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inside—with a child seat in the back containing Izzy, and a dog guard behind that so Cocoa could sit in the very back of the car without wriggling over into the back seat next to Izzy.
The little girl beamed at him as he opened the passenger door. ‘Hello, Dr Bailey.’
Formality didn’t sit easily with him. ‘You can call me Marc, if you like,’ he offered.
‘Marc.’ Her smile widened; she clearly loved the thought of having a grown-up friend. And Marc was torn between being charmed and wanting to back away.
‘So where are we going?’ he asked.
‘You’ll see,’ Laurie said, at the same time as Izzy burst out, ‘To see the bluebells!’
‘Bluebells?’ Marc asked.
‘Just outside the next village is one of the last patches of the ancient woods of England,’ Laurie explained. ‘And this weekend of the year is when the bluebell carpet in the woods is at its best. They’re proper English bluebells, with a scent, not the hybrids you get in stately homes and what have you. It’s always packed, so we come to see them early, before the crowds get there.’
She smiled at him, and his heart actually skipped a beat. Oh, help. He didn’t trust himself to say a word; all he could do was hope that she didn’t think he was being rude.
‘And you definitely don’t get this in London, I can tell you,’ she said.
When they got there, the car park, to his eyes, looked more like a bog. No wonder she’d said to bring wellington boots. But Laurie didn’t seem to be bothered by the mud. She simply changed Izzy’s shoes for a pair of bright red wellies, then changed her own for bright purple boots covered with large white polka dots.
Marc hid a smile. He’d known Laurie Grant for a week, but he already had a fair idea of what made her tick and he wasn’t in the slightest bit surprised that she’d picked something so exuberant. They suited her right down to the ground. His own wellies were much more boring, plain and black. Which he supposed suited him, too: dull and boring.
Laurie clipped the lead onto Cocoa’s collar, and the dog jumped out of the car, wagging his tail. Izzy held onto Laurie’s free hand, then looked at him with a slight frown. ‘This is the first time you’ve been here, so you might be a bit scared.’
She gave him a bright smile; she was definitely her mother’s daughter, he thought.
‘You can hold my other hand, if you like,’ she suggested. ‘That’ll make you feel brave.’
Marc’s first instinct was to say no. The idea of holding the little girl’s hand, looking as if they were out together on a family outing—when he knew damn well he didn’t deserve a family—made him feel slightly sick.
But then Izzy smiled at him again and something felt as if it had cracked inside him. ‘Thank you. I’d love to hold your hand.’ To his ears, his voice sounded rusty. He glanced at Laurie for direction—was he doing the right thing?—but she was behaving as if absolutely nothing was out of the ordinary.
Together, hand in hand, they walked through coppiced woodlands. Marc could see the odd patch of primroses, and some white flowers he vaguely recognised but didn’t have a clue what their names were, but there were no bluebells.
Then Marc caught his breath as they turned the corner and he could see bluebells absolutely everywhere. He’d never seen anything like it before. Deeper into the wood, in dappled sunlight, there were more patches of deep blue. ‘That’s stunning,’ he said. ‘A real bluebell carpet.’
‘Isn’t it just?’ Laurie said softly. ‘Though I always think they look more like drifts of bluebells at the side of the path. Like blue snow. Wait until we get there and you can catch the scent.’
Marc had never seen anything so lovely—and it was so different from London. Instead of the noise of traffic, all he could hear was birds singing. He didn’t have a clue what birds they were, but their songs sounded beautiful.
And then, as they drew closer, he caught the scent of the bluebells. Delicate and sweet, like a slightly softer version of a hyacinth. The epitome of a late English spring.
‘So, are you glad I nagged you into this?’ Laurie asked softly.
‘Very,’ he admitted. ‘I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.’
‘I told you it was special.’
Yes. And so, Marc was beginning to realise, was she.
‘Would you mind holding Cocoa while I take some pictures of Izzy for her grandparents?’ she asked.
‘Sure.’ He loosened his hand from the little girl’s so he could take the dog’s lead from Laurie, and wasn’t sure whether he felt more relieved or bereft. This whole thing was stirring up memories and dreams for him, the good mixed up with the bad and the unthinkable, all blurring into one.
‘Izzy, darling, come and stand here so I can take your picture for Nanna and Granddad—remember not to squash the bluebells, so other people who come to see them can enjoy them, too,’ Laurie said. She took a camera from her handbag and crouched down so she could take pictures of her daughter with the bluebells in the background. ‘My parents used to do this with my brother and me every year,’ she said, ‘and it’s lovely to look back on the pictures and see how we change from year to year.’
How his own parents would’ve loved a picture of their first grandchild among the bluebells, Marc thought. A little girl or a little boy in red wellington boots, just like Izzy was. He had to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. To distract himself, as much as anything else, he suggested, ‘Why don’t I take some pictures of you both with Cocoa?’
‘Would you mind? Oh, that’d be lovely. Thank you, Marc.’ Laurie’s smile was sweet and piercing, widening the crack round his heart.
Marc had to hide a smile when he heard Izzy tell the dog very solemnly to be careful not to tread on the bluebells—she really was a carbon copy of her mother—but the Labrador was on his best behaviour and sat perfectly still, his mouth open as if he were smiling.
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