Pulled by a Dream

By Kathryn Greenway

Emily Darrow is ready for a change. She’s sold her interior design company, and is taking some time off to consider her options before starting a new life with new challenges. But when she inherits her Aunt Jane’s dilapidated farmhouse, along with all its memories, she realizes her future might not be exactly what she’d envisaged. Ignoring resistance from her family, Emily sets out to make her aunt’s dream a reality.
She abandons city life for the tranquillity of the quaint English village where she spent so many happy summers as a child, determined to make a success of her new venture. Emily is used to relying on no one but herself, and that’s just how she wants it. She certainly doesn’t need a man, especially one as stubborn as handsome carpenter Jake Matthews.
Jake’s dreams suffered an unexpected setback with the death of Jane Phelps, and when it becomes clear her niece has no intention of accepting his offer, he has to walk away. But when events take another turn and the pair have to work together, Jake can’t help but be attracted to her, despite her stubborn streak. A chance discovery, however, causes him to think that Emily is not all she seems. And if he’s right, there’s no way they could have a future together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.C. Wells
• Release date: Oct 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463959534

Kathryn Greenway

Kathryn Greenway lives on the Isle of Wight, off the southern coast of the UK, in a typical English village where there are few secrets, and everyone knows everyone else. She writes romance in different genres, and under different pen names, but her goal is always the same - to reach that Happily Ever After. Pulled by a Dream is Kathryn’s debut novel, although in a whole other life, she is K.C. Wells, a bestselling author of gay romance.

Book preview

PULLED BY A DREAM

KATHRYN GREENWAY

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright notice

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Pulled by a Dream

Copyright © 2018 by Kathryn Greenway

Cover Design by Meredith Russell

The trademarked products mentioned in this book are the property of their respective owners, and are recognized as such.

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

Table of content

Copyright notice

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

A note from Kathryn Greenway

About the author

For Andrew

You’ve been with me every step of the way.

Thank you for being a part of this.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my wonderful betas – Jason, Marleen, Mardee, Sharon and Daniel.

I know this was a different journey for us. Your support meant a lot.

Chapter One

Emily Rachel Darrow, are you eating strawberries again?

Emily froze, her lips already crimson with juice. She could lie. She could hastily wipe her mouth and remove all traces of evidence. Except she knew she’d do neither of those two things. Besides, Aunt Jane was already in sight, striding down the garden, her face creased in a smile, as if she’d known all along what she’d find.

Emily had a feeling she wasn’t really in trouble, even if Aunt Jane had used all her names, which was usually a good sign of impending commotion. And when Jane shook her head, laughing, before lurching forward, hands ready to grab, Emily knew what was coming.

She was about to be tickled.

No! She let out a loud shriek and made a dash for the greenhouse, hoping to avoid Aunt Jane’s nimble fingers, but Jane cut off her escape and scooped Emily up into her arms.

I put netting over my strawberries to keep the birds off them, Jane said as she carried Emily toward the house, still smiling. I keep forgetting there’s one little bird who sneaks under there. Emily wriggled, but Jane held on tight. Oh no, you don’t. That’s three times this summer that I’ve caught you. She lifted her chin and called out, Clare? Get out here. We have a little strawberry thief in need of a damn good tickling.

Aunt Clare appeared at the kitchen door, laughing. Oh, good, you caught her. Let me take the apple pie out of the oven first, and then I’ll be with you. As she disappeared from view, Emily caught her last words. And save some of that tummy for me to tickle!

Emily did some quick thinking. Jane would have to put her down first before she

could deliver her promised retribution, and that meant… escape. As soon as her feet touched the grass, Emily squirmed free of her aunt’s grasp and made a beeline for the barn. Not that it was her only option: there were plenty of places where she could hide. That was what made it all so much fun.

Get back here, you little thief! Emily could just about make out Jane’s words amid her laughter. I have tickling to do.

You have to catch me first! Emily panted, running as fast as her seven-year-old legs would carry her, trying not to stumble into the flower beds. Behind her, she could hear Jane panting heavily, and Emily giggled. She wasn’t about to let herself be caught again. At

last she reached the barn and pushed open the wide oak door, slipping inside into where it was cool, where the sun couldn’t penetrate thick stone walls. Past Aunt Clare’s pottery wheel, past the kiln, past the bags of clay, to the ladder that led up to the loft, Clare’s secret hideaway that wasn’t a secret at all. There was a large bed up there, covered with a thick quilt, and Emily scrambled to hide under it, still giggling.

Footsteps. Getting closer. Closer.

Emily!

Emily!

Emily.

She blinked, shivering in the cold, late November wind that tried to penetrate her

black coat. The rain was that half-hearted variety, a fine mist that still managed to soak hair, skin and clothing alike. For a moment, she didn’t have a clue where she was: her mind was still in Jane’s garden, back when she was a little girl and summers seemed endless. One glance at her surroundings brought her violently into the present.

Emily. Her mother’s whisper was louder now.

She blinked once more, before fully realizing what was expected of her. Emily

stepped forward to the edge of the grave, covered by a layer of bright green imitation grass, and dropped a single red rose into its depths. It joined the heap of others already there: Jane’s coffin was barely visible beneath the carpet of red.

Emily raised her head to take in the crowd of people gathered around the grave.

Fairdown wasn’t that large a village, maybe claiming four hundred inhabitants, but she reckoned there had to have been at least a hundred people at the funeral service.

So many people who loved her, whose lives she touched. Her and Clare.

The thought tightened her chest, not for the first time that morning.

I should have spent more time with her, especially after Clare died.

Emily pushed aside her self-recrimination and gazed at the faces of those around her.

Apart from her immediate family, she spotted people who appeared vaguely familiar, and took them to be from her childhood. There were far more that were strangers to her, however.

On the other side of the grave stood four men, their heads bowed. She studied the

seemingly close-knit group, liking how the three younger men supported the older one, their stance protective. Obviously a family, judging by the resemblance. The tallest of them lifted his chin and stared at her, his blue eyes unblinking. It was as though he was studying her.

Emily stared back, her jaw set, slightly unnerved by his unwavering attention. Then the older man spoke, his words inaudible to Emily’s ears, and her observer nodded,

tightening his arm around the older man’s shoulders.

A squeeze on her upper arm. Her mother’s hint.

Emily stepped back, taking in more of the scene before her. Beside the open grave,

Clare’s headstone looked brand new. Has it only been a year? The sight brought on another bout of self-recrimination: she’d missed the funeral. The words etched into its black, shiny marble surface still made Emily’s heart ache as much as they did the first time Jane recited them to her.

We will meet again

In a place where there is no pain

No shame

Only love.

Reading the words gave Emily her first grain of comfort. At least they are together again. Emily believed that with all her heart, because no loving God would keep apart those two souls.

She smiled to herself. As if God would dare. She could already imagine Jane giving the Almighty a piece of her mind.

Fran’s hand slipped around hers, and Emily welcomed its warmth. "You were

smiling."

Emily chuckled. I was thinking about Jane, that’s all.

Well, that explains it. Fran let go of her hand.

It was then that Emily realized they were the last to leave the graveside. She glanced around, spotting her parents walking sedately toward the black limousine that had brought them to the small cemetery.

They really didn’t need to arrive in a car like that, she murmured, watching their

progress.

Wasn’t it arranged by the funeral directors?

Emily shook her head. "Why would they? The rest of us walked behind the carriage

through the village. No, this has my mother’s hand all over it. A glance to her right revealed the group of men, walking carefully toward the path, the three younger members in a tight circle around the older. Who are they? I don’t remember them."

Fran followed her gaze. "Those are the Matthews brothers. And no, you wouldn’t

know them. They moved into the village in, let me see, 2002, I think."

Fran’s remark only served to increase Emily’s feelings of guilt. She’d been at university then, a period that marked the end of her frequent visits to the village. Not that she’d intended to stay away. Life had got in the way, that was all. And I let it.

Fran leaned in closer. It’s very sad. Their dad, Roy, has Alzheimer’s. Only diagnosed recently, if I recall. Such a talented man.

Oh? The tall, blue-eyed brother glanced in Emily’s direction, and she bristled.

"God, he’s rude. He keeps staring at me." His careful scrutiny got under her skin for some reason.

Fran glanced across. That’s Jake. He’s the oldest. He loved Jane and Clare. She

sighed heavily. Like all of us. I can’t think of anyone who had a bad word for those two.

Emily looked ahead of them and stiffened. I can name one. Her cousin Phillip

stood with Emily’s parents, the three engaged in conversation. I really didn’t think he’d be here.

Who’s that? Fran peered at him. I don’t recognize him.

You wouldn’t, Emily replied shortly. I doubt he’s set foot in the village since Jane moved here. That’s her son, Phillip.

Fran came to a halt. "Jane had a son? How come I never knew about him? She never mentioned him."

Keep your voice down, Emily whispered as her parents and Phillip turned their

heads to regard Fran sternly.

I don’t understand. Fran frowned. I’ve been going to that house for years, since we were kids, and I never saw one photo of him there.

Emily came to a halt. Look, I’ll tell you all about it, but now is not the time, all right? Not when they were expected at the funeral reception. Later, okay? She smiled.

And seeing as I’m staying in your guest cottage, that’s hardly going to be a problem, is it?

Fran huffed. If you say so. I still think it’s weird. They reached the path and walked over to the limousine. Phillip was already walking toward a black Mercedes parked further along the wide path that cut through the cemetery.

Emily came to a stop beside the limousine where her parents stood, watching their

approach.

"Mother, this is Frances Doherty. Fran, may I introduce my parents, Andrew and

Sylvia Darrow."

Her mother gave Fran a speculative glance. I know your name from somewhere.

Then she gave a thin smile. Of course. My sister mentioned you several times over the years. You were a nurse, I believe?

Fran nodded. Although I gave that up a few years ago to start a family. These days I work as a carer. I used to take care of Jane, until she had to have a full-time nurse. She smiled at Emily. I’ve known Emily since she first started coming to stay with the aunts.

Her mother narrowed her eyes, and Emily knew exactly what had caused that

reaction. Then that cool smile was back. Oh. I see. She glanced at Emily. "Are you

attending the funeral reception?"

Yes. I was about to walk there with Fran.

Mother nodded briskly. Fine. We’ll give you a lift in our car. We need to talk. She gave Fran a polite, apologetic look. I’m sorry. Family business.

It was by no means the first time her mother’s manner had put Emily’s back up, and

she doubted it would be the last. She gave Fran a warm smile. I’ll catch up with you at the Vale, okay?

Sure. Fran gave a brief nod toward her parents, before walking along the path that

led to the exit.

Emily faced her parents. That was rude.

Her mother opened her brown eyes wide. "What do you mean? I was polite. Wasn’t

I?" she demanded of her husband.

Andrew Darrow’s brow furrowed. "Of course you were. Now get in the car, both of

you, before the heavens decide to open up on us." He opened the door, his gaze going to the sky, as if he expected a torrential downpour at any second.

Emily climbed in and sat on the long seat, leaving the back for her parents.

Where is this place we’re going to? her father asked, leaning in.

The Vale. It’s the village pub, Emily explained. You can’t miss it.

Father nodded and disappeared from view. Her mother sat back on the leather seat,

legs crossed, and pulled down at the hem of her black dress, the soft folds of her long black jacket draped over the seat.

Emily knew designer garments when she saw them. "And who’s dressing you this

season?" She asked only because she knew it was what her mother wanted. Running one’s own interior design company meant that certain behaviours were expected.

This? Mother smoothed out a wrinkle from her dress with her hand. Why, this is a Victoria Beckham. The jacket is from Acne Studios. She wrinkled her nose. Such a pity about the name, don’t you think?

Emily had a feeling that if she added up the cost of her mother’s ensemble, there

wouldn’t be much change from three thousand pounds. But I’m sure you probably bought it precisely for its name.

Mother gave that tinkling laugh Emily had detested since she was a teenager.

"Darling, you know the motto by which I live. Dress shabbily, they remember the dress.

Dress impeccably—"

They remember the woman, yes, I know. Of course she did—it had been her

mother’s mantra virtually the whole of Emily’s life. Emily glanced down at her own dress beneath her coat. Zara wouldn’t fit her mother’s definition of a designer.

Her father got into the car, and it set off at a slow pace. He leaned against the padded headrest. I’m glad that’s over.

Emily still didn’t understand why they’d come in the first place. The sisters hadn’t

been close by any means. Not that she was about to ask questions: knowing her mother’s propensity to share, Emily doubted she’d be in the dark for much longer.

She didn’t have long to wait.

I must admit, I’m puzzled as to why Jane’s solicitor didn’t contact us. Mother

examined her nails. It’s very lax of him. I’d assumed beneficiaries were informed that their attendance would be required at the reading of the will.

Emily stilled. You weren’t invited?

Her mother jerked her head up, her eyes sharp. You were? When Emily nodded, she

pursed her lips. I see.

Why did you think you were a beneficiary?

Mother opened her eyes wide. "Because that is how things are done in this family.

How do you suppose we’ve managed to hold on to all our properties for all these years? If no one inherits the house, it reverts to the family, in this case, to me. That has been my understanding of the situation. Jane was to leave me the farmhouse."

What about Phillip? Surely he gets the house. Whatever Jane might have felt about

him, Phillip was still her only child. Emily tilted her head to one side. Is Phillip invited?

Apparently so. She pursed her lips again. I had assumed after so long a separation that he wasn’t to inherit, but it seems not to be the case.

We shall expect a report after the reading, her father added. I can’t imagine what Jane was thinking of. Because it sounds to me like she changed her will. It’s the only explanation. The car came to a stop and he peered out. Ah, we’re here.

Are you going back to London after the reading? Mother inquired.

Emily shook her head. "I’m staying in the village for the weekend. Fran’s putting me

up."

That resulted in yet more nose wrinkling. "Darling, you could have stayed with us at

the Gainsborough Bath Spa. We could have booked you a room if you’d asked."

Emily stifled the urge to sigh. "Mother, I’m thirty-six. I’m perfectly capable of

booking myself a hotel room. I just didn’t want to. I’d rather spend some time with Fran. I’ve hardly seen anything of her these last few years."

That’s because you were running a successful business, her mother commented

dryly. And I still don’t understand why you felt the need to sell it in the—

Emily had reached the limit of her patience. We’re not going to discuss this. There is a pub full of people who want to spend time remembering your sister. Now is the time to be with them. She picked up her handbag from the seat beside her and opened the car door. The cold air hit her in the face instantly, and she shivered. Emily climbed out of the limousine and headed for the warmth of the Vale pub.

Time to reconnect with people who’d known her since she was a little girl of six,

visiting her aunt Jane for the summer.

Funny thing was, she could still remember it like it was yesterday.

Chapter Two

I don’t suppose you remember me.

It was a phrase to which Emily was quickly becoming accustomed. Since she’d

walked into the pub, at least ten people had approached her, wearing hesitant smiles, and all of them repeating that phrase.

What surprised her was that eight times out of ten, she’d been able to recall them.

There were still so many she couldn’t recollect, but some had definitely stuck in her memory. One glimpse at Jane’s solicitor, Oliver Tremmond, had brought with it a wealth of memories, all of them pleasant.

I remember you. Emily smiled at him. "You were often at Jane’s house, weren’t

you?"

The white-haired gentleman clasped her hand in his. "I was. Jane and Clare were

among my dearest friends. He gave her a piercing glance. Do you recall what I did when I paid them a visit?"

Emily racked her brains, the memory almost there, almost…. Chess, she declared

triumphantly. You used to play chess with Jane. She chuckled. She said you were the only person who could beat her.

Really? Oh my. She never told me that. He sighed. "So many games we never got

around to playing this past year."

Emily knew why. When Jane lost Clare, she’d also lost her zest for life. Even

listening to her over the phone, Emily had known Jane had changed. She didn’t need to hear Fran’s reports.

Is that why I was so reluctant to visit those last three months? Was I too afraid of what I’d find? The Jane who featured most prominently in her memories was aged between forty-two and fifty-four, the wonderful aunt with whom Emily had stayed each summer from the age of six years old, up to age eighteen. After that, everything changed. The long summer holidays were replaced by flying visits here and there, short bursts of time snatched from a busy life.

Too busy.

Would you mind if we sit? he asked her. I’m not able to stand for long periods nowadays. Arthritic hip, among other things. He gave a wry smile. Old age, mostly.

Of course. Emily followed him to a table in the far corner of the pub, a cosy nook

with bookshelves on two sides. He sank down onto the padded chair with a sigh of relief.

You were responsible for arranging the funeral and the reception? Emily glanced

toward the table in the opposite corner, covered with food. There seemed to be an open bar, since she’d seen no money changing hands.

Mr. Tremmond nodded. "Jane and I had discussed this many times during her final

weeks. The stroke had left her debilitated, but she was more than capable of getting her point across."

Emily couldn’t hold back her smile. That sounds like the Jane I remember.

He regarded her keenly. "She always said you reminded her of herself in younger

days."

I did?

He smiled. "When I first met Jane, she wasn’t much older than you are now, and

going through her divorce. Once everything was finalized, I assumed that would be the end of my services to her. Jane had other ideas, of course. There was a faraway look in his eyes. A friendship I will always treasure. They were two wonderful women."

Emily wasn’t about to argue with him. She leaned back against the chair and observed

the crowded pub. I did recognize a few people. The ladies who ran the post office, for example. I don’t think they’ve changed at all.

Mr. Tremmond laughed. "The Topping sisters are a village institution. Heaven knows

they should be retired by now—they’re both in their eighties—but so far they show no signs of stopping."

Do they still gossip? Emily recalled Jane taking her aside after a visit to the Post Office, crouching beside her and whispering that she wasn’t to repeat a word of what she’d just heard inside. Emily hadn’t fully understood at the time.

He broke into a peal of laughter. "Oh, my dear, gossip is their lifeblood. No change

there. He nodded his head toward the door. I’m glad you and Frances remained friends. It is a rare thing these days."

Emily turned to see Fran at the bar. She smiled and gestured with her hand, mouthing

drink? Emily nodded, mouthing in return white wine. Then she returned her attention to Mr.

Tremmond. "I met Fran my second summer here. She often came to the house. I remember

her sitting at Clare’s pottery wheel, while Clare showed her how to work it. Emily smiled. I think more clay ended up on Fran’s clothes than on the wheel."

"I have several pieces of Clare’s work. I keep them in a cabinet in my office. And

speaking of which…. Mr. Tremmond cleared his throat. If I may refer to the present

occasion for a moment? My office is on the high street. I believe you did reply to my invitation to the reading of the will."

I did, yes. Across the pub floated her mother’s unmistakable voice, and Emily

sighed. Mr. Tremmond, my mother seems to feel that she should also attend.

His eyes widened slightly. "I’m sure