Summer At Villa Rosa Collection. Kate Hardy

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       CHAPTER EIGHT

      CLEVE FOUND A cream linen suit that he was happy with, but, stupid superstition or not, there was no way Andie was having him along while she shopped for a dress to wear for their wedding.

      ‘I could go for a walk,’ he suggested.

      ‘No need.’ She’d had a far better idea. ‘Sofia has wardrobes, trunks full of fabulous designer dresses. She used to let us dress up in them when we stayed.’

      ‘She sounds more like a fairy godmother. Will they have survived the dressing up and the passing of the years?’

      ‘Not all of them, but they were stored in sandalwood-lined trunks. I’m sure I’ll find something I can wear.’ Anything would be better than having to stand in her underwear while elegant assistants, speaking in fast Italian, made her feel less than adequate. ‘Vintage clothes are all the rage.’

      ‘Like drystone walling?’

      ‘But not so hard on the hands.’

      He didn’t look entirely convinced and he might be right. Mice might have got in and made nests in the couture clothes.

      ‘Whatever happens, you have my word that I won’t stand in front of the mayor smelling of mothballs.’

      ‘Just as long as you’re there.’ He took her hand. ‘Let’s go and find a jar of marmalade.’

      They had lunch in the village and then, on the way home, they stopped at Matt’s cottage.

      ‘We came to return your marmalade and ask you a favour,’ Cleve said, when he opened the door.

      ‘You’d better come in, then.’

      ‘Thanks. We won’t keep you long.’

      He showed them through to the back where his mother was sitting, enjoying the warmth of the sun through the glass.

      ‘Hello, Mrs Stark. I’m sorry to disturb you.’

      ‘Gloria, please. And it’s lovely to have visitors. Sit down. Will you have coffee?’ She looked at Miranda. ‘Mint tea, perhaps?’

      ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’

      ‘We came to ask you a favour, Matt,’ Cleve said, turning to look at him. ‘Miranda and I are getting married in a day or two. Just a stand-up-in-front-of-the-mayor job. We were hoping that you will be a witness.’

      ‘Of course, that would be my pleasure!’

      ‘Congratulations, I hope you’ll be very happy,’ Gloria said admiring Miranda’s ring. ‘Have you known one another long?’ she asked.

      ‘Six years, eight months and four days,’ Matt said. ‘Actually, make that five days.’ Gloria frowned. ‘Cleve told me. It was Andie’s eighteenth birthday, she’d just got her pilot’s licence and he watched as she made a perfect landing in a tricky crosswind.’

      This description of their first meeting was met with a moment of total silence.

      ‘You fly?’ Gloria asked, stepping in to rescue the moment.

      ‘I’m a commercial pilot but Cleve’s wrong about when we met. It’s seven days. Six years, eight months and seven days.’

      Gloria gave Cleve a wry smile. ‘If it was her birthday, you’d better memorise the date. It’s fatal to get that wrong.’

      ‘Miranda’s birthday is on the twelfth,’ he said. ‘It’s the day we met and I will never forget that.’ Andie risked a look at him. He was looking anywhere but at her.

      ‘Perhaps you forgot to account for the leap years,’ Gloria said, filling the suddenly awkward silence.

      ‘So, are your families flying over for the wedding?’ Matt asked. ‘The villa is hardly fit for visitors but we have a couple of spare rooms if you need somewhere for your parents to stay.’

      ‘That’s very kind,’ Cleve said, standing up. ‘Would you mind if we take a rain check on the coffee, Gloria?’

      ‘Not at all. Drop by any time.’

      ‘Thank you. We’ll see ourselves out.’

      Cleve was in such a hurry to leave that Andie had to go back for her bag and was just in time to hear an exasperated Gloria say, ‘Matt, you talk too much.’

      ‘Do you think so? I thought I’d said just enough.’

      She backed away and quietly shut the front door. Her bag would be safe enough where it was for the moment.

      * * *

      Cleve drove in silence back to the villa and Andie was too busy trying to work out what had just happened to speak.

      He’d told her in the jeweller’s that he’d come to the island with the express intention of asking her to marry him. She hadn’t known what to make of that. Guilt? Or had her resignation shaken him into the realisation that whatever they’d had six years, eight months and seven days ago was still viable? Or did he just need an anchor?

      That was the role she’d chosen for herself, so that was all right. Except he knew to the day—minus the odd leap year—when they’d first met. Girls remembered things like that...

      No. She refused to read anything into it. It had been her eighteenth birthday. The sort of occasion that stuck in the mind even without the close encounter in the shrubbery. She worked for him so he knew exactly how old she was and she supplied the office with cake on her birthday.

      Which accounted for the years. But the months and days?

      They were so close in the little car. His arm brushed against her when he changed gear and above the smell of hot metal, oil, there was a combination of warm cotton, the scent of Cleve’s skin, the shampoo he always used, familiar as her own.