Sunrise at Butterfly Cove - Sarah Bennett Butterfly Cove

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you manage tonight without a shower? The only useable one is in my room and I just can’t have you in there.’ She turned away, needing to put some distance between them, muttering to herself as she resumed her seat. ‘I just can’t have you in my space.’

      Mia crossed one arm over her chest and rubbed her other shoulder. The body language was defensive, but she couldn’t help it. With each passing moment, panic rose. She wanted to rescind her offer, shove Daniel out the door and erect all her barriers again. Danger! Keep Out! No Trespassing! She forced her hands down into her lap and tried to relax and keep her breathing calm.

      ‘You’ve done more than I could ever have expected under the circumstances. I’m sorry to put you in this position.’ His quiet tone sounded soft and sincere. With a rueful laugh, he continued. ‘But apparently not sorry enough that I can bring myself to do the honourable thing and leave you in peace. I will do my best to repay you with a lot of hard work and I wouldn’t dream of invading any more of your home than you are comfortable with sharing. A hot shower and a proper bed will be motivation tomorrow to get stuck in.’

      Mia felt his eyes on her but didn’t want to meet them. She crossed over to the kitchen window, pulling the curtains closed over the rapidly darkening sky. ‘It gets dark so quickly this time of year.’ She rolled her eyes at her inane remark; her back was turned so thankfully he didn’t see her. The decision was made and it was time to face up to it. Hopefully they would find some neutral ground where they could both relax a little and adjust to the other’s company.

      She’d always been a feeder by nature, a nurturer. It was a source of deep regret that she and Jamie had not felt ready to have a child because at least then she would’ve had a piece of him to care for. They’d been young, eager to explore the world together, revelling in the selfish bliss of just their own company, not having to split their attentions on anything other than each other. They had their whole lives ahead of them, Jamie had said. No need to rush into a family.

      A burst tyre and a slick, wet road had robbed them of their future; those dream babies that Mia had pictured holding would never fill her empty arms. ‘Shit, shit, stop it, Mia!’ She shook her head to dislodge the memories threatening to encroach.

      Needing to hide for a moment to regain her compose, she crossed the kitchen and entered the narrow pantry that ran the length of the room. It was a treasure of a space. Sturdy, wide shelves down one side and a built-in wine rack at the far end. The bare stone floor helped to keep the temperature cooler than the rest of the kitchen, but was brutal underfoot this time of year, even with thick woollen socks on.

      Mia grabbed the cob loaf wrapped in a muslin cloth and returned to the main kitchen space, wiggling her feet gratefully on the warmer floor in front of the Aga. She unwrapped the bread and tested its freshness. She’d baked it a couple of days ago, but the cloth had helped to keep it from drying out. Opening the fridge, she retrieved half a roast chicken, a pot of single cream and some stock. She placed them on the board and turned back towards the pantry. Daniel watched her, a slightly quizzical expression on his face.

      ‘I thought I’d make some soup, nothing too testing if your stomach is still feeling a little rebellious. We’ll both feel better for a hot meal, I think.’

      She carried on past the table and back into the pantry to root in her vegetable basket for the bits she needed to thicken the soup and up the nutritional punch. Since moving to Orcombe, she’d made a conscious effort to eat well, having neglected herself for too long after Jamie’s death. Cooking and baking had always been a source of comfort and enjoyment. Originally it had been a chore that she had learned through necessity thanks to her mother’s negligence and her father’s steadfast refusal to notice his wife’s drink problem.

      As the oldest of three, it had fallen to Mia to assume the responsibility for the day-to-day care of her two sisters. Each of them had taken on a different role to survive their upbringing. Kiki had been the pacifier, covering for their mother and making excuses for their father spending so many hours buried in his work. Nee had been the warrior protector of her elder sisters. A tiny bundle of spirit and fury from a young age, she was the one who verbally sparred with their father, driving him to distraction and the sanctuary of his study in her vain efforts to get his attention. Her exhortations to their mother to put down her glass and give a damn led to tears on both sides.

      Together the girls had done their best to look out for each other but they had scattered to the winds as soon as they could. Mia and Kiki to young marriages; Nee to art school and more recently overseas. Mia glanced over to the pinboard at the postcard of Times Square lit up in all its seedy glory. She hadn’t heard from Nee since that last card had arrived about three weeks ago and it struck Mia suddenly she had no idea where her little sister was other than somewhere in Manhattan.

      ‘I’m not a great cook, but I take instruction well. Is there anything I can do to help?’ Daniel’s deep voice broke through her reverie.

      Mia blinked at him, trying to gather her thoughts before pointing to the cooked chicken. ‘You can shred the meat from that if you don’t mind; that would be a great help. Take it over to the table with you so that you don’t get under my feet. I’m not used to anyone else in the kitchen these days.’

      ‘But you used to have someone else in your kitchen?’ Daniel prompted and Mia couldn’t stop her whole body from stiffening.

      She kept slicing and chopping, her hands working automatically as she reeled under an assault of memories. At least Jamie had never been in this kitchen. It was her own space, manageable most days. ‘No sad stories, remember?’ She jabbed her finger at the radio on the countertop next to her.

      A commercial music station filled the kitchen with a rhythmic beat and Mia flicked the volume up a couple of notches, erecting a wall of sound that separated them. She chopped the vegetables with a practiced hand, added them to a large saucepan with the chicken stock and set it to simmer on the top of the Aga.

      Daniel bent to his task, stripping the meat from the carcass of the chicken, shredding it as he placed it on a clean plate. Mia paused to check his efforts before she returned to the stove, tapping a wooden spoon against the pan in time with the music as she checked the progress of the soup.

      The music caught her in its rhythm and she swayed and sang along, waiting for the stock to boil. She couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, but she loved to sing. Aiming for the high note in the chorus, she missed her target by a country mile. A soft chuckle behind her reminded her that she wasn’t alone.

      If her face glowed, it was the heat from the stove and most definitely not a blush.

      Daniel relaxed back in his chair and focused on Mia. He was surprised to find that he was hungry after his earlier disgrace, but the scents filling the kitchen soothed him and gave him a little more strength to push away the embarrassment threatening to rise again. And not just over his performance earlier. He’d have to call his client from yesterday and apologise for his unprofessional behaviour.

      Over the last year, his agent had pushed him into more and more private sittings, trying to turn him into a half-baked celebrity snapper. Soap actresses, footballer’s wives, and the idle rich had jumped at the chance of a personal portrait sitting with sexy, brooding Fitz, so bloody Nigel reckoned. He couldn’t deny the money had been good, more than good, and the constant round of parties had been fun. Until suddenly they weren’t.

      Yesterday’s client, a sweet girl engaged to her childhood sweetheart who’d been swept into the celebrity bubble because he could kick a ball, had borne the brunt of his hangover and short temper. When she’d shown him into the carefully staged room and spoken earnestly about learning about composition in GCSE art classes, something snapped inside him.

      Storming out on a stream of curses, he’d gone straight to his favourite pub to try and drown his sorrows. The row with Giselle over failing to escort her to some stupid party had been the final straw.

      Guilt sent an uneasy roil

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