While I Was Waiting - Georgia Hill

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shook her head. ‘Not one bit. In fact, I really like having you around. I hadn’t predicted how isolated I’d feel up here sometimes. It’s lovely knowing you’re here.’

      Gabe coughed to hide his pleasure. Rachel hadn’t said anything as nice to him before. Most of their conversations centred around jobs in the house or this Hetty woman. He smiled. ‘What you going to do about the garden?’

      Rachel looked about her. If anything, the neglected weeds had grown even higher since she’d moved in. She’d been concentrating on getting the house sorted. Thank goodness it had been dry; a damp spell would have made the garden even more rampant. The back of the house was better, it was shadier there, in the lee of the hill, but out here she had to concede that it really did look a mess.

      ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve just been commissioned a job, quite a big one. That’s why I had to go to London.’

      Gabe nodded. Ridiculously, he’d missed her. It had meant he got on with the guttering twice as fast, but he’d missed her presence. He gave himself a mental shake. He was getting in way too deep here. ‘What’s the job?’

      ‘A series of flower drawings for a nature magazine. They want some seasonal paintings, twelve in all, to go with an article about identifying wild flowers.’ Rachel bit her lip. ‘It’s a huge job, the biggest I’ve been offered in ages, but it’s not going to leave much time for gardening. Such a shame,’ she added, almost to herself, ‘I’d seen myself sitting out here enjoying the garden, a glass of wine in my hand. Oh well, maybe next year.’

      Gabe could see her sitting there too, in a big hat and flowery dress. He’d like to sit beside her. He sat up, as a thought occurred. ‘I might know someone who could help!’

      ‘Oh Gabe, you are kind.’ Impulsively, Rachel put her hand on his arm. ‘But I can hardly afford to pay you and your dad, let alone hire a gardener.’

      Gabe couldn’t tear his eyes away, dazzled by the warmth in her voice. He could feel his skin humming at her touch. ‘I don’t think there’d be any money involved,’ he began at last. ‘There’s a friend of mum’s. Stan Penry. I mentioned him before. He’s not long lost his wife and he’s looking for something to do. He likes his gardening. I could get him to come up and see you if you want.’

      He coughed again, to cover his pleasure at being touched. If he reacted like this to one innocent touch on the arm, what the hell would it be like to kiss her? Or do more? He cleared his throat again and shifted away.

      ‘Well, maybe that would be an idea,’ Rachel said, not entirely enthusiastic to have yet more people disrupting her life. She looked at Gabe in concern. ‘Are you all right? You’re not getting a cold or anything?’

      It was too much. Not only had she been nice to him, she was now worrying over his health. ‘Fine, I’m fine.’ He stood up quickly. ‘Better get on. Want an early finish today. I’ll get Stan to give you a ring.’

      He began to walk away, but then changed his mind. ‘You know,’ he said, slowly, as he turned back to her. ‘You could write this up, couldn’t you? Hetty’s story, I mean.’

      ‘I’m an illustrator, not a writer.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘Never written a thing in my life. It’s not a skill I possess.’

      ‘But the writing’s been done, hasn’t it?’ Gabe added, thinking through the idea as he spoke. ‘All you’ve got to do is add the pictures. The illustrations.’ He spread a hand to the view. ‘And you’ve got most of the material here.’

      Rachel stared at him, mouth open. ‘What you mean? Like a sort of –’ she wracked her brain to remember the name of the book that had taken the publishing world by storm, years before.

      ‘The Diary of an Edwardian Country Lady!’ Gabe supplied triumphantly, slapping his thigh and making brick dust fly. ‘It could be something like that. Mum loved that book. It’s still on the shelf in the kitchen somewhere. She’d buy another like it.’

      Rachel felt excitement rising. Could she produce the drawings and paintings that would fit with the strange mix of writings Hetty had left? It might just be something she could do. And it would sell. She knew enough of the market to know that. It would be a charming book if she edited out some of the more personal stuff; she didn’t think she could allow Hetty’s intimate details to be known. Then her cautious nature kicked in. ‘It’s a bit early to be thinking of things like that, though, isn’t it? I’ve only read a few pages.’

      He gave her a long, measuring look. ‘You underestimate yourself a lot, don’t you? Of course you could do it. Have confidence in what you do! From what I’ve seen of your work, you’d have no problems.’ The easy smile appeared and she realised how much she looked forward to seeing it every day. ‘I really think there’s mileage in it. Never say never, Rachel. I bet Hetty never did.’

      And with that, he strode away, leaving Rachel staring, unseeing at the view.

       Chapter 9

      On the following Thursday, Rachel went into nearby Fordham. It was a little market town, full of traditional half-timbered, black-and-white houses, with a library and a reasonable range of shops. Most importantly, for Rachel, it had a main branch post office manned by the inquisitive and bad-tempered Rita. The place was heaving with what seemed the entire county’s over-sixties. She assumed it was pension day. Joining the queue and enjoying ear-wigging the cheerful conversations they were all having, she finally managed to send off some examples of her work to a prospective client.

      It was a soft sort of a day and Rachel was reluctant to return home immediately. Strolling along the town’s main street, she found herself outside the windows of Grant, Foster and Fitch, the estate agents. Out of habit, she glanced at the houses for sale. There was a chocolate-box thatched cottage not far from Stoke St Mary on offer. In the usual estate agents’ parlance, it claimed it was immaculately presented and deceptively spacious. ’No work required, move in condition,’ Rachel read. She couldn’t help a sigh escape and then gave a twisted grin as she saw the asking price. Far more than she’d paid for Clematis Cottage and far more than she could ever hope to afford. It looked as though Clematis Cottage and she were destined to have a scruffy and dusty relationship for a bit longer.

      She was just turning away, intent on investigating the irresistible smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the baker’s next door, when she saw Mr Foster smiling and waving at her through the window.

      He came out into the sunshine. ‘Miss Makepeace. How lovely to see you! Come on in, have a coffee with us. Do.’

      Rachel hesitated.

      ‘I’ve got raisin croissants, they’re my weakness, I’m afraid.’ Mr Foster patted his impressive stomach ruefully. ‘Shouldn’t eat them at all and if Mrs F finds out, she’ll have my considerable guts for garters. Come and eat the third one I shouldn’t have bought.’ He made a face. ‘Save me!’

      Rachel grinned and nodded. She followed him into the office, familiar from her weekend property-hunting trips, and which now seemed to belong to another lifetime and lifestyle. As her eyes adjusted to the comparative gloom she saw another man rise from behind a desk.

      ‘How nice to meet you at last,’ he said and held out a hand.

      He was startlingly good-looking. So much so that Rachel took his hand in silence and only mustered up a smile as a first response.

      ‘Miss Makepeace,’ said Mr Foster, ‘allow me to introduce you to my partner, Neil Fitch.’

      ‘Hello.’ She took in the man’s height, blue-black hair and vivid, blue eyes. ‘It’s Rachel,’ she said, a little shy, and then pulled herself together. ‘If I’m about to share your food, perhaps we ought to be on first names at least.’

      ‘Delighted to be so,’ said

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