Free The Cheesemaker's House by Jane Cable Page A

Adam’s cakes alone ought to do the trick.
    Finally I pull out a poster, with a little map showing directions to the café.
    â€œThat’s all very well, Alice,” says Owen, “but we really need something like this at the end of the alleyway.”
    â€œSorted – I hope.” I have my fingers crossed here; I’ve been a bit cheeky and he mightn’t like what I’ve done. “I’ve got quite friendly with the woman in the haberdashery on the corner, and she’s willing to put it in her window provided you give her staff a 20% discount.”
    Owen is open mouthed and I back pedal rapidly. “I know 20% sounds a lot but she strikes a hard bargain. I could always go back to her though…I haven’t promised...”
    â€œOh Alice, it’s not that at all – you’re wonderful, really you are. How on earth did you think of doing that?”
    I shrug my shoulders. “I’ve worked in selling all my life and it feels like I’ve always known this sort of stuff. It comes naturally. Anyway,” I carry on quickly, “how do you want to tweak the poster?”
    We talk for a little longer, and when everything is finalised and I’ve finished my wine I stand up to leave. I say everything, but there is still a small piece of card in my pocket and I can’t decide whether to give it to Owen or not. But he seems a bit less tense than he has been of late so I decide to risk it. It’s a little trick I read about in Psychologies magazine.
    â€œI’ve got something for you,” I venture, and I press it into his hand.
    He reads it out loud: “This too will pass.”
    â€œFor when you’re having a particularly shitty day. Stuff it in your pocket and remember it’s there.”
    â€œAlice, that’s so sweet of you…it might just help me to keep everything in perspective and stop me taking it all out on Adam. He really doesn’t deserve it.”
    â€œWe normally do take things out on the people closest to us.”
    He smiles a wry smile. “Yes, worrying, isn’t it? Sometimes…sometimes the harder you try with someone the more you tie yourself up in knots.” And I wonder if maybe, just maybe, he might be talking about me.
    â€œPerhaps the answer’s not to fret about it too much,” I suggest, knowing only too well it’s easier said than done.
    Owen offers to walk me home and we stroll in silence back to New Cottage. I am half way up the drive, some yards away from him, when I turn to say goodnight.
    â€œCome here.” His voice is different; soft, low, yet commanding in a way which sends shivers down my spine.
    I retrace my steps and he hugs me; tenderly but firmly, and then he drops a gentle kiss onto my cheek.
    I find myself saying, “Don’t disappear on me” – but I don’t know where the words come from.
    â€œI’ll try not to.” He touches my shoulder and smiles, and then he is gone. I raise my fingers to my cheek as I watch him walk up the village.

Chapter Sixteen
    Although I never realised it, in suburbia there is a constant hum, even at night; distant traffic, the muted burble of TVs, the footsteps of late night dog walkers – and it is all quietly comforting. Out here, well, there’s nothing.
    If it really was nothing then I could get used to that; the trouble is the long stretches of nothing punctuated by sudden alarming noises which always wake me up. At first the screeches and screams completely unnerved me but when I mentioned them to Margaret she explained they were owls or foxes, so rather than being irrefutable evidence of murderers under my bedroom window they are just a pain in the neck.
    It doesn’t help that it’s so muggy I have to sleep with the windows open. It’s an invitation to every bug in Yorkshire and most of them buzz and some of them even bite. After weeks and weeks of rural sleep deprivation I am starting to