Sweet Home Summer Read online

  Isla waved Bridget off to rescue Charlie from Margaret. She had to get back to the stall. She’d left Callie manning it, but as proprietor of Nectar, she needed to show her face. They were doing a stellar trade with the boxes of chocolate truffles rolled in pink salt they’d made up in advance having been a morning tea time hit. She hoped the fresh ciabatta rolls they’d filled for the lunchtime rush were as successful. Isla caught a whiff of coffee beans as she passed by one of two coffee carts set up on the grounds. She was glad they’d opted out of doing coffee, there was too much competition for the sake of all the complicated logistics of having a machine on site.

  Kris had helped set up a trestle table with a gazebo covering them for shade. Gran had done a fantastic job with the bunting she’d made, Isla thought, as she approached the stall with a cluster of people gathered around it chatting to Callie. They’d attached the bunting to the cloth covering the table, and the burst of colour looked pretty against the white fabric. She’d put a copy of Southern Gastronomy, open to Nectar’s glowing review, on the table for customers to glance at. She and Callie had been handing out the coffee cards along with change and the promise of a free slice when the customer popped into the café and showed their card.

  Kris was helping at the stall, and spotting her approaching, he finished serving a woman who, Isla noticed with amusement as she took her place behind the table, was batting her eyelashes at him. She was seemingly more interested in the man behind the ciabatta than the roll he was placing in a brown paper bag for her. Well, Annie needn’t worry Isla thought. Kris only had eyes for her.

  ‘It’s going great.’ Kris grinned oblivious to what had just played out.

  Callie looked over at Isla. ‘You’ll have to text Annie and get her to fill more rolls.’

  ‘Will do, we’re due to swap over shortly so she can bring them down then. You’re doing a great job, Callie.’

  The younger girl stood a little taller.

  Isla sent off a quick text to Annie and then gazed around the field. She guessed the café would be quiet. All of Bibury along with a good portion of the South Island population were here, judging by the thronging crowds. She’d seen David and Carl along with their enormous entourage of extraordinarily attractive people earlier. Carl had announced that he and David had been introduced to Charlie and that they’d given him their stamp of approval. His exact words had been. ‘Go Bridget, I say. He’s a silver fox, and I might be keen myself if it weren’t for lover boy here.’ The pair of them were off mingling now.

  Isla smiled as she spied a familiar face weaving through the crowd. It was the gumboot man who’d been after a New Year’s Eve kiss, clad in his summer uniform of singlet and shorts. He was charging after the burger loving model Carl had introduced them to when he first arrived, Sasha.

  The field surrounding the hall was a sight to behold. It was a sea of bobbing heads; there were food and drink caravans as well as an assortment of arts and crafts stalls. The smell of fried food intermingled with the scent of Asian and Middle-Eastern spices and there was a general sense of excitement at the possibilities today might bring, floating on the now gentle breeze. An impressive line of port-a-loos stood sentry at the far end of the field like troops lining up for battle. On a makeshift stage to the left of the field, the Scottish Society was demonstrating a highland fling while on the far right-hand side the Bibury Line Dancers in direct competition were taking a turn to the strains of ‘Footloose’.

  ‘Saralee has worked wonders,’ Isla said to no one in particular. ‘This is amazing.’ Her heart swelled with pride at the sight of it all. It was a year to the day since she’d arrived home. So much had happened in that year that she’d had to pinch herself to make sure it was all real, or at least she’d had to until the painkillers began to wear off and the scorching pain of her ribs let her know that, no, this wasn’t all a dream. Still, someone had been looking out for her that night because the accident could have been much worse. She was blessed to have the people she had in her life. Here in Bibury she’d re-established the bonds with her family, made wonderful new friends and opened her own business. There was still one unfinished bit of business though, but that would have to wait until later.

  ‘Speaking of whom, there she goes,’ Kris said gesturing with the tongs he was holding to where Saralee was marching along talking to a small group of Japanese tourists. She was wearing a vest that declared her to be an ‘event organiser’ and Callum trotted behind her like an adoring oversized puppy dog. She spied Isla looking over, and the couple gave her a thumbs-up. She grinned back at them.

  A low rumbling distracted her and Isla craned her neck to see a Harley snaking slowly through the crowd. It came to a halt beside the stall. Joe took off his helmet. Her father looked like an aged gang member, Isla thought, choking back a laugh as her mother followed suit. Mary shook her hair out before retrieving a red bandana from the pocket of her leather jacket pocket and tying it around her hair, Axl Rose style.

  ‘Just cruising by to say hi,’ Joe said. ‘I’ll have a roll if there’s one spare,’ he called over to Kris.

  ‘Sure thing Joe, looking good Mary,’ Kris said bagging up a couple of rolls.

  God, they were embarrassing, Isla thought watching as her dad, with a yoga-like move, reached around to pinch her mum on the bum.

  Rohan had disappeared by the time the band got underway inside the hall that night. Bridget assumed he had taken himself back to the Pit, tired after his big day of making matches. She was grateful the wind that had begun to blow outside once more had held off until the last of the stall holders had packed up.

  That the day had been a huge success, an unprecedented event for Bibury, everybody who had come up to talk to her over the course of the evening had agreed. Indeed, it had been everything that she’d hoped it would be and so much more, she thought with a fond glance at Charlie. She spotted Elsie scurrying importantly into the kitchen and told herself she must remember to go and check on the line dancing ladies and the Scottish Society volunteers who were beavering away in the newly refurbished kitchen getting the supper organized. Their services had been offered in exchange for one month’s free use of the hall. Bibury Area’s PTA had provided the food for the supper in exchange for a donation out of the funds the festival had raised, to go towards new laptops for the school. It had all worked out rather well.

  New romances were blossoming on the dance floor, Bridget thought, as her eyes swept the hall. There was Violet McDougall taking a turn with Principal Bishop and the young lad from the butcher’s was twirling the lass who worked at the Four Square. Really, she thought the doctor should have a word with the girl and tell her she was in danger of damaging her vitals wearing pants that tight. Oh, and there was the police officer everybody called Tep leading Marie the hairdresser out onto the floor.

  There were lots of sights Bridget knew Biddy Johnson would have been aghast at, had she been there with them tonight. The first was Carl and David who were holding hands on the periphery of the dance floor and whispering in each other’s ears. Now that was something you would not have seen in Biddy’s day. Kris and Annie hadn’t come up for air during the last three songs and Joe was dancing with his hands clamped firmly on his wife’s bottom. All of them would have earned a sharp tap on the shoulder from Biddy Johnson’s stick in her day.

  It was Isla who caught her attention now though; she looked so lovely in her pink dress, Bridget thought, holding her breath as her granddaughter approached the bench where Ben sat.

  Isla held her trembling hand out. ‘Will you dance with me because I’m wearing pink.’

  Ben smiled and, taking her hand, he got to his feet. ‘I will because you look so pretty in pink.’

  Bridget watched as Ben and Isla moved onto the dancefloor. She exhaled as she saw him bend his head and kiss Isla in a way that told her they would be fine from hereon in.

  For Isla’s part, there was nothing but that moment. The music faded, and the crowded dancefloor seemed to empt
y. She was aware of nothing but the feel of Ben’s hands spanning her waist as his lips settled over hers and she was filled with profound joy. She was home and she planned on never leaving. She was exactly where she wanted to be for the rest of her days.

  Bridget registered that Charlie was holding his hand out to her and taking it, she let him help her to her feet. He led her out onto the dancefloor, and she rested her head on his shoulder, grateful for a slow song. She looked up and caught a glimpse over his shoulder of a busty young woman with an infectious grin and a swinging ponytail, dressed in a rock’n’roll skirt. Bridget watched as Clara blew her a kiss and waved goodbye.

  A Final Word If I May

  Iblew away that night having made many a successful match at the festival where old wrongs were righted. Life’s journey can be an odd thing. Take Isla for instance; she was the one who ran away and came back to stay while Bridget who’d never left, flew far away. She went on a holiday to Ireland with Charlie, and I heard tell on the wind of a wedding in September. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, Violet McDougall and Jim Bishop are now living in the proverbial sin next door to the young lad from the butcher’s, Beau, who’s playing house with his girlfriend Ellie from the Four Square. That nice policeman, Tep, and his hairdressing lady friend, Marie, are still stepping out together, and as for Callum and Saralee, they’re like a pair of young kittens in each other’s company, despite going strong for a good long while now. Carl and David are holidaying in the Maldives or some such place while Annie and Kris are packing their bags – there’s a mother across the seas who says it’s time for her to meet this woman her son loves so well.

  All their stories are only just beginning but suffice to say that the two most stubborn women that I ever witnessed walk the West Coast, Isla Brookes and Bridget Collins, finally got their happy ending.

  Acknowledgements

  The seed for this book was planted after a family weekend spent on New Zealand’s wild West Coast. We drove up to the inhospitable Denniston Plateau, a formerly flourishing mining settlement for only the most resilient that once visited is not forgotten. I would like to dedicate this story to those hardy souls and to those families of the Pike River Mine disaster whose grief just goes on. Your boys will never be forgotten, and I hope one day you can bring them home.

  My awesome mother-in-law, Pam Vernal has wonderful tales of the dances she used to go to which I’ve used to pepper this story. I fell in love with the idea of the WHS society (the Wandering Hand Society), I hope you do too. Thanks, Pam. Thank you too, to Deirdre Kingdon. Our chat about what it was like being part of a Catholic family in New Zealand in the fifties was invaluable. I’d also like to say a massive thank you to Vicki Marsdon my agent at Wordlink literary agency for her continued input and faith in my abilities. Louise Thurtell for her helpful pointers as to the direction of this story. Charlotte, Eloisa and the wonderful team from Harper Impulse, for your enthusiasm and vision that have shaped this book into one I am proud of. My lovely readers and their kind words that make the long hours on the laptop worthwhile. I’m truly blessed with my wonderful family and friends who are always interested and supportive; I love you all. Finally, to my three best boys Paul, Josh, and Daniel with whom life is an exciting adventure, you are my world x.

  Also by Michelle Vernal

  The Traveller’s Daughter

  About the Author

  Michelle Vernal loves a happy ending. She lives with her husband and their two boys in Christchurch, New Zealand. It’s a city that is slowly rebuilding its happy ending. She’s partial to a glass of wine, loves a cheese scone and has recently taken up yoga—a sight to behold indeed. Her books are written with humour and warmth and she hopes you enjoy reading them.

  @MichelleVernal

  www.facebook.com/‌michelleve‌rnalnovelist

  www.michellevernalbooks.com

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