Masters And Lovers 1-4

Chapter 8

Charlotte sits cross-legged on the rug by the hearth, the fire glowing warm. Although, in theory, we’re

well into Spring and the sun is bright, the day is crisp and cold here on our mountain, as Winter shrugs

its last over the heights.

Michael carries in an armful of logs. “Plenty to keep us going.”

In fact, I rather think he enjoys chopping the firewood. I’ve seen Charlotte watching him sometimes,

surreptitiously, when she thinks he doesn’t notice. Stripped to the waist for the work in even the coldest

weather, from the female point of view, I imagine he makes an engaging sight.

She’s working through catalogues and brochures for invitations, stationery, flowers and dresses. There

seem to be more every time I look, and Beth keeps producing more to add to the stack.

“What have you chosen for the vows?” I ask. “Please tell me that you’re not promising to ‘Love, Honour

and Obey’. None of us would believe it for a minute.”

She has the grace to blush. “Er, no. I don’t think that would be a good idea, would it? I shall promise to

Love, Honour and Cherish’.”

“How about the part where you promise to ‘forsake all others…’” chuckles Michael.

Charlotte’s jaw drops. My gut clenches and Michael’s expression twists to dismay. “Hey, it was a

joke….” He looks between us, palms raised. “Really. It was just a joke.”

But Charlotte’s eyes travel to mine, then his, and back again as she chews at her lip.

*****

As I step out of the elevator and into the reception area, Michael is there. Hands behind his head, legs

stretched out and crossed at the ankles, he sits staring into space, humming tunelessly.

“Waiting for someone?” Content © provided by NôvelDrama.Org.

His eyes flick to me. “Hi, Beth,” he smiles. “Yeah, Charlotte’s running late.” He stands, reaching for the

box I’m carrying. “Here let me take that for you.”

“Thanks.” Gratefully, I pass it to him, then shake the blood back into my aching hands before brushing

myself down of dust and cobwebs.

“Heavy,” he comments, lifting it with no apparent effort. “Where do you want it?”

“In the conference room, please. Just put it down in the corner.”

Michael deposits the box, gritty with the dirt of years, on the expensive carpet of my husband’s meeting

room, then swipes hands together with the logic that argues you can clean off one against the other.

“Any more like that?”

“I have a carload of the stuff and more where that came from. But don't bother. Ross is bringing it up.”

He eyes the carton. “What on earth is it?”

“A lifetime’s worth of collected junk. I don't think Uncle Albert ever threw anything away, and he made

me executor to his will. I'm lumped with going through it all.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“You have no idea. I’ve been quickly through his house. He could barely move in there. He went a bit

odd as he grew older, and I don’t think he’s thrown out a newspaper or a jam jar in the last ten years.

There are cupboards full of hoarded food and sugar and even toilet rolls….”

“Saving for a rainy day?”

“I think so, yes. He didn’t have much and what he did have, he wouldn’t let go of.”

Twenty minutes later, I’ve emptied half the box onto the conference table and a further eight like it are

stacked in the corner. And I know that I have several more carloads to come.

“Will that be all, Mrs Haswell?” asks Ross, picking crawlers from his jacket. Michael reaches out and

flicks a particularly long-legged example from the back of his collar.

“For today, yes thanks. Then, whenever it fits in, Ross, just pick up the rest of it. There's no hurry. It's

going to take a while to go through what's here already.”

Michael is on his phone, a hand covering the other ear. “Oh, right? So how long d’you reckon? Okay. I'll

see you later. No, it's no problem. I didn't have any plans.”

He surveys the avalanche of yellowed paper on the desktop. “Can I help at all?”

With something like despair, I contemplate the task ahead of me. “I don't like to ask, Michael.”

“What, with all the help you've been giving us with the wedding? Don't be silly. I'm happy to help.

Unless it's private family stuff of course?”

I pick up a random handful of paper, scanning it. “Well, these are eighteen years old bank statements. I

think any shock-horror value ran out a while ago. If you’re happy to volunteer, then I'm happy to say

yes.”

He pulls out a chair. “Where do we start?”

*****