My Summer of Magic Moments: Uplifting and romantic - the perfect, feel good holiday read!. Caroline Roberts

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СКАЧАТЬ a few moments a text beeped through.

      It was her sister, Sally. How’s it going, Clairebo? x A nickname struck up between them over a penchant for Haribo sweets.

      Fine, all good x, she texted back. Short and sweet. She’d try and ring her later, walk up a dune and catch a better signal.

      Sure? Sally bounced back. Protective about her little sis as always.

       Of course. Just chilling here. Enjoying the sea view.

       Not bored of your own company yet then?

       No, I’m not that bad company am I?

       Nah, course not. How’s the cottage? Cute?

      Hah. Claire gave a wry grin. Thank God Sal couldn’t see it falling apart behind her. Quirky was the most honest answer she was going to give.

       Thinking of coming down to see you for the day next Saturday. Okay with you?

      Bang went her solitude. But hey, they’d always got on, even if her sister could be a bit bossy at times; that seemed to be par for the course with older sisters. And Sal had always looked out for her, had been a good shoulder to lean on throughout her cancer treatment.

       Yes, that’d be nice. I’ll ring you in the week. Tell you how to find the cottage.

       Great.

      Mark and the kids fine?, Claire tapped in.

       Yeah, all good here. See you soon x

       See you next week! x

      So she’d be getting a visitor.

      An hour passed. Claire went back in to sneak a look at her creation. The dough had doubled at least, so she must have done something right. She then thought she’d better turn on the oven at that point. Gas Mark 6, the recipe said – this gas stuff was so unfamiliar; her oven at home was electric and in Celsius. She turned the knob, then realized there was also an ignition button, pushed at it with the cooker door open so she could see what was happening, and watched a blue flame run along the back of the oven. All seemed fine.

      Half an hour later she was back inside kneading the dough again. She’d thought it would be ready to go in the oven at this stage, but on rereading the recipe she realized it needed a further hour of ‘proving’ after she’d done a bit more kneading and shaped it into an oval-styled bloomer. Blimey. All this for one loaf of bread. It had better be worth it. She could have walked to the deli and back a couple of times by the time it would be ready and picked up something probably a lot more yummy from Lynda’s artisan bread basket.

      Finally the loaf was ready to go into the oven with a dusting of flour on the top. It would be ready in thirty minutes, apparently. She checked her watch. It was four hours since she’d started. Oh my.

      Half an hour later, she opened the oven door cautiously … Here goes. The loaf looked rather pale. She took it out, but it didn’t feel quite right under her touch. Should it be bouncier, crispier? She hazarded a guess that it wasn’t quite done and popped it back in for ten minutes. It was smelling lovely, there was nothing quite like the scent of freshly baked bread. Maybe some things were worth waiting for.

      The bloomer finally came out looking golden and generally the right kind of shape. She ought to let it cool, but the fresh-baked smell kept drawing her back to the kitchen. She couldn’t wait any longer and was soon slathering butter onto a just-cut slice. Hmm, pretty good. It was tasty – maybe a touch on the doughy side, but not at all bad for a first attempt. It would go well with the rest of the soup for supper, or perhaps make a scrummy bacon sandwich.

      As evening approached after a long, relaxed afternoon with her book, she sat out on the deckchair on her first-floor balcony watching shades of bold pink and peach diffuse the sky over a sunset sea. With her second glass of chilled white wine to hand, she sat quite still, listening to the rhythmic ebb and flow of the waves lapping the shore. A pair of black-and-white terns swooped steadily across the bay, then headed inland over the dunes to roost.

      She’d popped a cardigan on over her T-shirt. It was a balmy evening nonetheless, calm and still. It was beautiful here, so very peaceful; the solitude restful. Yes, she’d enjoy seeing her sister at the end of next week, but for now this was what she needed. In fact, despite the run-down state of the cottage, this was just about perfect.

      The next morning, Claire was up early again. She wandered out onto the bedroom’s balcony to greet the day and spotted the six a.m. pile of clothes – a little further up the beach this time. Her heart gave a little leap. Damn, she must have missed him going out. But hey, she was definitely going to settle down on the deckchair for the view on his way back in. Her cup of tea could wait.

      Of course he was much further away from the cottages this time, probably being cautious now he knew there was someone next door. She sat watching for a while, and then there he was, swimming towards the shore and rising out of the water, tall, toned, dripping in salt water and stark-bollock-naked yet again. Oh yes, what a body. It felt like her guilty secret – lurking in the shadows of her balcony admiring the ‘sea view’. But she just couldn’t resist. Even if he was a grumpy-ass, she didn’t have to speak with him to admire his fit physique.

      She had a pretty chilled-out day after that. She toasted some of her homemade bloomer for breakfast with butter and strawberry jam – scrummy. She spent a pleasant couple of hours reading, and then went for a leisurely stroll, in the opposite direction from Bamburgh this time, enjoying the views towards Seahouses and the Farne Islands. She dipped her feet in the cool North Sea and let the breaking waves froth over them, rising up to her shins.

      She heard the engine of a car revving close by that evening, a scrunch of gravel, and then there were no lights on next door after that, so he must have gone home. It was Sunday. He might well be a weekender, she mused. She really was on her own in that little cluster of cottages now.

      It seemed very quiet and dark that night: the woodwork creaking in the wind, a rattle of the window frame, a loose gutter flapping, and that was about it. She snuggled down under her duvet, wondering if he owned the house next door, if he might be back next weekend, or if he had just been on holiday himself and that was the last she’d ever see of him.

       5

       Fish and chips with lashings of salt and vinegar, a 99 Flake ice cream, and a harbour view

      Her days settled into their own rhythm: waking, walking, reading. It was wonderful not having a schedule, or deadlines, or anyone else to please. If she wanted to lie in, she could, though that didn’t seem to happen – she was still waking up very early. If she wanted to go back to bed with her book in the afternoon, she could. If she wanted to bathe at three a.m., she could – in fact she did just that one night. She could walk, run, sing, dance along to her iPod, bake, wander around naked (she didn’t actually feel like doing that, but she could). She could do nothing, do anything – within reason; no car and little money was a bit of a hold-back. There was a golden beach, an expanse of sky, and a bucketload of time. It was totally up to her.

      The first week of her holiday passed by. She’d walked back to the village again on the Wednesday, СКАЧАТЬ