After inheriting her grandmother’s farmhouse, Gigi learns that her father has been arrested and all his bank accounts frozen – which means her allowance and monies from the family business have been frozen too. Somehow, she needs to earn her own money – perhaps making and selling her sculptures will be the answer…
I stormed out of the kitchen and over to my studio.
At this rate, I would be turning it into a bedsit. For me. And renting the house out.
I pulled a potter’s knife from the tool box and stabbed it into a new bag of clay. It wasn’t a violent act. It was an act of release.
I tore open the bag and plunged my hands in, tugging out two big clods of sticky, gritty clay.
Then I slapped the two clods together, slammed the lump onto the wooden table and screeched like Sharapova. I rolled it, I turned it, I made the familiar ram’s head shape, again and again, until I was ready to build.
A magic flying saucer?
I leaned over the clay, hands sinking slowly into it. I could feel tears dripping onto my knuckles.
This was a waste of time. A complete and utter waste of time.
The clay was ready to work but I wasn’t. And I didn’t trust myself to continue with the fine detail on Morael – the angel of healing and of August – to mark the month I moved into my beautiful new home. I might decapitate the poor thing in this mood.
I tidied the clay into a ball. I pulled cling film from the dispenser on the wall and wrapped it around the clay, careful to ensure no air could get to it. Then I wrapped more cling film over the wounded bag; the last thing I needed was my clay drying out.
At least I knew this stuff was paid for – I’d used money from my own account.
I headed back outside and came face-to-face with Luke.
‘You okay?’ he asked, his concern evidence that I must be looking pretty scary.
‘Oh, my goodness, yes,’ I lied, bright and breeziness flooding my voice. ‘Just having a bit of a moment. Coffee? Tea?’
‘I heard you yell. I thought you must have injured yourself.’
‘Sorry. No. Taekwondo.’ I flicked my leg one way, my arms the other and yelled – just to confirm he hadn’t been hearing things. ‘I guess I need to be a bit quieter around here. Sorry, again.’
He looked bewildered. ‘No worries. I’ll know next time.’
He glanced past me to the studio. ‘You working on a sculpture?’
‘Nearly. Just preparing some clay. I think tomorrow will be a better day for it.’
He looked around. ‘Too hot, today?’
‘No. I just don’t feel fully aligned… creatively speaking.’
‘Coffee? Tea?’ I repeated.
‘Thanks but I need to get something finished.’
‘Oh, I disturbed you. So sorry. Again.’
His face relaxed. ‘Don’t worry about it. Glad to see you’re okay.’ He studied me for a moment. ‘Didn’t have you down as a TKDist, though.’
‘No. Not much. Now and again. I’m more of a yoga-ist. Yes, I like yoga.’
‘Right. Well. See you around,’ he said and headed off towards the drive.
A thought occurred to me. I trotted after him. ‘Luke…’ He turned. ‘I’ve never really told you how grateful we are, as a family, for the help you gave Nanna. I know how much she appreciated what you did for her. She often mentioned you.’
His eyes softened. ‘I was very fond of Una. She was a good woman.’
‘She was. The best. I really miss her.’
‘Me too.’ AND THEN HE SMILED. It was almost a lens-shattering, eye-dazzling, toothpaste-commercial smile, and proved he hadn’t been botoxed. And believe me, I knew plenty of guys who had.
‘She was the best person in my life,’ I said, stopping short as I felt that tell-tale ache in the back of my throat.
‘S’always good to have one of those,’ he said, quietly.
I nodded frantically, swallowing back the tears and blinking rapidly. If I didn’t get a grip, it would set off a chain reaction: crumpling chin, misshapen mouth and runny nose.
He raised his hand in a farewell gesture and turned away. He walked smoothly. He didn’t bounce, he didn’t swagger or toss his curly head in the cocky way some guys did. He just strolled comfortably down my drive and out between the stone gate posts.
‘Taekwondo?’ I muttered to myself. ‘Where did that come from?’
I wandered inside to light some incense sticks in the hope they might lift my mood..
Thank you, Rosie Dean and Random Things Tours
About the author
Rosie Dean has been writing stories and plays since she was big enough to type. After studying ceramic design and gaining a ‘degree in crockery’ as the man in her life calls it, she became an Art & Pottery teacher. Seven years later, she moved into corporate world, writing training courses and marketing copy until the lure of being a full-time writer became irresistible.
Her passion is to write entertaining love stories that can make a reader chuckle, laugh out loud or, occasionally, feel a lump in the throat. Most of all, she loves developing the characters who inhabit her stories – eccentricities and screwball scenarios pop up in all of her work. Some of these characters have four legs – because animals offer an interesting counterpoint to human dramas.
Gigi’s Island Dream is her fourth romantic comedy, and won the Readers’ Choice Award from Romance Writers of America’s Florida chapter.
Rosie lives on the Isle of Wight, and can see the sea from her writing den.
Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Gigis-Island-Dream-Rosie-Dean-ebook/dp/B01KJ2FHAG/ref=sr_1_1?crid=36RHOZQJ8S1TU&dchild=1&keywords=rosie+dean&qid=1625211807&s=digital-text&sprefix=rosie+dean%2Cdigital-text%2C220&sr=1-1