Page 9 of A Recipe for Romance in Brambleton

‘Daddy! Luca stole my bread!’

The shrill, irritated voice broke into his musings, and even though it meant he’d have to play referee to his two sons again, Marc was grateful for the distraction. It was the mundane, the everyday, that would get him through this. Life is a journey, not a destination, he reminded himself again with a bleak smile.

‘Coming,’ he called back. Placing Luca’s gloves inside the pocket of the boy’s coat, which was, for once, hung neatly on one of the hooks in the hallway, he braced himself for lasagne-related shenanigans. Dinner times were still very much a journey, and the destination he hoped to get to, where they all got through a meal with clothing, crockery and emotions intact, sometimes felt like an incredibly long way off.

As he walked back through to the large kitchen-diner at the back of the house, he couldn’t help thinking about Lauren’s kindness. She could have just kept hold of the gloves and returned them to Noah when he popped in for a coffee, but she’d come out of her way to give them back. That was kind of her. It suggested someone who valued the small things, and that was a lesson he was still learning. Keeping that in mind, he returned to the table and determined to enjoy this messy, lively dinner with the two boys he loved beyond anything else in the world. And as his sons turned two pairs of brown eyes to him, he realised that the little things were definitely worth showing up for.

9

The next day was Sunday, and Lauren was relieved that she’d have a day to just relax. She loved the café, but her Sundays were precious, and she liked to spend time with Myriam, touching base after a busy week.

As she sat eating a decadently late breakfast, Lauren tried not to keep thinking back to her conversation on Marc’s doorstep. It had been that strange combination of sweet but terribly awkward. Situation normal, she thought to herself. She wondered what had possessed her to just rock up to the lake house. On reflection, it probably wasn’t the best course of action. He’d been pleased to get the gloves back, but any normal person, any normal café owner, would probably have just tucked them behind the counter and waited for an opportunity to give them back when Marc came back into the café. Was it a bit stalkerish that she’d jumped into her car and returned them?

‘Lauren, are you listening to me?’ Myriam’s vaguely exasperated tone cut into her thoughts, and her eyes snapped up from studying her bowl of porridge, topped with a dollop of leftover double cream from the café’s fridge, to her mother, who was sitting on the other side of the small kitchen table.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ she replied. ‘I was miles away.’

‘I could tell. Anyone I know?’ Myriam gave her a mischievous smile.

‘No,’ Lauren muttered, caught out. Myriam was as sharp as a tack when it came to Lauren’s moods; she had been since Lauren was little, and all the way through secondary school when Lauren had borne the brunt of some pretty awful bullying. There wasn’t much that Lauren could get by Myriam. But this time, Lauren wasn’t going to admit to anything. She didn’t really know what she’d be admitting to, for a start.

‘Well, you know where I am.’ Myriam’s wry smile wasn’t lost on Lauren.

The women focused on their breakfast. As Lauren was contemplating what to do with her day off, she realised her mother was chatting again.

‘Sorry? Run that past me again, Mum? What was that about a trip?’

Myriam sighed. ‘There you go, daydreaming again. I’ve been invited to be a guest artist on a river cruise over Christmas. The Rusholme Gallery in North Manchester sold one of my postgraduate pieces to a collector about six months ago and he owns the cruise line. He’s asked if I would consider doing an art residency on one of his Norwegian river trips. It’ll last thirteen nights, and they’ll fly me out to join the boat and then fly me back into Bristol airport at the end of it.’

‘And this collector got in touch with you how?’ Lauren hated the sceptical tone in her voice, but this sounded too good to be true. ‘Are you sure you’ve not been catfished, Mum?’

Myriam shook her head impatiently. ‘It’s all above board.’

‘But how do you know?’

‘I’m not an idiot, Lauren, even though you sometimes assume I am.’

‘No I don’t!’ Lauren shot back. ‘You know I just worry about you.’

‘I know, darling, but this time you needn’t.’ Myriam took a sip from her glass of orange juice. ‘Lovely Gary from the Rusholme Gallery emailed me last week about it. I was as dubious as you were, but I gave the gallery a ring and he arranged a Zoom call with Daniel Weston, of Weston River Cruises. We have to iron out a few details, but he’s sending me the draft contract this week.’

Lauren was slightly reassured. Gary Donovan had been her mother’s mentor during her postgraduate studies at the North Western School of Art. A successful artist himself, he’d set up his gallery in the early nineties, exhibiting many Brit School artists, and also much of Myriam’s early work. He’d been a good friend to her mother over the years, and, if she didn’t know better, Lauren would think that he was also a little bit in love with Myriam. But time and distance had put paid to any romantic aspirations either of them might have had. Manchester was a long way from Lower Brambleton.

But there was a bigger issue, and Lauren knew she had to broach it. ‘Mum,’ she began carefully, ‘you haven’t been anywhere on your own since that fall you had two years ago. The doctors have said it could happen again. Are you sure that being on a boat in the middle of a river is something you should risk? What if it gets… I don’t know… choppy?’

Myriam laughed. ‘It’s hardly going to be the middle of the Atlantic, love! And besides, Daniel’s assured me that every ship of his carries a fully qualified medical team. If anything happens, I’ll probably be better taken care of than I would in the local hospital!’

‘But what about the actual work? You do a shift in the café and you’re knackered. What exactly will you have to do for your residency?’

‘Two hours a day teaching guests how to paint,’ Myriam replied. ‘And…’ she raised an eyebrow suggestively ‘…Daniel likes to include a bit of life painting in that, so the views from inside the art room may well be as fabulous as the view from my cabin’s balcony!’

‘Mum!’ Lauren’s face started to burn. Even though her mother was young to have a thirty-year-old daughter, she still found any discussion about sex with her excruciating. But she wasn’t done with Myriam yet. ‘That all sounds good,’ she continued, ‘but you’re so used to having me around to help… do you think you’ll manage on your own?’

‘Oh, I won’t be on my own, darling,’ Myriam replied.

‘Oh?’

‘No, that’s the last thing I’ll be. You see, Gary’s booked the cabin next to mine, so we’ll be able to enjoy the rivers together!’