Anjuli rubbed her nose. Dreams weren’t supposed to feel real, were they? And couldn’t hers have been a little more enigmatic? How about pink bunnies spouting riddles while dancing samba in Iceland, or a drag queen Mona Lisa who took her on a psychedelic trip along with the Ghost of Concerts Past?
Well, she needed neither whack nor quack to get the picture. She should conquer her fears and rescue the prince. Throw in a galloping horse...blah, blah...happily ever after. Except this wasn’t a fairy tale. The prince wasn’t supposed to turn his back. He wasn’t supposed to look through her as if she didn’t exist and leave her. Alone.
Hadn’t Rob said he was a patient man? What happened to understanding her guilt over Chloe? Or how difficult it was to face an uncertain future? He wanted her to say she loved him and she couldn’t. The words had stuck in her throat, refusing to be uttered. So now she screamed at her dream castle three or four times a week. Wedged between her feelings for Rob and a dark sense of foreboding, she went through the bright summer days on autopilot, checking her phone for messages, lifting her head every time a punter walked into the pub and staring at her computer screen in case it pinged with an email.
The only time she’d seen Rob in the past three weeks had been at the pub, at a follow up windmill meeting. She had been worked off her feet and he had left without a single word to her. Not once had he spared her a glance or smiled in her direction.
Composing the email to tell him about her finances the day after he’d caught her with Damien had taken several excruciating hours. At the end she had sent it and cried herself to sleep. Anxiously she waited for his answer, but when he responded she wished that he hadn’t. That way she could have preserved the illusion that his indifference towards her would pass.
She knew every dry, clipped word of his return message by heart.
Further to your communication regarding payment of invoice number 7564 and your financial situation, may I suggest the following: I will purchase Castle Manor from you for the amount you paid and reimburse you for the monies you have expended on the restoration to date.
If you are amenable please contact my solicitor to discuss, details below.
That was it. No “dear” or “yours truly” or even “best regards.” No sign that Rob felt anything other than contempt for her. Nevertheless, she’d gotten lost trying to locate his house in Halton Forest, only to get there and find that he was out. The scribbled note she’d pushed under the door had been ignored. Rob had made his decision about her, and it was final. He wanted the manor, not the lady.
Selling Castle Manor would be akin to losing a good friend; two, if she included Heaverlock Castle. She had only herself to blame for her predicament, of course, but that didn’t stop her from railing against her misfortune.
“The mafia would have put out a hit on Brendan by now,” Ash had said sourly, after her shift that afternoon. “He’d be coughing up the money he owes you—literally.”
Anjuli grimaced. “Maybe I should phone Mum and ask if we have any Italian relatives.”
Mrs. P. was at the other end of the bar. “Good reiver blood would lend you the fierceness you need.”
Did she listen in on every conversation in the village?
Ash escaped to her office, leaving Anjuli to Mrs. P.’s stories of her heroic and bloodthirsty ancestors. “Of course, with a surname like Carver I would imagine your family has its fair share of fighters and—”
“Would you give Rob a message for me?” Anjuli interrupted.
“That’s impossible, dear.”
“Impossible?”
Mrs. P. patted her stomach. “I find a small sherry suits my digestion at this time of day.”
Anjuli poured her a measure of Fino Seco. “On the house.”
A few dainty sips later, Mrs. P. sighed contentedly “Rob is in Boston, signing his contracts. He’s going to build schools in America.”
Rob had gone overseas without telling her? Her heart sank to her feet, a well-worn trajectory these days. “So it’s definite then? He’s leaving Heaverlock?”
Mrs. P. frowned. “I’ve done all I can to convince him to stay, but changing his mind is like trying to cancel the Common Riding Festival. I blame that sister of his. She put it into his head to leave.”
No, it hadn’t been Mac.
Anjuli listened to Mrs. P.’s ramble about Rob’s move to America until she was glassy-eyed. Why had she poured her such a large measure? The smile she’d fixed to her face felt like a dental prong, stretching her lips into a grotesque facsimile of happiness while inside she was writhing in pain.
Finally, Mrs. P. heaved herself off the barstool. “I really must be going.”