshmallow slices she’d baked on Sunday evening. A traditional American Thanksgiving recipe she’d found online, she was hoping the locals might appreciate the trans-Atlantic flavours alongside their regular hot drinks.

At just gone nine o’clock, her tables were all full, as they always were on a Monday morning. Sam Parker the novelist, who usually came in early and bagged the same table in the far corner, was reduced to asking if he could balance his laptop on the end of the counter until somewhere else became free. With a grin, Lauren said he could. She liked Sam, and it was nice to have someone to chat to as he filled her in on the plot of his latest work in progress.

‘You see, I just don’t know if I should be setting this story somewhere more exotic,’ he said as he sipped his mocha latte. ‘Perhaps six books in the same village is pushing it. What do you think?’

‘I think you should go with your gut,’ Lauren replied as she slid a slice of the sweet potato and marshmallow bake over to him. ‘And your gut is telling you to try some of this.’

Sam looked sceptical. ‘Beetroot brownies I can cope with, and the courgette flapjacks were just about tolerable. But sweet potato? Sorry, love, I don’t think I can put glitter on this one.’

Lauren giggled. Sam was so easy to talk to. It was a shame he wasn’t into women. He’d made his name as a romantic novelist some years back, and every novel he wrote was an instant bestseller. He’d told her several times, with a twinkle in his eye, how, at his frequent book signings, there were always some customers who hadn’t twigged that Sam was short for Samuel and not Samantha and been ‘shocked to the core that a man should have such a good understanding of female desire’. Having read a few of his novels, Lauren wasn’t entirely sure she agreed but figured that perhaps her desires were a little removed from those of his regular readers. Not that she was into anything that might be termed outlandish, but Sam’s heroines always seemed so desperately in need of a man. Lauren would have settled for decent conversation and a home-cooked meal once in a while.

The morning rush kept Lauren’s mind off the worry about Myriam and her imminent trip, but as the café cleared out, and she cleaned down the tables ready for the next influx of customers, Sam caught her eye again. He’d moved to his usual table when it had been vacated and had requested another latte. She brought it over to his table and hovered, looking out of the bay window into the street.

‘What’s up?’ Sam asked.

Lauren started. ‘Nothing.’

‘Oh, come on, love. How long have we known each other? You’re gazing out of that window as if you’re willing Mr Darcy to ride up on his sweating stallion and whisk you off to Pemberley. What gives?’