A Family of His Own. Liz Fielding

chop.

      Not that Polly was anything other than a joy. But still. Parenthood, even with a complete set of parents, required absolute concentration. Alone it was…

      Chop, chop. The snap of the heavy blade against the board happily cut short this train of thought.

      One kiss and suddenly she felt lonely? When did she have time to get lonely?

      ‘I’m a single mother with a child to raise and a business that’s going nowhere,’ she informed the cat briskly.

      Chop.

      The cat yawned.

      ‘And let’s not forget the part-time job in the village shop. That’s more than enough work for one woman. I don’t need Dominic Ravenscar and his problems complicating my life any further.’

      Chop, chop, chop, chop.

      ‘As for his garden—’

      But Mog, realising that she wasn’t going to get any more peace, stood up, stretched, then jumped down and walked out of the kitchen, her tail aquiver with disgust.

      ‘Oh, great. The least you could do is lend a sympathetic ear in return for all the meaty chunks you stuff down. No more top-of-the-milk treats for you, you ungrateful creature.’

      All she got in reply was a disdainful flick of the tail as Mog headed towards a patch of catnip growing near the path.

      ‘And I’ll dig that up, too,’ she warned.

      The cat, recognising an empty threat when she heard it, nuzzled the plant, a blissful expression on her face.

      ‘I’ll dig it up and plant something useful. Onions. Garlic, even,’ she threatened. ‘Then you’ll be sorry.’

      Which was another thing. Any time and energy she had to spare were needed for her own garden. You couldn’t make prize-winning strawberry jam unless you put in the time at the strawberry beds.

      And even if she wanted the chance to clear up the Linden Lodge garden—OK, she did want it, rather desperately—she didn’t have time to take on the role of Dominic Ravenscar’s personal agony aunt. Always supposing he wanted her to. Which he plainly didn’t.

      That was time-consuming. Amy had spent hours just being there for her. Days. Weeks. Even now all she had to do was pick up the telephone…

      Not that she had to. Polly’s godmother usually found an excuse to drop in most days. Sometimes, it felt as if she was being checked up on… She backed away from that ungrateful thought even as it surfaced, dealing with the remainder of the shortening in double-quick time.