painting a go. She wouldn’t get clients for a while and when she did, she wouldn’t be able to charge much, being a novice. Nan was right, she wasn’t going to make much money, but did that matter if she was happy? Surely it was more important to do what one loved than to slog away doing something uninspiring just to earn more money? If she could establish herself as an artist and make a living out of it, then she could decide where she wanted to put down her roots. The trouble was she had made a life for herself in Milan; nowhere else felt like home, not even here.
Although the sun was out her walk was bracing. Snow still clung to the hills and the air was cold and crisp. The wind that raced up the cliff face bore sharp teeth. Seagulls wheeled beneath an icy blue sky and on the sea small boats bobbed up and down while fishermen put out their nets. It was all so very pretty and Daisy sighed with pleasure as her sorrow slowly lifted a little. It was lovely to be back, only sad that her homecoming was accompanied by heartbreak. She knew she’d miss Italy and all her friends there, but she had to learn to live in England again. Try to make some new friends. It was a daunting thought, starting over. She wondered whether she’d ever fall in love again. She put her hands in her pockets and walked in the direction of her village. She had to discover who she was here, without Italy and Luca to define her, and she had to come to love that person before she could even contemplate giving her heart away again. Right now she couldn’t contemplate loving anyone else but Luca, ever.
When she got home she went to find her mother in the shop. Marigold was serving the Commodore, whom Daisy had known since she was a girl. Commodore Wilfrid Braithwaite, as he was really called, had been a friend of her grandfather’s. When he saw her his small eyes lit up and his wrinkled face creased further as he smiled, revealing a crooked set of teeth. ‘Well, what a sight for sore eyes,’ he exclaimed. ‘You back for Christmas already, Daisy?’
Daisy returned his smile. In a three-piece tweed suit, complete with a tie and trilby hat, the Commodore looked quite the country gentleman. ‘I’m back for good, actually,’ she said.
He drew his feathery white eyebrows into a frown. ‘Oh dear, have you left your Italian fellow behind?’
‘Yes, I have,’ she replied.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It’s nice to be home, though,’ she said, sensing an awkward pause brewing.
‘I don’t suppose it snows much in Italy.’
‘Actually, I was in Milan where it snows more than here.’
‘So it does.’ He paid for the chocolate digestive biscuits. Marigold stared at them and frowned. She’d seen them on a table recently, but she couldn’t remember where. ‘I like dipping these in my tea,’ said the Commodore. So does someone else, thought Marigold, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember who.
The Commodore left the shop and Marigold went to the magazine stand to look for a book of Sudoku puzzles. She really needed to exercise her brain. Tasha took over the till. ‘Nice to have you back,’ she said to Daisy. ‘Only sorry it’s, well, you know.’ She smiled anxiously, not knowing how to put her sympathy into words. ‘Mary Hanson was in a while ago and left her number with your mum. She says you can paint her dog.’
‘Really? That’s great. He’s the big one, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he’s a St Bernard. You know, those Swiss dogs with barrels of brandy around their necks, except Bernie doesn’t wear one of those. Well, he’d be a bit more popular if he did.’ Tasha crinkled her nose.
Marigold appeared with the book of Sudoku puzzles. ‘This is to exercise my brain,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’m becoming so forgetful these days.’
‘We could all do with exercising our brains,’ said Tasha with a grin.
‘I hope it works,’ said Marigold. ‘I’m not ready to go gaga yet!’
They laughed. ‘Tasha says you have Mary Hanson’s number for me,’ Daisy said.
‘Oh yes, so I do.’ Marigold put her hands in her pockets. She frowned. ‘Goodness, where did I put it?’ She realized as a cold feeling slithered over her skin that she couldn’t remember anything about the piece of paper. She knew Mary had written her number on something, but