The Vintage Ice Cream Van Road Trip (Cherry Pie Island - Book 2) (14 page)

The organist got very excited and thumped down on the keys, the deafening sound reverberating around the tiny space and people winced slightly as they stood up. But then Diana appeared at the entrance with Wilf next to her and Emily and Astrid just in front and the whole place seemed to smile collectively.

The darkness of the church meant that Emily’s sunburn was hardly visible, although Holly couldn’t hold in a smirk as she went past and her stripy shoulder caught in the candle light. The way Holly had done her hair was much softer than how Emily usually wore it and it worked to make her whole appearance gentler. Diana looked amazing in a simple cream silk column dress that just skimmed the floor and a little lacy bolero jacket. Bracelets of practically every gemstone fell in a pool at her wrist and on her feet were little gold sparkly slippers.

But it was Wilf who drew Holly’s eye. His suit was seemingly tailormade in a grey herringbone, his shoes were brown brogues with a luminous-yellow sole and his shirt was the same pale-blue one that he’d bought on their drive down, worn open at the neck and with a waistcoat of the same grey herringbone as the jacket. His hair was pushed back and flicked at the neck where it was slightly too long. His eyes were dark in the dim church light, but she couldn’t miss the smile on his lips as he looked from his mum to Jean-Paul. He shook his hand when he stood back so they could be next to one another and gave his mum a quick kiss on the cheek, pausing to whisper something in her ear that Holly couldn’t hear but that made her chuckle. Then he came round the front of the pew and slipped in on Holly’s left.

She could smell his aftershave as he stood next to her, see the slight tremor in his hands from the adrenaline, see the hint of the smile still on his lips.

‘That
is
a very nice dress, Holly,’ Wilf whispered, looking straight ahead at the priest starting the ceremony.

The air was bubbling with excitement and a relaxed happiness, as though it didn’t matter what tomorrow brought. When they arrived back at the house the marquee was up, there were strings of bright-white lights, a big brass band and white table-clothed tables covered in glasses of champagne.

As they walked up the poplar-lined path, Alfonso giving Emily a piggyback because she couldn’t walk in her shoes, the waiter started the ice cream van nursery rhyme and the music danced out into the air, calling them over. The brass band picked up the tune and played in synch while the guests started a snaking queue to get their home-made gelato and cone.

‘Which one did you make?’ Wilf asked Holly.

‘The cherry,’

He looked up at the waiter and said, ‘
Une cerise, s’il vous plaît
?’

Handing Wilf the dusky pink gelato, the waiter then turned to Holly who said, ‘
Menthe, s’il vous plaît
?’ and was presented with a shocking-green mint ice cream.

They ate them leaning up against the passenger side door with the sun shining on their faces.

‘You know Emily told me she might buy the manor back?’ Holly said.

Wilf nearly choked on his ice cream. ‘Bullshit. She would never want to buy a house.’

Holly shrugged, ‘That’s what she said.’

‘Really? Emily? She really said that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Blimey,’ Wilf said, then leant over and took a lick of Holly’s menthe. ‘That’s nice ice cream,’ he said, then paused before adding, ‘Emily buying the manor. Interesting. I think that would surprise a few people.’

They spent the afternoon sipping champagne or, in Holly’s case, non-alcoholic elderflower cocktails, eating ice cream and canapés, lounging in deck chairs and chatting to guests. Around three o’clock, the main meal was served and they sat on the long tables decorated with big white hydrangeas in jam jars and white church candles that flickered in a storm vases. The waiting staff from the restaurant served classic steak frites and rich buttery sole meunière. The white wine was crisp and light, the red a smoky, heady Bordeaux and the water in jugs with ice and slices of cucumber. Cheese came next ‒ a pungent board of mont d’or, comte and melting brie with quartered figs, quince jelly and plump purple grapes. Dessert was meringue with raspberry coulis or a bitter chocolate fondant that oozed out onto the plate as soon as it was split open. A sweet dessert wine was poured in tiny glasses and then as they all sat back too full to move, cups of piping-hot espresso or silver teapots of fresh mint tea in front of them, Jean-Paul called for the Eau de Vie ‒ a lethal home brew that shimmered thick like sambucca ‒ and a bottle was placed on every table. Holly watched as everyone around her winced and choked on their shot.

‘Bloody hell!’ said Alfonso, looking like his whole body was on fire. Wilf downed his and clearly forced himself not to move a muscle as he did it, swallowing like it was water, but he had to blink for longer than normal which made Holly laugh.

After the liqueur came the speeches. Diana was first with a short but beautiful speech about finally feeling as though her family was complete. She gave Holly a mention as the mother of their future grandchild which made her blush furiously as the whole place turned her way and applauded. But she realised as they clapped that more than she felt embarrassed she felt proud. Jean-Paul was second and a bit pissed and waffly, but funny enough to pull it off. Finally Wilf stood up and brought the house down with his speech ‒ it was exactly the right mix of emotional and witty, and all constructed round a memory of him and his mum going for a walk on Cherry Pie Island to look at the blossom. He’d asked how she knew that that day was the best day to see it rather than the day before or the day after. Diana, who had grown up on the island then left as a teenager, returning when Wilf and Emily were in their teens, had said that you have to watch and wait, you have to bide your time, don’t rush but don’t be too hesitant. But most of all you just wake up one day and you just know.

When he’d asked her if she was sure about Jean-Paul, sure about getting married again ‒ because they were grown up and they didn’t need her to marry for their sake any more ‒ she had said that he was like the blossom. And Wilf had just known.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the place when he sat down. Diana had got up and kissed him on the cheek and Holly had watched, her hand resting on her bump. When Wilf had caught her eye and winked, she’d whispered to the baby, ‘You’re gonna have a really good dad.’

The evening do was fun and crazy, loud and raucous, and it didn’t matter because the whole village was there, there was no one to complain. The local band set up and the chef from the restaurant, a woman in an apron with tight black curls, was cajoled to the microphone and belted out an Edith Piaf song with her arms stretched wide.

Holly watched, sitting on a stool at the makeshift bar, Jean-Paul next to her with Alfonso, who were knocking back the whiskeys. There were no more clean glasses so they’d tipped the tealights out of two jam jars and were drinking from them. She was watching them trying to light cigars with wobbly hands, laughing at their drunken inability, when she heard her name called from the microphone.

Emily was standing there, waving at her to come and sing.

Putting down her mineral water, she slid off the stool and walked towards the stage that had been fashioned out of old pallets and covered with wooden boards.

‘What do you want me to sing?’ Holly asked as Emily jumped down and handed her the mic.

‘My mum adores ‘Make You Feel My Love’. Can you sing that?’

Someone had actually covered it recently at The Lighthouse and Holly had found learning the lyrics an amazing distraction from her morning sickness. When they’d got to the end however, she’d found herself sobbing. Found herself thinking of her mum, the feeling of wanting to just grab hold of her and never let her go. Of Enid, who had pushed her to achieve every one of her dreams. Who had been so old and frail at the end that she’d needed Holly to walk her to Dandelion Café every morning. The feel of her tiny hand on Holly’s arm, pretending that it was resting there for companionship rather than support. It had reminded her of the loss of someone so great and important that Holly had stood at the back of the cherry orchard with her head in her hands and almost willed Enid back to life. Desperately wanting her to talk to because she’d just found out she was pregnant. Pleading for one last conversation. One last hug. One last smidgen of advice. And, in the end, just cobbling together all the past words of wisdom and sewing them together like a quilt.

‘I’m not sure about that one,’ Holly said, not wanting to be a wreck on stage in front of an entire French village.

‘Pleeeease?’ Emily put her hands together. ‘She LOVES it.’

Holly nodded. ‘OK, OK. You’ll have to tell the band.’

‘Already have!’ Emily winked.

Holly rolled her eyes and then stepped up onto the stage, the tambourine player giving her a hand up.

She stood looking out at the crowd as they played the intro, seeing Alfonso and Jean-Paul at the back of the marquee, cigar smoke twisting in the air in front of them. Then she saw Wilf go over and join them, lounging against the bar with his legs crossed in front of him. Alfonso passed him a whiskey in a jam jar.

He leant over and said something to Jean-Paul but then Holly started to sing and she saw him stop mid-sentence and turn and look at the stage. Watching her. One hand holding the jam jar, the other up towards his face, one finger resting on his lips.

She looked round at the rest of the crowd, smiled through the words. Saw Diana go to stand next to Jean-Paul, who drew her close to his side.

And then she made the mistake of glancing back at Wilf, who hadn’t taken his eyes off her. And the exact feeling washed over her as it did at the recording studios. The tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.

She tried to blink them back.

She tried to keep the hitch in her voice.

She tried to pretend she had something in her eye and swipe one away.

But they kept coming.

They trickled one after the other down her cheek, tracking through Emily’s foundation and no doubt taking her mascara with them.

She felt them on her neck.

She felt one drip down onto her hand holding the microphone.

She saw Wilf stand up straight and start to weave his way to the front.

Then the song ended and the crowd erupted with applause and Holly wiped both her eyes, smiling back at them and dipping her head in a bow of thanks.

She didn’t need the tambourine player because Wilf was standing, waiting to take her hand to help her down off the stage.

Putting his hand on her back he led her past Emily who had her own tear tracks and gave her a little clap, past a group of old women from the village who blew her kisses, past the chef with the tight curls who gave her a big thumbs up, past the entrance, past the waiter clearing champagne glasses from the tables and benches outside, past the ice cream van, past flapping bunting, past the poplars and over the path across the lawn to a huge great oak tree where he stopped and Holly put her hands round his neck and kissed him.

She could taste the salt of her tears, she could taste the whiskey and the cigars. The feeling as his hands moved up, at first motionless, taken by surprise by the kiss, but now strong and warm on her back. The feel of her hands toying with his hair, her fingers on his cheek feeling the slight edge of stubble on his jaw, the smell of him, the clash of teeth, her bare feet lifting onto tip toes on the grass as he held her tighter and wound his hand round her hair, moving her towards the tree and pressing her back against the bark.

This wasn’t their one-night stand or the kiss in the police station car park. This was beautiful. This was amazing. This was outside in the warm evening air, this was rickety wooden chairs and lanterns in the trees, this was a sky lit by moonlight and the scent of orange blossom in the breeze. This was one night. But it was perfect.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Holly woke up in Wilf’s bed. The white sheets were wrinkled and twisted around her legs. He was snoring gently, lying on his front, his hands underneath the pillow, his face to the side, his eyelashes like bird’s wings, his back bare and tanned.

She ran her hand over his shoulder blade and up over his arm.

He didn’t stir.

Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she stood up and looked around for something to wear. She couldn’t put her dress on again, even to nip down the hallway, so found one of his T-shirts.

She was just bundling up her possessions when she felt him watching her and turned to see him lying on his side, propped up on his elbow, his eyes narrowed, slightly suspicious, slightly hungover.

‘Do you think we’ll ever wake up together?’ he asked with the arch of an eyebrow.

Holly shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘Why are you going?’

She bit her lip. It was early and she was really tired but he had no curtains in his room and the morning sun had woken her up. ‘Because…’

He waited for her to say more.

Outside, the birds were twittering away. Vans had just arrived to take down the marquee. The dog was barking on the front step.

‘Because last night was just lovely…’

‘And?’

‘And I want it to stay like that. I want to just keep it and treasure it and then make today normal and just us and a baby and a future that we have to keep secure…’

‘It’s bullshit, Holly.’

She shook her head. ‘No it’s not.’

‘It is. I actually have no idea what you want. Part of me is beginning to think… Shit.’ He ran his hand through his hair, furious. ‘This is shit.’

‘What’s part of you beginning to think?’ Holly moved from one foot to the other, feeling self-conscious in her T-shirt and nauseous because it was too early in the morning to be up when pregnant and have had nothing to eat.

Wilf paused, then said, ‘That you’re doing all this because of the baby.’

‘Doing what?’ she asked, confused.

‘This. That you’re here. That you came to find me.’

‘What, like for money?’

He shrugged. ‘Security.’

She took a step forward, aghast. ‘Are you serious?’ she asked.