CHAPTER 8
AT THE END of my first week at Hazelwood Farm, southern England was in the midst of a cold snap. When my alarm went off just before 6 a.m., the moon shone from a clear sky, and Jack Frost had left his lacy fingerprints on the inside of the windows.
At least I had the afternoon off today. Maybe I could clean my lovely new home? On second thoughts, if I removed the dirt, the whole place might fall apart. Plan B: walk to the bakery and buy a donut. Okay, two donuts.
When George had mentioned accommodation, I’d been surprised but pleased at the prospect of saving money on rent, not to mention my thirty-second commute to work each day. And although Carol had been sad to see me go, she was heading off on a seniors’ cruise next week, so I doubted she’d miss me too much.
Then I saw w
