So her mother was off her medication, or at least not taking it consistently. She let out a slow breath as outside a bird trilled—a sweet, fluting sound. All right, fine, so her mum wasn’t taking her meds. That didn’t have to be the end of the world. After all, Naomi hadn’t taken medication of any kind all through Emily’s childhood, and she’d been…well, perhaps best not to think about those days.
Emily pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. She knew there wasn’t much she could do. And maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as all that—after all, her mother’s doctors had said, over the years, that coming off medication could sometimes be a good thing. Adjusting dosages, learning to live without it, all that advice. And yet the risk felt too enormous, too frightening. But as her mother had said, it really wasn’t her choice to make.
Briefly she considered calling her father, but she knew he’d give her his usual patter. Your mother has to make her own choices. I know it’s hard.
As if.
But there was no point in feeling bitter about that; Geoff David had made his choices too, including a second wife and family. Emily saw him once a year, if that.
She took another breath and let it out slowly, and then she reached for her coat. She needed to get back to work. Work, the usual antidote to feeling sad or stressed or heaven help her, lonely. Except the jury was out on whether her work in Wychwood-on-Lea was going to have the same soothing effect work had had back in London.
Emily had just turned onto the drive from the lane that led to Willoughby Close when Henry’s forest-green Jaguar pulled in from the main road. He slowed, rolling down the window.
“Hop in, and I’ll give you a lift up to the manor.”
“Thank you,” Emily said, and slipped into the passenger side. Henry was wearing one of his three-piece suits, which was comforting, and his Jag was reassuringly spotless.
“How’s your first day going?” he asked as he started up the drive once more.
“All right, I think. The office is mostly cleaned.”
“Already?” Henry gave her a laughingly admiring look. “You’re a force of nature.”
“I just heaped things in the hall really,” Emily replied. “Alice said someone named Jace would deal with it?”
“Ah yes, Jace.” Something flickered across Henry’s face and then was gone. “He’s the caretaker for Willoughby Manor. Married to Ava.”
“Yes, Alice mentioned Ava. I can’t keep track of all the names.”
“Nor can I, really, but I’m sure you’ll manage. Your brain is like a computer. Better than AI. You certainly managed to keep track of my schedule back in London.”
“Yes,” Emily murmured. “Although this feels different.”
“It’s a bit more hands-on,” Henry agreed easily. “You’ll have to get out and rub elbows with people, but that won’t be a problem, will it?”
Emily glanced at her boss, noting the rather steely tone she remembered well from his former days. Yet when he met her gaze, he smiled at her. She had no idea what message he was trying to send, although she realised she was afraid she could guess.
“I have a list in my briefcase of all the independent businesses in Wychwood, and their owners,” Henry said. “Starting tomorrow, I’d like you to pop into each one and say hello. Introduce yourself, and the foundation.”
“I was thinking of writing emails…” Emily began, only to have Henry shake his head quite firmly.
“We need the friendly touch, the familiar face.”
“But I’m not actually familiar—”
“You will be,” he assured her in that same steely tone, and Emily wondered if Henry was doing this on purpose. Had he decided she needed to be pushed out her little feathered nest? Surely not. In their four years of working together, he’d never asked her a single personal question. He couldn’t start caring about her now.
“Tomorrow,” Henry stated, and Emily knew it wasn’t something she could say no to.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” she answered with a mock salute, and Henry smiled.
Chapter Four
“May I have a word?”
Owen Jones looked up from the till receipts he’d been going through on top of the bar to see a woman he’d never clapped eyes on before cautiously inching her way into the pub on a pair of steel-grey stilettos, her pert nose wrinkled in wary distaste.
She was dressed like a city barrister, in a black pencil skirt and grey silk blouse, both items highlighting a figure that was blow-away-in-the-breeze slender, and yet, Owen couldn’t help but notice, still in possession of a few rather nice curves.
Her hair, a deep, glossy chestnut, was pulled back into an elegant chignon, with only a few wisps framing a delicate, heart-shaped face. In short, she was a stunner, and Owen, who had always enjoyed looking upon a lovely lady, noticed—just as he noticed the slight curl of her lip as she met his gaze.
“You can have several, if you like,” he told her cheerfully. “How about a whole dozen? That’s twelve right there, I’ve just said.” He grinned, enjoying the startled look on her face. She was prissy, this one, and judging from the way her gaze moved around the decidedly shabby pub, a bit of a snob, but neither took away from her beauty.
“Are you the manager here?”
“Manager, bartender, owner,” Owen replied as he spread his arms to encompass the dim interior of The Drowned Sailor, with its crowded tables, rickety stools, and an air of well-worn, well-loved shabbiness. “Come on in.” She took another step into the pub, closing the door behind her, and Owen planted his elbows on
