Love Notes from Vinegar House by Karen Tayleur Read Free Book Online Page A

tissues into her hand.
    I filled the tea orders, then said, “I need to pack.”
    To be perfectly honest, I’d been packed for hours, but I just needed a quiet space with no crying or penetrating stares.
    “Wait, how are you getting to Florence’s house?” Mrs Hart asked.
    It took me a moment to realise she was talking about my grandmother.
    “Dad?” I said. We hadn’t really talked about it.
    “Nonsense,” said Mrs Hart. “Your father doesn’t have time for that. I’ll drive you.”
    “No, it’s too far,” said Mum in a voice that meant yes.
    “I insist,” said Mrs Hart. “It’s such a lovely drive. There’s a darling little antique shop on the way. I wonder if it’s open today? Anyway, Erica, it’s one less thing you have to do. Really. It’s fine. And of course we’ll feed the dog for you.”
    I left them to their plans and didn’t bother looking up when Luke said goodbye.
    In the study I took a chance and logged on to Facebook. There were a few people online. People were taking sides about what had happened at the party the week before. Everyone thought they knew the real story and didn’t bother to ask me. Somebody called me a name I don’t want to repeat here. I wanted to die. I wanted to melt down into my computer chair until I was just a puddle of shame.
    As I turned off the computer, I realised I’d be without the internet while I was at Vinegar House. And I was glad.

Chapter 8
    Mrs Hart picked me up at two that afternoon. Mum promised to ring Grandma and explain that I would need to keep my mobile with me so that I could contact them overseas. She was counting on the fact that Grandma wouldn’t want to pay for international calls. So was I. Mum seemed to forget that I needed some kind of computer to work on if I was to get my homework done, but Dad was taking the laptop, and I couldn’t see myself lugging the home computer to Vinegar House. I was going to have to hand write my homework. Still, if I didn’t get all my homework done by next term, I’d have a good excuse.
    When Mrs Hart bip-bipped her car horn, I dragged my luggage out to the car to find Luke was coming along for the ride.
    “Help Freya,” said Mrs Hart, crossly, and Luke unfolded himself from the front passenger seat. He grabbed my bags and threw them into the boot as if they were filled with marshmallows instead of half my wardrobe.
    I think he was just showing off.
    I didn’t understand why Luke was coming along. I’m sure the idea of more than an hour’s drive one-way, with the possibility of antique shopping would make anyone stay home. Obviously his mother had made him come along. I wondered how she’d bribed him.
    I hugged my parents one last time, and Dad slipped me some money, though I didn’t know where I’d spend it.
    “Just in case you go to town,” he said, lamely.
    I was so busy settling into the back seat that I barely noticed their “take care” and “help your grandmother”. By the time I popped an earbud into one ear, Mrs Hart was taking off at her usual breakneck speed, and I was scrabbling to get my seatbelt on. As I clicked it into place, I looked through the car’s rear window for a final wave, and it felt like someone had invaded my chest and squeezed all the juice out of my heart until it was a tiny dry sponge. My parents looked so sad standing together – my mother leaning into my father’s side – that I couldn’t bear to watch them waving me goodbye.

    I spent the next twenty minutes trying not to look at Luke’s profile in the front seat, while Mrs Hart prattled on like an infomercial on late-night TV. In the end I pretended to sleep and Luke turned on some music. Then I really did fall asleep until I realised we’d stopped, and there was sleep dribble on my shoulder. We were parked outside a shop declaring it had
Antiques and Collectables
, but Luke was still sitting in the front passenger seat and he was smirking at me.
    “What?” I wanted to smooth my hair, which