Page 23 of A Touch of Magic at the Comfort Food Café
‘Oh gosh yes! Definitely going. And I’m making him come with me. There was a party at the café last year, and he skipped it ’cause he’s a grump. I went as a sexy witch– well, a witch– and that was the night we… ah… connected, when I got back here.’
‘Is that what the kids are calling it these days?’ I ask, as I place the cards and samples in my bag.
‘Okay, fair enough. It was the first night we tore each other’s clothes off. So, kind of our anniversary really! The kids will all come back for it as well, the village teenagers who’ve moved away, mine who are at uni. It’ll be fun. We’re going as pirates. Gabriel doesn’t know that yet, so don’t tell him.’
I can’t imagine a situation where Gabriel and I would ever make small talk. ‘Aye aye captain. Your secret’s safe with me. I have no idea if I’m going. It’s not… I feel stupid even asking this because I’m sure I know the answer, but it’s not a date type situation, is it? We don’t have to go with partners?’
‘No, Sarah. It’s not like the prom in an American high school movie. There’ll be a coach laid on from the café I suspect, because it’s a bit of a hike to Briarwood. Something to look forward to, anyway.’
‘If you say so,’ I reply, heading to the doorway.
‘I do say so. Stop being a Gabriel. It’ll be hilarious. Singing, dancing, costumes, Cherie’s famous Pumpkin Spice Punch and Murderous Martini. How could you resist?’
‘I’d find it remarkably easy, I’m afraid, Max. Anyway. Thanks again, and I’ll definitely be in touch about the house. It’s only small so I don’t want to get carried away. Lick of paint for now, I think. Plus, I’d like to get rid of some of the downstairs carpets.’
‘I’ll pop round some time if you like,’ she says, walking me to the door, ‘see the state of your floorboards.’
‘I’m not sure I’m ready for that level of commitment, at least not until we’ve been out a few more times… Now, can you give me some directions to Aidan’s place? Edie was threatening to cycle there on her bike to deliver his invite, so I said I’d drop it off for her.’
Gabriel, who is sanding down a pine door nearby, lets out a snort of laughter at that. Max joins in. Gary remains blessedly stoical about the whole thing.
‘Edie doesn’t cycle,’ Max explains. ‘But she is an absolute mistress of gentle manipulation. She has a way of persuading you to do things, without you even noticing. Gabriel is basically her slave, aren’t you, love?’
‘Yep. Happy to be, too.’
This is quite a speech for Gabriel, and I smile at the image of this taciturn man spending time with the old lady. Friendship comes in all shapes and sizes, I guess.
Max gives me instructions on how to reach Hazelwell where Aidan lives, and warns me that there’s no handy post box on the main road, and also that it’s not ‘right in your face’ like their farmhouse is. Apparently the house is so deeply hidden in the parcel of land around it that nobody’s even seen it in recent times. I guess that all adds to the sense of mystery around him and fuels the gossipy fires. I must call in and see Cherie later, I find myself thinking, and give her the lowdown… if I make it that far, anyway. Maybe I’ll just chicken out and post it to him.
Except… I also brought him a little gift, and now I feel like a complete idiot for that. I climb back into the car and give a beep as I leave– Max has explained that it is required countryside etiquette to beep when you come or go– and head out into the hills. I try not to think too hard, because all this ever does is wear me out.
It’s a clear day, but the wind is noticeably stronger than it has been, and I see crisp brown leaves swirling from the trees. It looks like they’re dancing around in little whirlwinds. The temperature is dropping, and I wonder how many days of sunshine we have left. It already feels like we’re on borrowed time. Before long, I will be preparing for my first Christmas in my new home, which makes me smile. It already feels like exactly the refuge I was looking for. Peaceful, quiet, remote, by the sea– but with an unexpected amount of ‘people’ stuff to navigate. I really hadn’t expected so much people stuff– coffee clubs and unexpected visitors and balls and men. Or one in particular. One I can’t quite banish from my mind.
I see the wooden sign that points me towards Hazelwell, just as Max told me I would. I suck in a breath and make the turn. Why am I making such a big deal of this? I’m dropping a coupleof things off with someone who is practically a neighbour, and then I’m going home. There is no drama to be found here, no moral dilemma. No cause for embarrassment or self-analysis. In, out, gone.
I tell myself this as I make my way down the narrow one-way track, my car edging between the overhanging greenery and bumping over the uneven terrain. I can see why he has a four-wheel drive.
I reach an open wooden gate and continue on down the path. I see his big black jeep parked just inside another gate, this one tall and closed to. I pull up and go to examine the gate. This one is much taller and made of metal. It’s bolted but not padlocked or anything. I nervously push back the metal bolt, open it just wide enough to fit myself through, and close it again.
I glance around, finding myself in the courtyard of an old stone farmhouse that’s not dissimilar from the one Max and Gabriel live in. It’s pretty, in that way that older buildings are– acquiring character as they age. Off to one side is a wooden outbuilding in good condition– maybe a stable or some kind of store– and a huge pile of chopped logs. An axe has been lodged solidly into a big stump, and I shake my head to clear off the image of Aidan, shirtless, axe in hand as he works. I’m turning into a romance novelist. I don’t think my agent would appreciate the change in direction.
I notice that there is a tall metal fence running around the perimeter, disappearing off into the dense woodland behind the house. I wonder if Aidan is security conscious because of his background. He literally comes from the kind of family that could be a kidnap risk. He seems very laid back, but maybe he has been raised to think about risk and danger and potential threats. If so, maybe he could give me some advice, because I’ve still made no progress in sorting an alarm system for the house.
I walk towards the door, my feet crunching on the gravel, and knock on it firmly before I can chicken out. I cast my eyes around, looking for cameras, but see nothing, not even a Ring doorbell. It’s quiet out here, just the sound of the birds in the background and the whistle of the wind blowing through the treetops. I knock again. Nothing.
I feel suddenly quite spooked, realising how isolated I am. I know there’s a road on the other side of the land, but it’s a long way from where I am right now. What if something’s happened? What if he’s been murdered and he’s lying in a pool of his own blood? What if there’s been an accident, or the house is rigged with a bomb, or he’s about to emerge with bloodshot eyes, infected with a virus that makes him want to tear people limb from limb? What if the rumours were true, and he is a werewolf or a vampire?
What if you get a grip, you daft cow? I physically slap myself lightly on the forehead. It really is exhausting having this kind of brain. It’s like a mouse in a microwave, being chased by a cat on acid. A never-ending carousel of mental chaos. Just because Martin/Scott turned out to be a genuinely nasty guy doesn’t mean all my crazy fears will come true. I have so many crazy fears that it was really just a case of even a stopped clock being right. It was bound to happen at some point or another, and one bad experience does not a pattern make.
Feeling a little calmer, I knock once more and peer through the window. I consider trying the door, but that is a step too far. I’d never, ever leave mine unlocked, but if I did, I’d still be outraged if someone simply walked in without permission. For all of my creative explanations for there being no response, the truth is undoubtedly something a lot more prosaic, like he’s out on his property somewhere, or in the shower. Or maybe he has spotted me already, and he’s lying on the floor hoping I go away.
That humiliating idea takes root, of course, and I hastily pull Edie’s silver envelope from my bag, intending to simply post it through the letterbox and leave as quickly as possible.
I’m just bending down to do exactly that when I hear the most bloodcurdling noise. A long, piercing… howl. There’s no other word for it. It’s not just me imagining things. I freeze, and feel the familiar paralysing terror starting to creep over me. I force myself to stand up straight, and manage to suck in a long, deep breath, my nostrils trembling.
The noise continues, eerie and almost beautiful. At least it would be if I wasn’t so afraid. Another howl joins in, a slightly different tone, and then another and another. They wail and yowl together, the plaintive notes climbing higher and lasting longer. They seem to tumble over each other, rising and soaring and falling in a glorious and heart-stopping song. It triggers a primal fear in me that tells me to run, run, run, but even though I know I should, I am rooted to the spot, feet in blocks of cement.
I don’t want to look. I don’t want to face whatever it is behind me. My heart is thudding in my chest, and I feel lightheaded and shaky. I’ve been scared before, usually without good cause, but this is it, I know. This is finally it. Eaten alive by wolves.
