Under a Silent Moon by Elizabeth Haynes

know.”
    Andy saw a glance pass between Elsa and Marjorie and wondered what it was they weren’t saying. He decided to risk stirring things up, see what might float to the surface.
    â€œMrs. Newbury at Willow Cottage. Is she someone you know?”
    Felicity straightened in her chair. “That old witch,” she said. “You don’t want to pay any attention to her.”
    â€œShe’s a nasty old gossip,” Elsa said. “Her husband ran off with one of the partners at his firm two years ago and she couldn’t deal with it.”
    Andy made a note. They were watching him like hawks now.
    â€œShe was very pretty, wasn’t she?” Andy coaxed. “Polly, that is. I’m surprised she was single.”
    There was a silence, then eventually Elsa said, “Well, I liked her. She was fresh and bright and always seemed to be happy.” She bit her lip and continued: “I’m sorry for her, sorry she’s gone. She was a nice girl, despite everything . . .”
    â€œDespite what?” Andy asked, unable to help himself.
    But after Elsa’s glowing recommendation, none of them seemed willing to elaborate on this. They had all fallen quiet, and Andy thought he had probably reached the limits of their sociable conversation. The rest of it was up to Miranda Gregson, who had tactfully left him alone to do his thing.
    â€œMrs. Maitland, thank you very much for the coffee, but I’m afraid I must leave you. It’s been lovely to meet you all.”
    They cooed their goodbyes and Felicity rose to show him out. “You simply must call me Felicity—all my friends do.”
    Andy treated her to his best smile. “Felicity, I did want to ask one thing. I’ve been trying to get in touch with Flora but I keep missing her. Any ideas where she might be?”
    â€œOh,” Felicity said, her voice quavering as it tended to do when people demanded something of her. “I’m not really sure. She might be at the studio.”
    â€œWhere’s that?”
    â€œOn the road to Briarstone, just past the fire station. There’s a few industrial units, her studio is on the upper floor, above the printing shop. I’m afraid I’m not sure of the actual address.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” Andy said, soothingly, hiding his rising impatience. “Do you have a mobile number I could catch her on?”
    13:21
    Flora wasn’t in her studio. She was sitting in the car outside, looking up at the big windows, thinking of the canvas in there and wondering if she’d ever be able to look at it again.
    Crying again, of course. How long would it take before she could think of Polly and not cry? It wasn’t even as if they’d been together when it happened. It had finished months ago. But that didn’t stop the hurt, didn’t make it any less, didn’t make any bloody difference.
    The canvas was huge, swirls of green and gold, flashes of navy, dots of bright red.
    It was an abstract, and it was based on the memories of what had happened in the top field at Hermitage Farm. The field where, on that hot spring day when the world had seemed so suddenly full of promise, Polly had kissed Flora for the first time. And then, when Flora had looked at her in amazement and kissed her back, Polly had pushed her gently into the shade of the trees, the buttons being undone one by one while Polly met her gaze and smiled at her surprise.
    Flora had been breathless, stunned, unprepared for how she would feel the moment Polly’s cool hand slipped over her burning skin. She didn’t wear a bra—nothing worth putting inside one—so when Polly’s fingers met her bare nipples they reacted instantly.
    The taste of Polly, the coldness of the lemonade they’d shared, the smell of the hot, baked earth, the horses on Polly’s clothes, her own sunburned skin, the salt of her sweat on Polly’s fingers, the softness, the