The House of Birds and Butterflies. Cressida McLaughlin

put the emphasis on the last word, glaring at Stephan, Rosa and then Gavin, reminding them this wasn’t a spectacle, but none of them budged and Abby was thankful. She knew that, as embarrassing as it was to be reprimanded in front of her friends, they would also back her up if they could. The only thing was, Abby couldn’t think what this could possibly be about. The event had gone smoothly. Unless Gavin had let those boys go too far with the apple bobbing and failed to tell her about it.

      ‘I’m not sure what there is to say,’ she said slowly, casting around for anything that might help her understand what had happened.

      ‘Well, would you like to explain this?’ Penelope put something down on the desk. It was an envelope. White, pristine and, when Abby looked closely, sealed.

      ‘You haven’t opened it?’

      ‘Of course not,’ Penelope said. ‘It’s addressed to you. But I doubt whatever is inside will be particularly complimentary, going by the last one we received.’

      Her insides suddenly churning, Abby turned the envelope over. In the slanting, elegant script she now recognized as Jack’s, was her name. Abby Field. They had come a long way from bee Post-it Notes, at least. A hundred things went through her mind – was he going to complain about the event after all, the swathes of people it had brought to the reserve? Had he meant to do it all along, and only failed to say anything last night because Abby was there alone, and he’d seen her as vulnerable? Or was this because she’d insulted him by saying he was inevitable? She had been encouraged by the thaw between them, but maybe she’d misinterpreted it.

      They were all looking at her now, even Stephan and Rosa abandoning their pretence of display reorganization. Penelope’s politeness at not opening other people’s mail didn’t extend to letting them read it in peace, she noticed. She didn’t want to open it in front of anyone; she wanted to take the blow in private because, she realized with startling clarity, it would be a blow, to see harsh words from Jack aimed at the reserve, aimed at her.

      ‘Come on then,’ Gavin said. ‘We’re all dying of curiosity here. What has Mr Snooty got to say for himself now?’

      She took a deep breath and ripped open the envelope, sliding out the folded piece of A4 paper and laying it out flat on the table before she lost her nerve. She skimmed over the words, then read them again more slowly, clamping her jaw together to stop her emotion from showing.

       Dear Abby,

       How are your hands this morning, and your ankle? I hope they’re suitably recovered and not suffering too much from passing up the chance of being tended to by me. When is your next guided walk? I’ve been wondering if I should take you up on the kind offer you spat at me several weeks ago.

       Yours, JW

       PS. Glad the squashed frog met with your approval.

      ‘What is this?’ Penelope asked, her brows furrowing. ‘What does this mean? Squashed frog? Has he been hurting the wildlife?’ She levelled Abby with a piercing, unsympathetic gaze, waiting for full disclosure.

      ‘No no,’ Abby said quickly. ‘It’s a conversation we had, a little while ago. He hasn’t harmed anything. But he’s not angry, see – he’s even considering coming on one of our walks. We’ve turned things around.’

      ‘What is this business with your hands and ankle? Just what have you been doing with my tenant?’

      ‘Nothing,’ Abby said. ‘Nothing at all, Penelope. There’s really no reason to worry; everything’s good.’

      She folded the note and put it back in the envelope, then in her handbag, and hurried to the storeroom to take off her coat. She should be mad with Jack – there was no way she wanted Penelope, Gavin or Stephan to know about her ridiculous accident the previous evening, and as much as she would have been happy to tell Rosa, and Rosa, by her keen look, would be more than happy to find out, she didn’t want to risk it spreading.

      Her feelings for Jack Westcoat, as conflicted as they were, were her business alone, a tempting fantasy to fill her idle moments. They would come to nothing, would fade out as quickly as they had arrived. It was good he was no longer against her or the reserve, and hadn’t once mentioned the extra traffic passing by his cottage during the Halloween event, but that was as far as it went. He was a writer, a disgraced one, and obviously as keen on his privacy as she was. She wondered if he would have written the note at all if he’d known that Penelope would force her to open it in front of everyone. They were destined to bump into each other occasionally, but so what? It didn’t mean anything.

      As she hung her coat up and slipped the note into the inner, zipped compartment of her bag, she found that she was smiling, almost tempted to take it out and reread it, study the slopes and curves that his long fingers, pen held between them, had produced. But that would be taking it too far. She hadn’t delved into the background behind the scandalous events Octavia had taken much delight in telling them about, and she didn’t want to, even though she knew they would be readily available online. She didn’t want to know what had happened, discover something that would damage her view of him, just as, conversely, she didn’t want to make him a bigger part of her life than he was.

      Jack Westcoat was a mirage in her mind, almost as much a work of fiction as the books he wrote, and that was where he needed to stay. The spark between them couldn’t be healthy; she knew that from personal experience, could easily replay the memories of verbal arguments between her mum and dad that had started on the right side of cheeky and ended with slammed doors, thrown crockery, and then, towards the end of their relationship, the abuse her mother had faced at her father’s hands. Her own escape, as a child, had been the fields behind her house, the calm and quiet, the colourful flutter of the butterflies and the high, unconcerned trill of warblers.

      And yet, in her adult life, she had begun to repeat the pattern, drawn towards men whose passion started out as attractive but became dangerous. Jack was obviously next on her list of hopeless decisions, and she needed to stay away from him, even if the pull to see him got stronger.

      There was just the small matter of his proximity to the reserve and her journey home, and the fact that now, it seemed, he wanted to come on one of her guided walks, was actively showing an interest in the nature reserve and the wildlife he’d been so against. She couldn’t allow that opportunity to pass by, however complicated it made things. Getting people inspired by nature was her job, after all.

      She took up her post behind the reception desk and busied herself straightening the already neat maps, spotter books and day passes, ignoring the curious, almost knowing look Rosa was giving her.

       Chapter Seven

      

      Barn owls are like ghosts in the dusk. Graceful, honey-and-white birds with heart-shaped faces, they glide through the countryside looking for food. They are not the same type of owl as Hedwig in Harry Potter, which is a snowy owl, but I think they’re just as beautiful.

      — Note from Abby’s notebook

      With Halloween and bonfire night out of the way, Christmas seemed to hurtle towards them, and Abby and Rosa agreed to meet early in the visitor centre one mid-November morning to adorn the space with decorations. As Abby left her house and locked the door she found Octavia at her side, wearing a bright-green coat with white fur trim which, on top of her red hair, made her look like a large Christmas elf.

      ‘You’re decorating the reserve this morning, aren’t you?’

      Abby had a brief vision of trying to hang paper chains from the trees. ‘The visitor centre,’ she said. ‘How did you know?’

      ‘Oh, something I overheard. I’ve been busy.’ She thrust forward bulging carrier