The Wife Before Me(73)
Such butterfly jewellery is common, she thinks as she travels through the night. Forged in silver and gold, gilded and burnished – or, sometimes, those iridescent hues are stained in glass. Her mind darts at that same fluttering speed back to Woodbine. Nicholas’s foot on her neck, pressing hard as he demanded to know why she’d dared to remove one of the butterflies from the apple tree.
* * *
‘Why didn’t you take my call or return it?’ Rosemary is waiting for her when she finally arrives back. Her stern expression warns Elena not to lie. Blurting out the reasons that had drawn her to the headland, she tries to make Rosemary understand why a few sentences on a crumpled piece of paper had convinced her that a stranger called Leanne Rossiter would have known about Nicholas’s violence.
‘So, did you find out anything?’ Rosemary demands. ‘Apart from the fact that you met someone called Annie Ross, who insisted you’d made a mistake?’
Elena shakes her head, knowing it would be useless to tell her about the medallion.
‘What if you’d been unable to get back in time for your group therapy tomorrow?’ Rosemary asks. ‘You are my responsibility until you go to trial. Break any of your bail conditions and you’ll put my professional reputation at risk. It’s suffered enough already. I don’t need Nicholas to spread any more rumours about my incompetence.’
‘I’m sorry, Rosemary.’
She is unmoved by Elena’s contrition. ‘Without evidence, you’ll simply come across to the judge as petty and vindictive if word of this gets out.’
‘Is that how you see me?’
‘No. But my opinion isn’t important. The judge is the one you need to impress.’
Forty
Two cyclists and a lone trekker are sitting on beer barrels outside Lily Howe’s Grocery Provisions, enjoying coffee and Lily’s home-made scones.
‘Well, Annie, did your visitor find you?’ Lily asks when she enters the small shop.
‘She did. But I wasn’t able to help her.’
‘Poor girl. She came a long way to find that out,’ Lily says. ‘I was afraid she’d get lost when the mist came down.’
‘Then you won’t be surprised to hear she fell and sprained her ankle.’
‘She’s not the first and she won’t be the last.’ Lily sighs, unsurprised. ‘Was she okay?’
‘She stayed with me until the mist lifted. Then I dropped her into the medical centre.’
‘That’s your good deed for the week done. How’s the work going?’
‘Good. I finished the Charmeuse order. Manged to get it off on time, too.’
‘Beats me how you do it.’ Lily reaches under the counter and hands her a packet of coffee beans. ‘That online stuff is far too complicated for my old head. How you manage to run a business and you stuck up on that headland with only sheep for company is beyond me.’
‘The power of the internet, Lily. I keep telling you to get a computer.’
‘Ah, sure, why would I be bothered at this stage of my life? I’m done with newfangled notions. Are these the beans you want?’
‘They are indeed. Thanks for ordering them.’
‘Any time. Have a coffee on the house. What would you like? A cappuccino, americano, latte?’
‘You say you’re done with new newfangled notions yet you handle that machine like a qualified barista.’
‘A barrister? What are you on about now, Annie?’
‘Never mind.’ She laughs and sits on the high stool in front of the counter. ‘An americano would be lovely.’
One of the cyclists enters the shop with two empty coffee mugs.
‘Magnificent scenery,’ he says to her. ‘Do you live around here?’
‘Nearby.’ She nods, non-committally.
* * *
‘Are you an artist?’
‘No.’
‘Annie is more the techie type,’ says Lily. ‘But I paint.’ She points to a picture of Mag’s Head, which, for reasons known only to herself, she painted in lurid purple. ‘It’s for sale, if you’re interested.’
The cyclist rolls his eyes away from the painting. ‘A most interesting landscape,’ he says, smoothly. ‘However, my taste in art veers more towards the abstract. Can I buy a soda bread and four of those delicious scones?’
Lily stares out the window as he cycles off with his friend. ‘I could see his nuts in that Lycra. Disgraceful.’ She sounds appreciative rather than disgusted. ‘Did you notice how he was giving you the eye?’
‘No, he wasn’t.’ She sips her coffee. It’s too hot to drink quickly, really, but she is anxious to return to the cottage.
‘He certainly was,’ Lily insists. ‘And why wouldn’t he? He’s a red-blooded male and you’re an attractive woman, even though you live like a hermit up there.’
‘This hermit has work to do.’ She leaves the coffee unfinished and swings her handbag over her shoulder. ‘See you tomorrow.’
The trekker bids her goodbye in Italian.
‘Slán leat,’ she replies in Irish and beeps the horn as she drives off. She drives past the two cyclists straining up the slopes of Mag’s Head. Lily the matchmaker; she never stops seeking a suitable husband for her. Heads down, helmets thrust forward, they remind her of determined wasps. Their ride back down will be exhilarating, if they have any energy left to enjoy it.