Chapter One

(Grace & Maggie were introduced in FRESH START SUMMER. But you don’t need to read that first to join these girls on their trip of a lifetime. You’ll love  these who women have a deep, if sometimes spunky, friendship!)

As the wheels touched tarmac, Grace drew in a breath, relieved she’d survived the dreaded Atlantic crossing. Her tour book closed with a thunk and she peeked out the tiny window as the plane shuddered and turned to roll toward the gate. The flight attendant’s “Welcome to London,” in a brisk English accent seemed way too cheerful for someone who had just worked the breakfast shift.

She leaned over as Maggie stirred. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya.”

Maggie Elmsley, world traveler and Grace’s best friend, pushed her facemask up and blinked. “That’s Irish.”

“Pardon?”

“Your greeting and bad accent are Irish. We’re in England.”

“Drat. I’ve been studying British phrases so I won’t embarrass you in front of Emma. Don’t want to sound like I’ve never traveled outside my own state. Guess I need more work.”

Maggie ducked her head of frazzled red curls and hauled the bag Grace called Purse Everest onto her lap. “You’ll pick up the lingo, and I have to say I’m proud of you. Your first airline travel and you cross the ocean. No one would guess a few months ago you were a white knuckler.”

“Except I didn’t sleep a wink all night. Not like some people who can wake up, eat breakfast and then doze through the descent.” Grace wrestled her carry-on from under the seat. Thumping underneath their seats startled her and she bumped her head on the window, squinting at baggage handlers working below. She didn’t want to start the trip on a sour note and reconsidered her tone. “Our vacation—make that pony trekking holiday awaits!” She opened a pack of mints and offered one to Maggie, who traded her for a comb.

“Your rooster tail may be appropriate for the morning hour, but you look ridiculous.”

“Local time is 6:45,” the attendant continued. “On behalf of your London-based crew, we thank you for choosing British Airways and hope you have a lovely stay.”

Grace pulled the teeth through tangles; glad her hair was only chin length. She smeared gloss across dry lips, prepared for their great adventure.

They negotiated baggage claims, customs, and after a grueling wait through passport control, found the cabstand, and by midmorning were settled on the train north to Newmarket.

####

Emma Hayes-Shaw steered into the station car park as the express from London pulled to a stop. She hurried over to the passenger exit and wondered if she’d recognize her friend after twenty years apart.

“Emma, over here!” An American accent called.

“Maggie.” Emma wrapped her arms around the taller woman and stood back. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“You haven’t either!” They studied each other with familiar fondness for a moment. “Now that we’re finished lying to each other.” Maggie gestured at Grace. “Meet my other oldest friend in the world, Grace Harkins.”

“So pleased to meet you.” Emma shook her hand. “After reading all Maggie’s news about Cherryvale, I feel I’ve known you for years.”

“Me too.” Grace leaned in for a hug, but jumped back. “I must reek.” She winced. “Odor de airplane.”

“Not at all.” Emma hugged her neck. “Overseas travel suits you.”

“I hope your bonnet is large enough for all our luggage.” Grace tugged her rolling case behind Emma and Maggie chatting in that catching-up familiarity of fond friends.

Emma stopped at a dark green Range Rover that had obviously traveled many miles. “Here we are. I’ll just unlock the boot.” She nodded toward the front of the vehicle. “Bonnet’s where we keep the engine.”

Grace felt her face warm despite the chill wind.

“She’s been studying terminology.” Maggie flicked a hand toward the book Grace clutched. “Maybe you should get your money back.”

“Nonsense, I think that’s brilliant.” Emma smiled warmly. “Even though we share a common language, some of the terms can be muddled.” She stood back while Grace and Maggie lifted up their suitcases. “We carried the boys and their teammates, gear included, to many football matches in this. I should buy something smaller now it’s just me. Shall we?”

Grace tried to catch Maggie’s eye, wondering if she also heard the timbre of melancholy in her friend’s voice.

####

Emma steered through traffic on High Street while Grace prayed for quick adaptation to left lane riding. “How long a drive is it to—” She searched jet-lag brain. “Sorry. Maggie said your home is called Sunnyside something?”

“Sunnyside Laurels. It’s about a half-hour drive.” Emma’s green eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. “Another decision I need to make. I should sell the place. Rattling around in that big house, now that Peter’s gone…” Her voice cracked, she drew in a breath. “After the heart attack. And the boys have moved on to careers of their own.”

Maggie laid a hand on Emma’s shoulder, one widow consoling another. Grace allowed them their moment. She’d gotten a fair amount of experience friending a widow since Maggie’s Joe passed two years ago. She twisted her wedding ring and suddenly missed Mark. Her last glimpse of him was a wave and encouraging thumbs-up as she stepped through airport security.

Emma lifted her chin. “I’m glad the weather’s held for you, it should be quite nice while you’re here.”

“I really like the way you name your homes here. We should name our places, Maggs.” While they idled at a crosswalk, or a zebra crossing, Grace remembered, she watched Saturday morning shoppers go in and out of a Marks and Spencer. Next door, a restaurant’s chalkboard sign advertised “Lunch to Go, £3.”

“Have you ever been abroad?” Emma inquired, catching Grace’s eye in the mirror again.

“Never. Only traveled vicariously through Maggie’s slideshows. I guess the place must have changed since then. She took some great shots her last visit here.”

“It’s still much the same I assure you.” Emma waved another car into the lane. “England progresses at quite a deliberate pace. A snail’s pace, really. But it suits me.”

They crawled in traffic between half-timbered buildings crowded against narrow streets, then picked up speed past rows of townhomes, city parks and an industrial area. The road widened, and in between hedgerows, Grace caught glimpses of vegetable farms and horse racing stables.

Soon, Emma slowed and turned. A tractor pulled aside to let them pass along the one-lane road. The farmer atop waved as they bumped onto the grassy shoulder to go around him. An opening in the thick hedge revealed a two-story stone cottage. Abundant roses’ unruly bracts clung to second floor windows like untidy bangs on a schoolgirl’s face.

“Welcome to Sunnyside Laurels. I’m sure you’re quite ready for a lie down or a spot of tea.” Emma unlocked the front door and they followed her into a dim hallway where she stopped at a flight of stairs. “Maggie, you’ll remember the rooms, I’ll let you find your way. I’ve put fresh sheets on the beds and clean towels in the loo. There’s an extension on the landing if you’d like to make a safe arrival call.” Emma hung their jackets alongside her parka on an antique hall tree. “I’ll just go through and put the kettle on. Take your time, join me whenever you’re ready.”

They clumped upstairs, peeked into the rooms and chose the two closest to the bathroom.

Grace drew back yellowed lace curtains to let light in her room. The glass was dingy, and what little sun filtered through couldn’t brighten the gloom that shrouded the cottage. “So much for the sunny side of the laurels,” she mumbled to herself, and went into the hallway to call Mark.

###

“You look refreshed.” Emma had set a lovely table with silver spoons, lace-trimmed napkins, and a delicate tea set. She nodded at a chair at a long farmhouse table.

Generous splashes of warm water on her face and hands, fresh jeans and a cotton shirt made Grace feel almost human. She took a seat across from Emma. “This is lovely, what pattern is it?” Turning over a teacup to admire peach and red roses and a dainty gold rim, she sucked in a breath. A tiny cobweb covered the bottom and she set it back down with a clatter. A wall of framed pictures gave her an idea. “Is that one of those cemetery rubbings I read about?” She gestured at a wall hanging. The rubbing, framed in a thin film of dust, hung crooked on the wall. When Emma turned to look, Grace switched the inhabited cup with Maggie’s.

“Yes.” Emma nodded, turning back. “Are you interested in making some?”

“Oh, yes, if we have time.” Grace angled the fresh cup for a sneak peek. Its rose-patterned interior appeared web free.

“Didn’t your mother teach you it’s impolite to examine your hostess’ dishes?” Maggie settled in a chair across from her.

Busted.  “Hmm?” She tried to look innocent. “Oh, sorry.”

“The pattern is Old Country Roses.” Emma poured hot water into the matching pot. “Been in my family for several generations.”

“I read about brass rubbings.” Grace watched Maggie to see if she’d look in the cup but she held it out to Emma without so much as a glance. Serves her right for scolding me. “I understand there’re only a few places left where you can still rub the actual brass plaques.” She kept an eye on Maggie’s tea for floaters.

“You’re quite correct.” Emma moved a tray toward them. “Too many people over centuries have worn down the detail on them. Are you milk or lemon?”

“Milk, please.” Guilt stirred and Grace tried to think of a way to alert Maggie to the bug-tritus. She cut her eyes toward the culprit cup. “You know what we’re talking about, right?”

Oblivious, Maggie squeezed a dollop of honey into her arachni-tea.

“I know what they are.”

“It’s been ages since I went on any outings like that.” Emma leaned back, her gaze distant. “Or anywhere…since…”

“Between treks, maybe we could tour some of the churches and cemeteries. Old gravestones can be quite informative.” A clump spun to the surface of Grace’s drink. Did that guidebook mention anything about British cows giving lumpy milk?

Grace tried to get her attention, but Maggie shook her head and focused on Emma. “What about the volunteering you spoke of in your last letter?” Maggie squeezed a lemon and Grace’s hand flew to her eye.

Emma jumped up in alarm. “Heaven sakes that must sting. I’ll get a wet cloth.” She hurried into the kitchen and they heard water running.

Maggie hissed under her breath. “I’m trying to get her to focus on positive things and you’re talking about cemeteries?”

“Point taken about happy thoughts, but did you have to sacrifice my eye?” Grace blinked but before she could explain about the spider-compromised cup, Emma came back in and handed her a damp dishtowel.

“If that doesn’t help, you could splash water.” Emma peered at her as she dabbed. “My bathroom’s just there, through the bedroom.”

“I’ll be fine.” She thought about calling Mark to ask if she would go blind from citrus toxins, but it did feel better. She noticed food next to the tea set and her hunger trumped the pain in her eye. “Are those cookies?”

Emma moved the plate of golden disks within reach. “Biscuit?”

“This is the secret Shortbread recipe if I remember correctly,” Maggie crooned.

Grace tried to focus her good eye. Maggie reached past her hand hovering over the plate.

“Now who needs an etiquette lesson?” She slapped playfully at Maggie and groped. “Come here whatever you’re called.”

Maggie mumbled through a mouthful. “You’re not going to believe how good they are.”

Emma watched the two banter. “It’s been ages since I baked. I hope they’re all right.”

“We used to try and bribe the recipe from Emma….” Maggie popped another morsel. “But she never broke. Grace is quite a baker herself.”

Grace realized the buttery, slightly salty yet nutty confection ranked among the top five tastes she’d ever experienced.

“Muffins, as I remember.” Emma’s expression relaxed into a half-smile. “More tea?”

“Yes, please.” Grace held up her cup. “These are scrumptious, and it’s not just because I haven’t eaten since we were over the Atlantic.”

“Oh, dear.” Emma fumbled and dribbled onto the cloth. “I’m so sorry. I should have offered you something of more substance.” She scooted her chair back, ran a distracted hand through already mussed auburn hair. “I’m such a nit. Do forgive me. I believe I have some lamb stew.” She scurried into the kitchen and opened and closed cupboards. The fridge door slammed and Emma trotted past them, her heavy shoes clop-clopping down the short hallway. “I’ll check the larder.”

Grace watched her disappear onto what she assumed was a service porch. She caught Maggie’s eye.

“Pantry,” Maggie explained.

“I didn’t mean to upset her.” More doors opened and closed. “I feel terrible. Can’t you do something?”

Maggie lowered her drink. “I have a better idea,” she called in Emma’s direction. “Grace wants to see an authentic English pub.” Grace shook her head but Maggie nodded. “We could use a short nap and a shower. Then let’s all go out for a lovely dinner.”

That idea made sense even though it meant Grace’s tummy would have to wait. She grabbed another cookie. Biscuit. Whatever. It would have to make do.

####

“I’m really concerned.” Maggie sat on the edge of Grace’s bed and combed out curls still dripping from the shower. “What do you think?”

“You know her better than I do.” Dust motes twirled in the haze above her bed. At least the sheets were clean for the short nap she’d managed before Maggie tapped on her door.

“Even I know better than to cut my own hair. Those horrible shoes are from the seventies and if I’m not mistaken they’re not even women’s.” Grace chuckled, remembering the “summer of hats” after her own kids played barber.

Maggie strode to the window. “Even if you could see through this filth, the view is terrible. Her roses and vines are out of control and the weeds are taking over. She used to keep an immaculate home, cooked enormous amounts of food and hosted legendary corporate events for Peter’s division.”

Grace fought back a shiver. “Who can go in that kitchen? The floor’s absolutely sticky.” And then a belch. “I think the milk was off, too.”

“We got here just in time.” Maggie emphasized with a hairbrush stab at Grace. “She’s in a tail-spin.”

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