shit!”
Sophie’s grin widens. “So, just how brave are you?”
“I’ll rent a car.”
“Good idea.”
Chapter 8
Cornwall
September 2010
Driving southwest, I think about Claudia. When her husband died last year, she was left with debts she didn’t expect and a house she could no longer afford. Instead of feeling sorry for herself, she sold everything and trundled off to Cornwall to begin a new life—a gutsy move for someone just turned seventy-three.
The sun’s getting low by the time I reach Claudia’s village. It’s so small, Sophie says, that if you blink while driving through it, you’ll miss it completely. I stop and check my directions. I’m to go past the church and take the next right turn.
It’s little more than a cart track.
Claudia’s cottage lies against the landscape like a small brown animal that’s burrowed into the ground but is slightly too large to fit into its hole. Its thatched roof, interrupted by the curving eyebrow of a blue-framed window, stretches up and out to embrace a center chimney that even now, in the warmth of a September evening, emits a small curl of smoke that hints of welcome.
For a moment or two, I feel as if I’ve stumbled into the past … a place where things move at their own pace, where clocks and computers and airline schedules don’t matter, and the only sound worth listening to is the muffled roar of waves pounding on rocks. It’s familiar, yet elusive. An impression just out of reach, and—
I slam on my brakes.
Heart thumping like sneakers in a dryer, I roll down my window. “Jeez, Claudia, I’m sorry. I almost hit you.”
“Come along and don’t waste time with your suitcase,” she says. “I need help with these squirrels.” Without waiting for a response, Claudia picks up two wire cages and disappears behind the cottage.
I abandon my car and follow her.
The vintage Morris Minor is almost hidden from view, obscured by a vine-covered trellis and a rusty wheelbarrow that’s propped against the wall. Claudia heaves her cages into the back seat, takes off her gardening gloves, and tosses them on the floor.
“Let’s go,” she says, climbing into her car. She turns the ignition and mashes the pedals with her Wellington boots. The car belches smoke. The engine snorts with surprise.
I jump in and slam the door.
Claudia grinds the gear into reverse. Her car shoots backward and hurls me against the dashboard.
“Oh, bother.” Claudia wrenches the gear lever in the opposite direction. “Sorry about all this. I’ll explain in a minute. Let me get out of here first.” She executes a clumsy three-point turn and we’re off like the clappers, pitching through potholes the size of small bomb craters. I hang onto the armrest and hope Claudia’s mechanic has plenty of spare parts because I think I just heard something fall off. We jerk to a shuddering halt at the end of Claudia’s driveway. “That miserable old bugger drove off half an hour ago,” she says.
My heart’s still trying to catch up with the rest of me. “Who?”
“With a bit of luck, he’ll stay down the pub till dark.” Claudia cranes her neck, glances left and right, then swerves onto the main road. Her chin barely reaches the top of the steering wheel.
“Is it really ten years since the last time you were here?” she says. “Sophie rang me this morning—said you haven’t changed a bit. She’s right, of course. And you look lovely. I like your hair. It’s a bit shorter than I remember, and I hope you’re not too hungry, but I’ve got to get these animals away from here first. I’ll fix dinner when we get back.”
Have I blundered into the pages of a Beatrix Potter book gone horribly wrong? I turn to look at the tiny Squirrel Nutkins in Claudia’s wire cages. “What exactly are you doing with all these animals?”
“Relocating them.”
“Why?”
“That bloody farmer across the street is setting traps,” Claudia says, swerving around a
Sophie’s grin widens. “So, just how brave are you?”
“I’ll rent a car.”
“Good idea.”
Chapter 8
Cornwall
September 2010
Driving southwest, I think about Claudia. When her husband died last year, she was left with debts she didn’t expect and a house she could no longer afford. Instead of feeling sorry for herself, she sold everything and trundled off to Cornwall to begin a new life—a gutsy move for someone just turned seventy-three.
The sun’s getting low by the time I reach Claudia’s village. It’s so small, Sophie says, that if you blink while driving through it, you’ll miss it completely. I stop and check my directions. I’m to go past the church and take the next right turn.
It’s little more than a cart track.
Claudia’s cottage lies against the landscape like a small brown animal that’s burrowed into the ground but is slightly too large to fit into its hole. Its thatched roof, interrupted by the curving eyebrow of a blue-framed window, stretches up and out to embrace a center chimney that even now, in the warmth of a September evening, emits a small curl of smoke that hints of welcome.
For a moment or two, I feel as if I’ve stumbled into the past … a place where things move at their own pace, where clocks and computers and airline schedules don’t matter, and the only sound worth listening to is the muffled roar of waves pounding on rocks. It’s familiar, yet elusive. An impression just out of reach, and—
I slam on my brakes.
Heart thumping like sneakers in a dryer, I roll down my window. “Jeez, Claudia, I’m sorry. I almost hit you.”
“Come along and don’t waste time with your suitcase,” she says. “I need help with these squirrels.” Without waiting for a response, Claudia picks up two wire cages and disappears behind the cottage.
I abandon my car and follow her.
The vintage Morris Minor is almost hidden from view, obscured by a vine-covered trellis and a rusty wheelbarrow that’s propped against the wall. Claudia heaves her cages into the back seat, takes off her gardening gloves, and tosses them on the floor.
“Let’s go,” she says, climbing into her car. She turns the ignition and mashes the pedals with her Wellington boots. The car belches smoke. The engine snorts with surprise.
I jump in and slam the door.
Claudia grinds the gear into reverse. Her car shoots backward and hurls me against the dashboard.
“Oh, bother.” Claudia wrenches the gear lever in the opposite direction. “Sorry about all this. I’ll explain in a minute. Let me get out of here first.” She executes a clumsy three-point turn and we’re off like the clappers, pitching through potholes the size of small bomb craters. I hang onto the armrest and hope Claudia’s mechanic has plenty of spare parts because I think I just heard something fall off. We jerk to a shuddering halt at the end of Claudia’s driveway. “That miserable old bugger drove off half an hour ago,” she says.
My heart’s still trying to catch up with the rest of me. “Who?”
“With a bit of luck, he’ll stay down the pub till dark.” Claudia cranes her neck, glances left and right, then swerves onto the main road. Her chin barely reaches the top of the steering wheel.
“Is it really ten years since the last time you were here?” she says. “Sophie rang me this morning—said you haven’t changed a bit. She’s right, of course. And you look lovely. I like your hair. It’s a bit shorter than I remember, and I hope you’re not too hungry, but I’ve got to get these animals away from here first. I’ll fix dinner when we get back.”
Have I blundered into the pages of a Beatrix Potter book gone horribly wrong? I turn to look at the tiny Squirrel Nutkins in Claudia’s wire cages. “What exactly are you doing with all these animals?”
“Relocating them.”
“Why?”
“That bloody farmer across the street is setting traps,” Claudia says, swerving around a
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