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one.”
    She stared at him, astonished. “Run it as a bar, you mean?”
    He shrugged. “You’re a cook, aren’t you? Why not open it as a restaurant?”
    It certainly gave her something to think about.

 
    chapter 14
    A few weeks later, on a bright, sunny morning Caroline went with Maggie and Jesus to clean up the barn.
    â€œDaunting” was the first word that came to her mind when she looked at it. “Impossible” was the second, after Jesus had jimmied open the front door which had swollen in the recent rains. “ God! ” was the third when she stepped over the threshold into the black hole that was supposed to be her new home. And also her restaurant, if the council ever came through with that license, a new battle in which the words “inspection” and “original footprint” featured frequently.
    â€œWell, then,” Maggie said, sounding deliberately cheerful, pushing past in the dark and heading as though she had built-in radar, toward the row of French doors, throwing them creakily open onto the terrace. A couple of ducks glanced lazily over their shoulders, then continued cleaning their feathers, enjoying the sun.
    A battered skip stood outside the door, ready for whatever they chucked out, which promised to be a lot, and then some. Knowing it was going to be dirty work, Caroline had worn old sweatpants with SINGAPORE FLING GYM on the backside, and the old yellow “running-away-from-home” sweater.
    Maggie went to the truck and came back with hard hats and thick gardening gloves. “You never know what’s in there,” she said, handing them out. Jesus was on his knees levering up dead linoleum. It cracked like pistol shots. He said that was a good thing, it meant the floor itself must be dry.
    â€œOne bit of good news today, then,” Caroline said pulling on a pair of the thick gardening gloves. She saw Maggie already cleaning off shelves, running her arm along them and letting everything drop into her trolley with a satisfying crash.
    Caroline decided to start on the kitchen, but first she took a look at the courtyard. In the center was an overgrown flower bed, divided into four squares by low, box hedges. She leaned over and picked a sprig of lavender. Real lavender. And next to it was … could that be true ? Basil . And parsley, and lemon-thyme?
    â€œMags, Mags, we have our own herb garden,” she yelled, thrilled.
    Maggie came and stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, but she was staring horrified at the kitchen, and the cooker that was encrusted with enough grunge to earn a fail rating from any inspector.
    She said, “This is about the worst I’ve ever seen. And don’t forget, I know what I’m talking about. I was a poor girl in Mexico.”
    Caroline’s heart sank as reality finally set in. What had she done? Her daughter was right and no amount of work or money would ever put this place into habitable condition, let alone turn it into a restaurant, even if she was an experienced cook, and even if Issy would come and live there, which she said she definitely would not. And even if James came and rescued her and said he would take care of it all for her, which he most definitely would not …
    Jesus came to take a look at the cooker, and immediately got on his mobile.
    An hour later a large pickup trundled up the drive, listing from side to side in the deep ruts carved by the mud. To Caroline’s surprise the driver was the dusty dark-haired carpenter from Friday nights at the pub. So this is what he did? Shift people’s junk for them.
    â€œHey,” he said, strolling over, thumbs stuck in the pockets of his jeans.
    She noticed they fit him very well; in fact they fit exactly the way jeans should.
    â€œHey, yourself,” she replied, still caught up in admiring his butt.
    â€œIt’s about a cooker?” he reminded her.
    â€œWe know each other.” Caroline got