The Garden of Lavender and Time

By Laura Briggs

Settled in Cornwall again, Maisie still has a book in the top one hundred -- and a film rights deal to boot, thanks to Arnold -- although she's still a maid at the Penmarrow, at least for now.

Life seems impossibly idyllic as of old, with Dean resettling at his cottage in Port Hewer and its guest room now regularly occupied by Alex. Maisie remembers to call him 'Sidney' on a full-time basis as he teaches her the secrets to chess, and begins reading the forgotten manuscript to his unfinished fourth novel.

When Sidney makes the decision to sell his London flat, it looks as if his return is permanent. Adele isn't happy about that choice, however, and making her feelings all too clear to the one person she knows could change his mind. Additionally, the one secret Dean hasn't told Maisie changes everything about the fourth novel's role in the career of Alistair Davies. At the Penmarrow, wedding bells hint at a future shakeup that could alter the hotel's fate -- as well as that of one member of staff in particular.

The future still looks bright however, as Maisie and Sidney ponder the strength of the bond they have re-forged, and what a future together will look like. Now Sidney considers a decision that will make Cornwall his home permanently -- and offers both her and Dean a chance to return to the last moment of happiness all three of them shared as friends before the accident.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Briggs
• Release date: Sep 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215345566

Laura Briggs

Laura Briggs is the author of several feel-good romance reads, including the UK best-seller 'A Wedding in Cornwall'. She has a fondness for vintage style dresses (especially ones with polka dots), and reads everything from Jane Austen to modern day mysteries. When she's not writing, she enjoys spending time with family and friends, caring for her pets, gardening, and seeing the occasional movie or play.

Book preview

The Garden of Lavender and Time

By Laura Briggs

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2023 Laura Briggs

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Image: Lavender. Original art, Luxury old fashioned houses buildings by Christos Georghiou and Floral Border by Ellebell. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

Title Page: Girl in a garden. Original art, Swirl frame by sjezica,Fashionable young girls by Filitova, Luxury old fashioned houses buildings by Christos Georghiou, and House in the garden by Elena Mikhaylova. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Dear Readers,

The blurb tells readers that Maisie has returned to idyllic life in Cornwall, and nothing could be more true in most respects. You can picture Dean's cottage being unshuttered and swept out to chase away the cobwebs, the sofa now occupied by Kip or Moby Dick. Sunshiny afternoons, painting sessions, chess games, and the legendary Royal 'MM' sounding its keys for the first time in nearly a decade. Mrs. Graves's horrible bakes delivered in their typical repurposed tins.

Perfection does have a price, however. This is how Maisie finds out that going back doesn't mean going back to the old normal before the accident, which she hardly expected after all this time. And, of course, going back to the normal before she knew the whole truth about Sidney — absolutely impossible.

But, sometimes, we go as close to past perfection as we can. There may be shadows gathering in the background as Sidney tries to reawaken his former literary gift, which has been slumbering too long to make a true return, but that's nothing to worry about yet. As in the chess strategy he's teaching Maisie, you can only make the move that is present, even if you've made the next half dozen in your head already — because reality can change them on the board when your opponent has a turn. That's why Maisie tucks away Dean's warning about the novel's future, concentrating only on whether that talent she loved so deeply can be channeled into its original form, just one more time.

Here, distractions are pleasant, reunions are predestined, and friends are always welcome. This is the penultimate adventure, to remind everyone that happy endings are destined in most stories of this kind. Even if sometimes there is one more unexpected bend in the path to happiness.

Chapter One

So, how does the story end?

What? Sidney looked at me.

The book. The one you're writing. You could at least tell me the ending.

I don't know yet, he answered, shrugging his shoulders.

We were hand in hand in the woods between the vicarage and a field not far from a little inlet, where Sidney and I had a path through the little glen; a place where ferns were thick in the tree shade, except where pocket bursts of sunlight came through.

How can you not know? You've had years to think about it, I protested. "You must know something about where it's going."

Because I don't, he laughed. You know how the rules work. We don't always know what happens next. It could be anything. Another shrug. "

It can't be just anything, I argued. I do know the rules.

Okay. Not just anything, true, he relented. Stories have to follow their own path, not be forced down the road we want them to follow. We should be a little surprised by what happens, just like readers will be when they read it.

"If they do, you mean, I teased. I won't ask you again about whether you're finishing it. Only about whether you know what it should have been. If it had only been a book meant to be, that is, which is what I and every other fan had hoped for in years past. Reader curiosity is natural."

Like — whether there's hope? Life? Death? A miracle no one sees happening? he replied.

Something like that, I admitted. I spread my fingers, sliding between his to lock our hold as I thought about the myriad possibilities life always held. Grossly unpredictable to the mind in cases that break our hearts and our plans, since the miracles he mentioned are diamonds in the coal piles of life's events. Like ... what happens to Leonard? This was still my favorite character from all of his novels.

Leonard? He dies.

I pushed Sidney's arm. He can't, I said, in protest. You said you didn't know before. He might well be joking, knowing him.

"I don't know some things, he answered. His grin had come, but it was quick, and flashed back to half-seriousness when its window closed. You know how it is, you can't always predict which things you'll know first and which ones you won't."

You can't kill Leonard, I answered, stubbornly. You can't let him die.

I have to, he answered.

Why?

Because some people have to die, Maisie, he answered. We don't get to know why it happens, but it does. It never feels fair, it never seems right, but we can't change it.

His humor had faded, taking away that funny little smile from his lips. As if seriousness had caught up with him and laid a hand on his sleeve physically, like the hand that shoved him a moment before.

Please, change it, I said, half-begging with this request. I didn't like this outcome for the story, not for a character I loved. In past times, I would have laughed at the idea of myself doing this — telling Alistair Davies what to do with his book and his characters, as if I had any opinion that could or should matter. It's not as if he'd asked my opinion when writing the first three I loved so deeply.

I'm sorry, he said. But that's the way it is. He shrugged again. My stubborn look fixed on him was doing no good, apparently.

If you haven't finished it, how can you be sure? I demanded.

Because I still know, he answered. That infuriating little smile returned, much to my chagrin. The mystery in it, bringing the gold sparks to the hazel in his eyes, was backed by a certainty I could tell was already rooted, so he wasn't merely teasing me.

He meant it. That part was disappointing, although I felt curious still to know the rest, because he must know the outcome of other aspects of the story if he knew that one. What was yet to come, good and bad, which I could only guess at from the outside.

His hand tightened around mine as he glanced at me, smiling. Part apology, part reassurance that it couldn't be all bad — what little he did know about it. That was all he could offer me, since he couldn't tell — or wasn't ready to — when it came to his thoughts about the unfinished story.

I fired another question, which he batted away, even with my protest that he was never going to give me the tiniest clue despite all the confidence he promised he had in me. A moment later, we were laughing again as if we hadn't been arguing just a little previously. Or, at least, disagreeing on how much he trusted our relationship writer to writer.

The memory of it was three years old, but came back to me vividly as I was swimming out of a dream, one I didn't recall except for an intense feeling of alarm mixed with cold, quiet panic deepening in me. The conversation's memory somehow juxtaposed itself with flash memories of sticky hospital seats, the blood on my fingers, pebbly pavement pressed against my knees. Senses overwhelmed by circumstance.

I woke, startled, in the darkness of a room that placed itself first in shadows as my old rose room in the wood cottage, then my flat in London, before I remembered that I had given it up weeks ago. Around me were the walls of the attic room at the Penmarrow, even though the association of those events belonged to other places. My eyes adjusted, seeing white walls with my postcards and framed poster of my bestseller's cover, the little tower of books on my old dresser. Through the window across from the foot of my bed came a low rumble in the heavens, then a flash of incandescent light.

Breathing out, I reached for my phone, fumbling for it in the darkness, in the bed space beside my switched-off tablet computer and a tangle of earbuds. I pressed the home button, and the screen flashed the time against a background photo recently emailed to me by Dean, and which I loved, of Sidney and friends in costume as part of the 'Mr. Brightside' group costume from his days at uni. Ridiculously silly in steampunk Victorian, doing his best impression of a band whose posters had adorned my walls at college, ironically.

In the glow of LCD backlight, it was soothing: a photo nightlight vaporizing bad dreams and the vague bogeyman of foreshadowed fears. I gazed at it, watching the clock's time changed from three fourteen to three fifteen, then settled beneath my blankets again.

I fell asleep just before the rain began drumming against the hotel's roof above me, its first fingertaps heralded by another low roll of thunder.

___________________

I think it's unfair Katy gets two weeks holiday, just for working the long shifts this summer, complained Tamara. What about the rest of us? I would've put in twice as much time, if I hadn't had toothache. The dentist said my molars are sensitive. I reckon I'll have to have them pulled.

I, for one, have maxed out my holiday, I answered, as I helped her move back the potted palm, the spot for which had been cleaned earlier today. All my holiday time had been spent writing a novel which had finally put me on the literary map, since I had been one of the early cycle of employees. Didn't you take yours then?

Tamara scrunched up her face. My plans fell through with my mates, she answered. I asked Brigette for another go, but she said no. As if we're going to be busy now that summer's waning.

Autumn is a very busy time for us, said Brigette, who was listening, and had Tamara jumping slightly. Some guests prefer to come when the water is warm and the summer boating crowd has moved on. Why do you think we have the water safety program?

To scare stupid people who can't swim so they stay out of the water? Tamara acted as if this was a no brainer.

Brigette's look would probably have withered the maid's confidence in a second's flash, if not for the entrance of an entirely new object for her to scold: the porter Riley in swimming trunks, flipflops, and a zinc streak on his nose, covering his chest only with a silver sport's whistle. Tucked under his arm was one of the hotel's beach towels and a binder.

What are you doing? Brigette looked as if he was out of his mind. Go put on your uniform!

I'm wearing it, he answered, in protest. Didn't you see my name on the list?

The list?

The one for beach lifeguards, he answered. There. He pointed to the sign-up sheet of volunteers for the water safety program, which Brigette had posted a couple of weeks ago.

And Mr. Trelawney approved you? Brigette sounded as if this was unbelievable.

Of course he did, said Riley. Two summer's experience at a youth adventure centre prior to my humble role here. Back stroke, front crawl, kiss of life, the whole package. I pledged to put safety first at all times, especially in the water, with first aid for all who are injured. Reporting for active duty on Penmarrow's beaches.

He saluted. I heard Tamara snort back a giggle. Brigette looked dubious, but was losing ground fast. The manager had already approved him as one of the new beach watchers, so she could hardly cross Mr. Trelawney over the mere fact that Riley's past labors included shortcomings. Some more prominent than others.

So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to protect the safety of our guests, he said, topping his head with a billed cap.

Or pose with girls in bikinis, likely enough, joked Tamara.

Riley glared, but chose to be the bigger person by choosing silence. It was only his glance that withered Tamara before he stalked on towards the exit.

I certainly hope he looks after things properly, said Brigette, who still seemed ruffled by this latest development. She tacked up the new employee schedule, then withdrew to her office again. Which, as of late, had sported a decided wedding theme which had nothing to do with the hotel's upcoming MP's retirement banquet.

Riley's new duties wouldn't leave the hotel short of a porter, because neither Yuri nor Gomez was scheduled for a holiday, and the newest porter was a model of decorum that had Brigette deeply satisfied that guest luggage was in good hands. The new staff, belated as had been their arrival, had proven themselves worthy of being part of the hotel's international reputation. My personal favorite was the new Mongolian kitchen assistant Jin Xu, who made an Asian egg and pickled vegetable dish that was to die for.

For the summer schedule, the new water safety program included staff training courses on first aid, community courses on swimming and water safety, and a program especially for kids on safety by the shore — some of which would presumably be taught by Riley and the other volunteers. The MP's banquet was the only event which had booked any of our spaces, as if summer's end had blown away the rush of tourists and celebrators in one breath.

Summer was gradually winding down its colors in pastel jewels and foliage blushed with the first tinges of autumn, albeit only a hint of what was coming in a matter of weeks. The golden light of late day bathed a lawn perfectly trimmed by Hamm, where a lone family of tourists played croquet. A girl with a mobile phone stood near the beach stair, taking a panorama photo of the hotel looking both stately and tranquil in weathered ruby-rose hues, behind the manicured shrubbery and vining green on the corner nearest to the terrace.

Maisie, the afternoon correspondence is ready, said Davin, as I finished repositioning the foyer's pots. Yuri's off taking a tray to the party mudlarking on the shore. He applied the last stamp to a postcard of Port Hewer's pirate wreck, placing it into the tray that contained an assortment of envelopes and cards ready for the village's post.

Then I'll take it in, I said. Maybe I'll stop by the shops and snoop the new windows for bargains at the same time, I teased. Don't tell Brigette.

Lips sealed, he promised. The phone rang and he snapped up the receiver, as I began tucking the mail into the satchel employees carried to the village shop. Lots of postcards, lots of business envelopes with little logos that suggested contracts or hand-filled forms were being mailed by business clients. A picture postcard with nothing but a stamp and a smiley face on the back, and an old-fashioned letter that had me pausing with it in my hand.

A cream-colored envelope sealed with the hotel's crest in ink, its address written in the bold, precise hand of Mr. Trelawney. Another letter to Lady Valerie Carmichael, addressed to her home in Genoa, Italy, like all the others written before it these past few weeks.

The first one had looked nearly identical as the one I now held; since then, there had been card-shaped ones in envelopes in watercolor shades, and one with a delicate filigree pattern that came from the box of custom envelopes on the manager's desk, beside the hotel's official stationery. The ones sent in return, which began a week or so afterwards, had the faintest trace of the perfume I remembered from the noblewoman's suite.

Shortly after the incident involving the troubled young man who had become the most controversial guest of my employment experience, something had changed the manager's firm policy not to rival Lady Valerie's perfect Italian life, even for the sake of true love. Life has a way of making us reconsider risk — reconsider what is valuable enough to make the risk worth taking as well. Such a night comes to all of us at some time, much as it came to Mr. Trelawney in a dimly-lit hotel room, facing down another's despair in the midst of his own.

What was happening in these letters, I fancifully imagined to be as moving as their reunion at this hotel, although I had no clue what was actually inside of them. A handful of epistles might well be an exchange of mutual childhood memories, or simple sketches of everyday life. 'Today a countess checked in at the hotel' or 'the latest painting I acquired for the gallery is a Cezanne.'

I slipped the letter inside the sack, with the rest of the correspondence. Soon, it would be on its way to Italy, where Lady Valerie would probably read it whilst sipping a cappuccino at a cafe near the art museum she helped curate. She would probably laugh at one of the rare but worthwhile moments of humor from the formidable man behind the letter — whom she knew better as a tender and thoughtful boy who played with her in Irish fields, and as the young man willing to tutor a spirited girl who hadn't quite decided what path to follow.

Soon, she would write one back. A delicate hand on the envelope, which was usually printed with a soft pattern resembling dried flowers. I imagined them releasing a spice into the air when the seal was lifted, filled with the cinnamon and nutmeg dusting the biscuits on the plate beside her coffee, and the faint, pungent green of the trees around the gallery.

Maybe it would seduce Mr. Trelawney into taking a holiday in the Mediterranean sun, where he would drink lattes with Lady Valerie, dance with her on a villa's rooftop terrace after a light dinner of summer pasta — and reconsider his own life managing the Penmarrow?

I hadn't made it quite that far in my imaginings. Intense as their reunion had been, the love which had been kindled was in the stage of sparks and deep-burning embers.

In the library, someone had put a record on the gramophone by the windows, a tickety jazz song playing — a love anthem of forgotten times I imagined, as I walked by on my way to borrow Janine's green cardigan to ward off cool breezes. I caught a glimpse of a couple dancing, the girl giggling, the boy blushing. For the picture, my lips smiled, knowing how they felt. That sweet yet imperfect rhythm, fumbling its way to synchronicity the first time they join hands ... and every time after.

These were the things I loved about my current job, explaining why I was back here instead of London. Dreams of a little city flat without a roommate, and days of either writing or doing whatever I chose — both given a hard pass, as amazing as it might seem. It was still boggling the mind of my literary agent, at least.

At the post, the little envelope bearing Mr. Trelawney's letter and those belonging to the Penmarrow's guests slid through the box for out-of-town mail. International stamps, and ones bearing the domestic square for Royal Mail. As colorful as the covers of the magazines on the post's racks, including a bridal one I had seen recently in Brigette's office.

Going by the young man's cottage, are you? asked the postal worker behind the counter.

I am tomorrow, I answered, as I paid for two international stamps for myself, so I could send a card to my long-ago ex congratulating him on his recent engagement, and send my mom a birthday card.

Give this to the lad, will you? Dave's arm is in a bad way, so handling the packages is rough for him, he said. So I'm deputizing a few postal volunteers with a wink, if you know what I mean. He placed a box wrapped in brown paper on the counter, from an art supply shop.

I'll drop it off for him, I promised. Trust is only blind by habit in small places in the world, I thought, remembering a quote from a book — one of Alistair Davies' works. My third favorite, which had been gloriously — and dubiously — honored years ago in the U.S.

I tucked the package under my arm, and slipped my stamps and those for the hotel into the satchel across my shoulder, before setting off for work again.

Chapter Two

The next morning was my day off, so my little alarm didn't blip me awake at six, but at nine instead — or would have, if my ring tone hadn't purred me awake instead from underneath a paperback copy of The Mystery of Edwin Drood.

It was my mom's number. Morning, I answered, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

Too early? I keep a little clock set to your time, and I thought you'd be awake, she answered.

I was nearly there. Anyway, I have places to be, so this is good. I pushed back the covers, sitting cross-legged amidst the folds of my white duvet, stifling a yawn with one hand. Day off errands await.

Is all going well? I heard the sound of the dishwasher humming in the background, and the wind chimes hanging from the balcony above the apartment kitchen, belonging to the neighbor who liked window box gardening. How is the boy? Are you still settling in?

A little. But he's good, I said. I'll be seeing him today, so I'll tell him you say hello. I reached for a pair of denim shorts and a pink sleeveless t-shirt printed with Rainbow Brite. I pushed back my hair, reaching for an elastic headband printed with daisies.

I still can't get past the weirdness of you being back there, my mom said. Are you so sure it's the right decision? You had just started to adjust to being in the city again, and you were actually able to enjoy it for a change — bestselling books being what they are and all.

I know, but I like this change, I answered, retrieving my sandals from underneath one of the Penmarrow's service aprons, which had slid off the hook on the cupboard's side. Anyway, I couldn't write another book that good if I was busy going to cocktail parties with writers and editors, or touring Europe or something.

Arnold hadn't mentioned a book tour. Was that a thing of the past? I pictured myself clutching a copy of The Celestine Man to my chest as I climbed the staircase of a grand Hungarian hotel to a waiting crowd of readers — or traveled by Venetian canal boat down a few blocks from my hotel to some Italian bookstore that looked more like a converted city mansion ready to host a Carnival ball despite shelves and shelves of novels.

Being a successful writer had its advantages, not that I had cashed any of them in as of yet. The money, however, was substantially better than being a published-but-unknown writer. The first deposit of my independent novel's earnings had been deposited in my account only recently — astounding me when I signed in, as much as if a swimming pool of money had been dumped in the Penmarrow's back garden for me. Until now, the most I had ever seen in my account was a hard-won four figures — enough to keep me afloat in Cornwall whenever unexpected expenses rose, and fund part of my mad whirlwind excursion with the woman I had briefly believed was my favorite author in all the world.

Are you writing another one? my mom asked.

Not yet. But I will be as soon as inspiration strikes, I answered. I have a lot to live up to.

A story so personal and consuming as the last one tended to leave artistic batteries drained. I didn't want to disappoint readers — or myself. The next story needed to be equal in its own right.

Maybe it's like lightning — when you least expect it, said my mom. Anyway, I hope it strikes you with a good artistic surprise. I also hope your boy figures out his future now that he's changed his plans. He must be serious about trying to write if he's going for isolation.

He is, I answered.

My mom didn't know, of course, that he had been one. I was still keeping part of Alistair Davies' secret when it didn't have to be told, because it made things so much easier for Sidney. It was hard enough, being torn between two places, two names, two different feelings of obligation and potential.

I hope it was okay with you. A carefully-worded reply, probably either in case I was disappointed that Sidney had quit the publishing business, or was jealous that he shared my same dream. As far as she knew, it was a tremendous surprise to me when he changed course recently. She had no idea, of course, how long I had known it. Another secret — me wishing that he would find his way to this choice, against the odds.

I'm happy for him, I answered. I couldn't be anything else.

Sometimes I still told myself that I would have been happy for him any other way, but it wasn't entirely true. I had tried hard to bury that tiny bit of disappointment for him behind a desk in Norway or London, reading through stacks of other people's hopes and dreams, doing the valiant thing for love. It was a relief that I no longer had to struggle so hard to change my feelings in reality.

My phone and keys lay atop the notebook that contained ideas I scrawled down for potential future books. Nothing lately had come, except for a follow-up to the last fantasy novel I wrote, that was being released by Sunshadow as soon as edits were finished. I had already texted my mom the picture of the cover art, which Arnold had shared with me. My editor avoided all positive forms of communication, which included sharing photos of fantasy artwork featuring a princess in pink who looked as if she had stepped out of a traditional YA Renaissance-fair fairytale from my childhood — peering into the visions forecast in an oversized bubble that