“I’ve felt fresher,” I say, climbing the slope of her garden. “I blame you entirely for that lethal sangria you kept plying me with last night.”
Sandy offers me a croissant from a basket on the table.
“I’ve put together a box of basics for your kitchen, just some milk, bread, and oatcakes—a few things to keep you going. In the meantime—breakfast.”
“This is delightful, thank you, Sandy,” I say, helping myself to one.
“So . . .” She raises her eyebrows at me. “Did anything happen last night?”
I frown, unsure how she knows about Jasper.
“Luckily I managed to sober up enough to finally meet Suitcase Man.”
Sandy’s face falls. “Oh, I thought maybe you and Ted— I saw him take you up to the house?”
“No, no.” I shake my head firmly. “He was helping me because I was a little worse for wear—sangria on an empty stomach.”
“Oh no!” Sandy puts a hand over her face. Then, peeping her eyes through her fingers, she says, “It’s fine, he’s a doctor, I’m sure he’s seen worse.” She pauses, taking a sip of tea. “So you met this suitcase bloke then.”
“I did,” I say, and I can’t stop myself from grinning.
“I see,” Sandy says with a sigh. “Like that, is it? He wasn’t a rotter then?”
“Definitely not a rotter. Gerry seemed to enjoy himself last night,” I say, changing the subject. I’m not sure I want to tell Sandy more about Jasper; she doesn’t feel like a receptive audience on the topic.
“Oh, it was great to see him in such good form. He’s had a few low days, so I’m pleased yesterday was a good one for him.”
“You’re such a good neighbor to him. Ilídio’s sister was telling me you’re always cooking Gerry meals.” I don’t even know the names of the people in the flats above and below us in London. I only know their faces to nod to on the stairs; I resolve that when I get home I will go and introduce myself properly.
“Nah. He’s the one who’s been a great neighbor to me. I’m going to miss him, I like cooking for him.” Sandy looks pensive for a moment, frowning down into her mug. “That’s one of the challenges with Parkinson’s, making sure you eat right, you need to get enough calories. You see how thin he is. That’s another reason he needs to go to Acrebrooke, to eat three proper meals a day, no excuses.” Sandy blinks back tears, her cheerful front momentarily fractured.
“I’m sure he’ll still appreciate your cooking when he comes back to visit,” I say gently, as she wipes her eyes with a sleeve.
“Who knows who we’ll have moving in. Someone with screaming kids, knowing my luck. Don’t get me wrong, I love children, but I get enough of that at work.”
Sandy explains she’s a swimming teacher. As we finish our breakfast, she makes me laugh describing some of the little characters she’s taught to swim over the years.
“Morning, Laura,” says Ilídio, striding out of their house carrying a toolbox. He pauses when he sees Sandy, puts his tools down, squeezes her shoulders, kisses her neck, cracks his knuckles, and then picks up the toolbox again. I love their easy physical affection.
“Hey, hun, would you show Laura the workshop? Gerry suggested it,” Sandy says.
“You want to see?” Ilídio asks, tilting his head toward me.
“Sure.” I shrug, no clearer on what I’m agreeing to look at.
* * *
*
Ilídio and I follow the path up and across the road, coming to a large one-story barn on the opposite side. He opens the worn wooden door and shows me inside. As I peer into the gloom, my eyes growing accustomed to the dark, I see a room overflowing with woodwork equipment, machinery, and workbenches. There are tree trunks sliced into long planks hanging on every wall, lending the space the feel of a deconstructed forest.
“Wow,” I say. Gerry was right. I wouldn’t want to have missed seeing this.
“This used to be Gerry’s workshop,” Ilídio says. “He built the barn himself, took me on as an apprentice eleven years ago. Now I have an apprentice of my own.”
“And this is all wood you’re going to use to make furniture?” I ask, pointing at the huge slices of tree trunk along every wall.
“Eventually. They can take decades to dry out. Gerry makes things the old-fashioned way, timeless pieces, built to last for generations. Not many people do it like this now—it’s too expensive, too time-consuming,” Ilídio explains. “Easier to make it cheap, even if it doesn’t last.”