Second Chance Lane (Brockenridge #2) - Nicola Marsh Page 0,51
Jane at how low her mother would stoop to discredit her. They’d never been close but to say that stuff about her … it defied belief.
Louise grimaced. ‘I’m really sorry, because we’d been friends for a long time and I shouldn’t have believed her. I think I already knew my marriage was in trouble at that point and it was easier to blame you than look in the mirror.’
‘It’s okay, Lou.’ She reached out and squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘And thanks for telling me.’
‘Do you think you and your mum will ever reconcile?’
‘Not bloody likely. Heads up, the she-devil’s in the supermarket, so beware.’
Louise laughed, the unique snorting chuckle bringing back a host of memories: the two of them, along with Bec, sleeping over and watching rom-coms, or borrowing daring romance novels from the library and snickering over the naughty bits. She’d pretended not to miss their friendship over the years, but that was the old, stupid Jane.
Here went nothing. ‘Hey, when you text me for coffee, maybe we could invite Bec too? I really miss you girls.’
‘Me too,’ Louise said, so softly Jane had to lean forwards to hear it. ‘It’ll be good for the three of us to get together again.’
‘It’s a date,’ Jane said, smiling. ‘I better go. Take care.’
‘You too.’
And despite the nasty confrontation with Gladys and hearing about the awful lies she’d told Louise years earlier, Jane felt lighter than she had in ages.
Eternally grateful her father had set up a trust fund that enabled her to come home to her own cosy slice of Brockenridge every day, Jane pulled up outside her cottage and lugged her groceries inside. She loved every inch of this place, from the tiny ornamental Japanese garden leading to her front door, to the hot tub on the elevated back deck that had views of the Murray River if she squinted hard enough.
She’d bought the cottage at a steal and had redecorated the interior with polished ash floorboards, pale mint green walls and ivory plantation shutters. The white, grey and green theme continued throughout, with artfully arranged pictures on the walls, throw rugs over the suede sofas, and lush indoor plants. She liked to think of it as her private oasis, a shelter from the prying eyes of folks who only saw what they wanted to see. She could’ve left judgemental Brockenridge far behind a long time ago but with every run-in with Gladys, no matter how unwelcome, she was reminded of the reason she stayed: to ensure her mother, who thought she had an entire town fooled, never forgot Jane knew the truth.
Popping an antacid to stop the churning in her gut, Jane set about prepping for dinner. Slow-cooking the lamb would ensure it fell off the bone, just the way she liked it. She hoped Mason appreciated a good roast.
Once she had everything in the crockpot she took out her portfolio and lost herself in planning for the new bakery, only looking up an hour later when the tempting aromas of garlic and rosemary filled the air. She had plenty of time to shower and get ready, but found herself reaching for her laptop to do an online search.
Feeling a little stalkerish, she typed ‘Mason Woodley, patissier’ into the search engine. Her research had everything to do with being professional, and nothing at all to do with womanly curiosity about a guy she’d once hated who she might now fancy a tad. She kept telling herself that as she clicked on the first few hits, which showcased his work in an upscale patisserie in Paris, praised him for catering an exclusive event for a prominent European royal family and labelled him one of the most eligible foodie bachelors in France. Ooh la la. The rest of the links were more of the same and proved what she already knew.
Mason Woodley was way out of her league.
She attributed her battered self-esteem to Gladys but she’d always been insecure. She’d hidden it well, behind designer clothes and immaculate make-up and snarky putdowns. It’s why she’d gone after Ruby in high school: Ruby had been smart and when she stared at Jane, she felt like Ruby saw beneath her poised surface to the quaking girl inside. Mason had seen right through her too, and she pushed him away to ensure he never got too close.
Her residual lack of confidence was silly, really, because she shouldn’t need the validation these days. She was thirty, owned a house, secretly donated money to a