My Summer of Magic Moments: Uplifting and romantic - the perfect, feel good holiday read!. Caroline Roberts
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certainly is. I had to nip and get something from the car as he was coming back in. He wasn’t very chatty, I must say. He’s called Ed, apparently. That’s about all I found out. The dog’s cute, though. She was far more friendly.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a dog myself one day.’ Claire was glad to move the conversation on.
‘Me too – a spaniel or something. Though our house is mad enough at the best of times. Can’t quite imagine a dog in the mix at the moment. Maybe when the boys are older, then they could help walk it.’
Claire sipped her tea, hoping the painkillers would kick in soon, but it was kind of soothing letting her sister chatter on. She just nodded now and then, with an occasional ‘Ah-huh’, until finally her head began to clear, though it was still fragile. ‘Think I might head up for a shower.’
She felt somewhat revived by the splashing of warm water and zingy blast of shower gel.
Half an hour later they were strolling down the beach, heading towards Bamburgh, where they spent a very pleasant hour in the courtyard garden of the Copper Kettle tearooms with a pot of Earl Grey and some very scrummy slices of lemon drizzle cake.
‘So what are your plans for the rest of your break?’
‘Well, not too much, to be honest. It’s been so nice just to have time on my side, a book to hand and a gorgeous sea view.’
‘Hmn, that does sound rather lovely. But isn’t it a bit too quiet? A bit lonely?’
‘Not really. That was the whole idea behind coming away – to have some space, some time out for a bit. I’ll manage, I’m sure. My own company’s not that bad. Anyway, I’ll have to start thinking about the next feature for my column soon, so that’ll keep me busy. Em’s filling in for me for two weeks, but I need to send something in to the newspaper for the next week. I can’t be out of the loop too long, especially now I’m finding my feet again back at the Herald after all that time off sick. I’m just waiting for inspiration to strike.’
‘I’m sure you’ll come up with something, Claire. Your blogs were brilliant all through the cancer stuff. Really honest and inspiring. You didn’t get voted the North-East Columnist of the Year for nothing.’
‘No, I suppose not … Thanks. I was doing it more for me, though, to be honest. It just happened to be popular.’
‘Well, you’re very talented. And at least something good came out of it all. I’m sure you helped a lot of other people going through something similar, and their families too.’
‘Yeah, writing it down definitely helped. Verbal therapy, I think.’
‘You see. A true journalist at heart.’
Later that afternoon, Sal was popping her overnight case into the boot of her car. They’d spent the day chatting, taking a long leisurely walk on the beach, and had a picnic lunch of bread, cheese and fruit in the garden.
‘Right, I suppose I’d better be setting off,’ she announced cheerily. ‘Back to reality and all that.’
Reality? Normality? Claire didn’t know what that was any more. Her life had taken so many unexpected turns of late. She waved her sister off, watched the rear of her car swing out onto the main road, and felt her heart sink a little. As she turned back in through the door of the cottage, she recognized a niggling feeling of loneliness creeping over her. Her sister was right. Her cottage escape, her haven – okay, more hovel than haven – suddenly seemed a little too quiet and remote. Perhaps it was just that they’d had such a lovely time reconnecting over the last two days.
She’d thought she didn’t need anyone. She was wrong.
Laughing in the rain
Claire rattled around the cottage the next morning, then decided she might as well bake some bread. It would keep her busy and provide her with something tasty for lunch. Lynda from the deli had lent her one of her baking books for inspiration, and she perused it over a cup of tea on the balcony, deciding on a sea-salt-and-rosemary-topped sourdough.
She was soon in the kitchen measuring and mixing, then pounding and kneading the dough. As she worked away, she thought what a lovely couple of days it had been with Sally. Magic moments spent with her sister, she smiled to herself, picturing how daft they must have looked huddled like teenagers in their nightclothes and duvets on the balcony at midnight. The rush and pull of the waves sounded even louder in the dark when you couldn’t really see them. You just caught glimpses of the odd crested sparkle in the moonlight. The pair of them sat there drinking mellow red wine, and chatting.
As she pushed the heel of her hand into the dough once more, a light-bulb thought pinged in her mind. Magic moments. She’d been looking for inspiration for something to write about for her column. Her job as a journalist wasn’t going to go far if she sat doing nothing for weeks on a beach. She’d brought her laptop, and had been waiting for the right article to form in her mind. With the recent split from her husband, her soul had felt battered and bruised; she’d been struggling to find any creativity in there at all lately. But yes, magic moments – we all needed those. What made life good, special? Not winning the lottery or being given a heap of cash – there were many miserable millionaires around, and money didn’t keep anyone healthy. But the simple things … things everyone could have or do: be with family, friends, a smile from a stranger, watch a gorgeous male swim naked – hey, stop it; that image just wouldn’t shift from her brain – laugh until your sides ache, eat warm, soft bread straight from the oven, preferably with a big blob of melting butter.
Her dough was probably kneaded enough, she realized, so she set it on a dish and popped it into the hot-water-tank cupboard to rise, that being the only truly warm place in the house. She tidied up, washed her breakfast things and the mixing bowl, wiped down the floured surfaces and cleared the kitchen. She put the oven on to warm, read for a little while, then went back to check on the dough, which had doubled in size. She then shaped it and scored the top with three slashes as the recipe instructed, which apparently allowed it to rise and cook without splitting. Then she put it in to bake. It wasn’t long before the smell of freshly baked bread filled the cottage, making her mouth water. She peeked in the oven: the loaf looked golden brown, well risen with a crusty top. She set it on the side to cool.
Outside, the clouds were breaking into cauliflower-shaped cushions. She decided to take a stroll. The forecast on the radio had said heavy showers, but if she managed to get out between them, it might just clear her head and shake off that lingering, empty feeling that had crept up on her. Sal would be home again, back with her brood, catching cuddles from her two boys, a hug with her husband. She’d be sleeping with somebody’s arms around her tonight. Claire could only be happy for her, but the small tear in her own heart had begun to gape.
She walked about a mile at a leisurely pace, going the opposite way from Bamburgh and nearing the rocks at the far end of the long sandy beach that marked the start of the harbour town of Seahouses.
At the far end of the beach, she turned to head back to the cottage again. Oh. The sky this way was a very different story. She hadn’t noticed the dark, heavy clouds brewing behind her. She’d better get a move on. Rain was definitely on its way, and by the look of the gunmetal-coloured shaft sheeting from the sky out to sea, it wouldn’t be too long in coming. The sky was menacingly beautiful. The skies here were so different from the cityscapes of home. So big. It sounded silly, but they were. Panoramic. You felt the power of the elements, saw the weather as it formed.
She began a marching pace, striding across damp golden sand, leaving firm footprints. The beach was quieter today; the forecast had no doubt put the tourists off. There was a lone dog walker further up the bay with a couple of terriers scooting about beside her. And then another figure, moving quite fast, jogging towards her. It seemed familiar. Tall, male, broad shoulders, long athletic