‘Hence the caterpillars and butterflies.’
‘Zinnia’s come a long way.’ She sighed. ‘But you can understand why being interrupted by a stranger was unwelcome.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Hattie glanced up at me, sharply. ‘No.I’msorry. It would never have happened if… Well. Let’s just say, I’ve got a lot on my mind. Which is another reason I need your help.’
‘Can you tell me more about that? My services are for people who’ve been bereaved. I help clear houses, complete admin. Bring everything to a close, as painlessly as possible. Why do you want my help when no one’s died?’
She gave a rueful smile. ‘I’m only fifty-five but that’s two years older than my mother when I lost her. I’ve got a big house here, crammed with history and memories. I don’t want to wait until I’m doddery and decrepit before I start sorting through it. And if anything happens to me, I loathe the idea of strangers pawing their way through my possessions. I also want –need– someone to know the story. Of this house. Of my family. Now feels like the time to tell it.’
‘To put in a book?’
‘Goodness me, no. I tell my stories through pictures, not words.’
‘So why didn’t you explain to those women that you’re hiring me to help you sort through the house, get things ready in case the worst happens?’
‘Because it’s none of their business.’
‘Okay.’
She shook her head. ‘And because some of this story isn’t pleasant, or easy to remember. I don’t want people sniffing about, asking questions or spreading gossip. I don’t want Harriet Langford’s story intruding onto Hattie Hood, and the lovely life I’ve created for her here. I want to sort it, then neatly pack it away once we’ve finished, and carry on. That’s why I haven’t asked Lizzie or Gideon to help. They’ve got enough to do.’
‘You’ve mentioned Lizzie a few times. Is she family?’
Hattie smiled. ‘I wish. Although if she was, she might not get away with bossing me about so much. Lizzie is my assistant. She sorts my schedules and classes, emails and admin, as well as cleaning, shopping and making sure I remember to eat. She relishes a long to-do list, is an all-round genius and I’d be lost without her. She also loves to talk, especially about her famous employer, which is another reason I don’t want her knowing why you’re here.’
‘She thinks we’re writing a book as well, then?’
‘She does.’
‘And Gideon?’
Her whole face lit up. ‘Heisfamily. My cousin. His mother, Agnes, was married to my uncle, Chester. Chester died a long time ago, but Agnes and Gideon live in the boathouse.’
I remembered the arrow pointing to the boathouse on the sign near the entrance.
‘You don’t think they’d want to help? Or to hear the family story?’
‘Potentially. But Agnes is seventy-eight, and suffers from terrible arthritis, amongst other ailments. On top of caring for his mother, Gideon runs his own business.’ She stood up, taking our now empty plates and loading them into the dishwasher. ‘Besides, Chester was my father’s brother. Riverbend belonged to my mother’s family. My father chose to be the villain in this story. Gideon won’t hear that pathetic tale until he has to.’
She opened the fridge and stared at the contents until I got up and pointed out the individual pavlovas that had been sitting beside the fajita containers. Once we’d refilled our glasses and were savouring the chewy meringue, topped with vanilla cream and what Hattie informed me were local bilberries, she got down to business.
‘So, now that you’ve had a chance to recover from the Changelings, what do you think? Will you stay and help me? Do you need to ask more questions first, or negotiate a contract? I’m open to offers. Money isn’t really an issue.’
I had a dozen more questions simmering in my brain. None of them about the project, or the contract. If Hattie had intended to lure me in with a mysterious story, it had worked. And the prospect of spending a few weeks in a place not drenched in sadness and loss was a powerful draw.
As for Hattie, money wasn’t really an issue for me, either. I’d bought my motorhome outright, and had a nice cushion of savings, thanks to Ezra’s advice. While working with wealthier clients allowed me to help people who couldn’t afford to pay me, it certainly wasn’t going to make or break my decision.
‘I’d love to stay and am happy to accept your terms. I’ll email a draft contract tomorrow for you to go over, and you can send your non-disclosure form. I’ve signed them before, it’s not a problem.’
‘Oh, now that’s perfect. I’m so pleased.’ She looked me right in the eyes. ‘I have a feeling Riverbend is just what you need.’
3
I was greeted the next morning by soft rays of late winter sunshine, peeping around the edge of Hattie Hood pheasant-print curtains as if hoping to be invited in. Muffin opened one eye from her usual position, curled around my feet, but the bed was so deliciously cosy, the surroundings so restful, that I couldn’t resist snuggling back down under the enormous quilt.
While showing me around the house the night before, Hattie mentioned that she had therapy sessions throughout today, Friday, so I had the luxury of some time to settle in. We’d arranged to meet once she’d finished, at five-thirty. After a quick peek in the living room, she’d continued the tour with a spacious office containing two desks, floor-to-ceiling shelves displaying a vast array of Hattie Hood merchandise, and all the usual office equipment. There was a formal dining room, a sunroom with a grand piano and a boot room, utility room and a snug. One staircase led to the main therapy studio and a smaller space where Hattie worked on her designs. Another flight of stairs in the middle of the house ended in a hallway leading to both Hattie’s bedroom and the guest suite, including a bathroom bigger than my entire motorhome. A narrower flight of stairs led from this floor up to the attic rooms, which Hattie promised to show me another time.
