The Vintage Ice Cream Van Road Trip (Cherry Pie Island - Book 2) by Jenny Oliver

Either side of them were manicured lawns with sprinklers flicking back and forth in the evening shade. Behind them a fingernail’s-width view of the lake was just visible, in front of them the house loomed high with dusty yellow brick, pale-blue shutters, wrought-iron window boxes of white geraniums and steps leading up to the big wooden front doors. Inside, the hall was cool and dark, the floor covered with black and white tiles, the pattern on them like a snail’s trail. Wilf had dumped the bags at the bottom of the
Gone with the Wind
-esque staircase, the bannister rough wood and the steps concrete and bare, and ushered Holly through into the kitchen, where she was standing now.
    Emily was giving Wilf the third degree as Alfonso strolled in from the garden, a glass of beer in his hand, dressed in yellow swimming trunks and a red polo shirt that was damp from the water. Beside Holly was a table ‒ a giant piece of stained wood that sliced through the room ‒ scattered with bowls of fruit and plates of food. There was a half-sliced baguette on a board next to a plate of oozing cheese covered with a net cloche, beside that were figs and grapes and a bowl of cherries so dark they rivalled the island ones. Above the table hung a low chandelier that tinkled quietly from the breeze coming through the open windows, the little pieces of crystal clicking softly together. Two cats were draped over the benches on either side of the table and underneath the big armchair at the end was a huge French hunting dog that, at the sound of Wilf’s voice, went into apoplexy.
    ‘Hey down, boy, down!’ Wilf laughed as the great slobbering brown and white spotted dog crashed up from where he was lying and threw himself at Wilf. ‘Oh you’re lovely, I’ve missed you,’ he said, scratching the beast behind the ears and then, picking up an old tennis ball from the floor, strolled to the open windows and hurled it out onto the lawn. The dog hurtled after it, smashing past the benches and upsetting the cats. Holly flattened herself against the wall, shocked by its speed. Alfonso laughed.
    ‘You made it in one piece,’ he said, ‘Wilf did not misbehave?’
    ‘No.’ Holly shook her head. ‘He was the perfect gentleman.’ She watched as Wilf went further out onto the patio, the intimacy of their journey, their tight closeness, seeming to disappear with every step he took. Like the strands of a web stretched to breaking point.
    ‘Oh I don’t believe that for a second,’ Emily snorted. ‘Come outside, there’s wine and nibbles and what’s left of a barbecue. Everyone’s out there.’ Emily looped her arm through Holly’s and pulled her towards the window.
    Holly swallowed. Suddenly a bit nervous of ‘everyone’. She’d only spoken to Wilf for two days and she could hear him laughingly recounting his hours spent in jail, already boiled down to a soundbite story. She wanted to nip to the loo, put some make-up on, maybe change her top to one that didn’t show her mini-bump quite so obviously.
    ‘Come on, you’ll be fine. They’re all lovely.’ Emily gave her arm a little squeeze.
    As they were heading outside, Alfonso asked, ‘Holly, would you like some water? It has lemons in it,’ he laughed, holding up the crystal jug from the fridge.
    ‘I’d love some,’ Holly said with a grateful smile, hating herself for wishing that it was Wilf who had asked her.
    But Wilf, she realised once she’d stepped outside, was in his element. He was already chatting to a stunning blonde who was dressed in just a white bikini and a white chiffon kaftan over at a table covered in fairy lights. His back to Holly, all she could see were the laughter lines around his eyes as he turned his head a touch to the left. It was a profile she knew so well from sitting next to him for the last two days.
    ‘Here’s the water,’ Alfonso said, coming up behind her then, clocking her gaze, said, ‘Astrid Donoghue, plays polo at the club, bridesmaid,