Chapter 5 #2
If he could have it his way, he’d have been out on the farm using his crutches the next day.
Only after a stern warning from the specialist that he would walk with a cane for the rest of his life if he didn’t recover properly has kept him from leaving the house every day except to attend his physio sessions.
As it is, my mum and I have driven him up to the farmyard most afternoons just so he can check it’s being managed properly.
And therein lies the problem with being a militant control freak who doesn’t trust anyone to do a job as well as they do it themselves.
His problem became my problem when my mum begged me to stay in Valentine Nook and help.
Probably because she didn’t want to deal with his grumpiness by herself, and I don’t blame her.
But the reasons I agreed had nothing to do with my parents.
“He’ll be back on his feet soon. It’s only been six weeks. He has four left to go before the pins are out, then he can start walking properly.”
She blows on her coffee and takes a long sip. “Thank God for that day. I’m so grateful you were able to stay and help out, love.”
I drop my head on her shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
The blanket slips from around me, and I pull it back up. The sun has fully breached the horizon now, and we sit in silence listening to the sound of the birds waking up and Oxford’s soft snoring.
“Are you going to talk to me about what happened with you and Noah?”
My stomach plummets. It was only a matter of time before she asked.
I open my mouth to reply, though I really have no idea where to start, so it’s a saving grace that a loud rustling in the bushes distracts us.
Oxford lets out a low growl followed by a halfhearted bark as a goat appears through the hedge halfway down the garden and trots up to where we’re sitting.
It stands there, staring at us, until my mum hands over a slice of toast with marmalade.
Now I understand why she made enough to feed a family of six.
“Mum! I can’t believe you’re still feeding Churchill!”
“He comes every Saturday,” she says by way of explanation.
“Don’t let Dad catch you. He’s still pissed from seven years ago when Churchill stripped half the apple orchard.”
She hands over another piece to the patiently waiting goat. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“Valentine Nook villagers single-handedly keep Churchill alive and thriving.” I grin with a shake of my head. “He’ll leave here and go to someone else who’ll feed him a second breakfast.”
She strokes down his face. “That’s okay. He knows who loves him best.”
Deciding Churchill has had enough, I take the final piece of toast and bite into it. “It’s whoever feeds him last, Mum.”
My mum lets out a pfft, only for Churchill to turn around and leap over the side gate into the field next door. Oxford stands, spins until he’s closer to her than me, and drops down again. His head rests on her lap this time, as if saying, “Don’t forget that I love you best.”
Raising my arms, I stretch to momentarily ease the stiffness and tension in my body. The fog has almost disappeared, leaving behind a cloudless and beautiful day, if freezing cold.
I might have grown up on a farm, but I’ve become accustomed to beginning my days with a surf, and I miss the heat of the sun I left behind. I’ve barely moved my body since I came back, and coupled with the anxiety I’ve been stockpiling like it’s going out of fashion, it’s high time I did.
Plus, I have very little else to do after checking on the cows. A small crew of farm staff rotates the cows every morning for the daily milking. They’re all perfectly capable of running the place without my father, but I know if I don’t go, he’ll only insist on going down there himself.
Throwing off the blankets and braving the chill, I stand. “I’m going to go for a run over to the dairy. Do you want me to pass the bakery on the way home?”
“Yes, please. And I won’t say no to a box of flapjacks either.”
“You got it,” I reply with a laugh because she already knew it was happening.
The flapjacks from The Beanery are more addictive than crack. I tried for years to get the recipe out of Claudia, but she won’t give it up.
I manage to dress in enough workout gear to keep me warm without restricting blood flow, although being cold just motivates me to run faster.
As long as I don’t get frostbite, I’ll be okay, and ten minutes later, after returning for a beanie, my feet are pounding down the winding lane to my parents’ dairy farm.
In the summer, we can leave through the gate in the garden, but it’s too muddy in the winter. And I hate mud.
The scent of manure circles the air, and I breathe it in willingly.
It’s a smell that will forever remind me of being home, of being in Valentine Nook, and of the memories that inevitably follow.
Hendricks, running through fields of long grass and sunflowers, sharing cold bottles of beer by the waterfall with Annabel and Mary while we watched the boys jump off the highest rock and hit the bottom.
I’d hide behind the safety net of my sunglasses so no one could see me watching Hendricks.
And later, when he’d go off with Ella Cartwright, or Millie Jones, or Zoe Glasston, no one could see the hurt I’d ignored for years.
What made it worse was that I knew that none of those girls cared about Hendricks. They just wanted to get with a twin, and it didn’t matter which one because they couldn’t tell the difference.
Not me. Miles annoyed me at the best of times, and the rest I’d be on the verge of inciting violence. Hendricks was the only one I wanted.
Deep in my thoughts, I arrive at the farm just as I hit my stride.
I’m greeted with mooing and hooves clopping across the farmyard to the milking stall.
Pete, my dad’s farm manager, is guiding the Ayrshires with their chestnut and white markings through the gate, with the help of a couple of younger farmhands.
I haven’t seen him since before the Christmas holidays because I’ve so far managed to visit when he’s been busy elsewhere.
I’m tempted to turn around, but as the last cow passes through, he spots me and waves. “A’right, how’s it going?”
Swiping a bead of sweat from the end of my nose, I wave back. “Good, just coming to check you’re okay.”
I add an eye roll, which he interprets exactly how it’s meant to be. My dad needs to be told all is well. Daily.
“Tell him we’re doin’ fine and missing him.”
I snort, followed by a dribble of snot that I wipe away as quickly as I can. Damn this cold weather and my runny nose.
“I doubt that, but I’ll tell him anyway.”
His eyes flick to where the cows are being lined up in the milking barn, checking the guys are okay before striding over to meet me. It’s not that I don’t want to speak to him. I just don’t really want to get into a conversation because I know how it will end.
“Still here, then,” he says, stopping just shy of being too close.
“Yup.” I rub my hands together, making it clear I’m cold and won’t be sticking around. “Until Dad’s back on his feet.”
“Tomorrow, if he’s got anything to do with it.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and waves it. “Most messages from one person I’ve ever had in my life.”
I laugh, genuinely, because I can only imagine how much my dad’s trying to do from the comfort of an armchair while his leg is resting at ninety degrees. When the laughter dies down, Pete is staring at me.
“Seeing as you’re still here, how ’bout we catch up over a drink? It’s been a while.”
Yup. As predicted, and I work hard on keeping my cringe to myself.
A couple of years older than me, Pete’s worked for my dad since he was sixteen.
Once or twice through the haze of too much alcohol, I’ve thought he was hot, with his floppy hair and permanently ruddy cheeks, maybe even ended up with his tongue down my throat, but it never went any further, and not since I was seventeen.
Ten years ago.
I’ve changed in that time. I’ve learned I can’t run from my feelings.
I can’t hide behind someone else. I can’t agree to marry another person, no matter how much I care for them, in the hopes they can erase any memories I don’t seem to be able to forget. Because the ugly truth is my heart has only ever belonged to one person.
Until I deal with that, I won’t be going for drinks with anyone.
But it’s too early to get into a conversation about the state of my love life, so I just say, “Sure,” and thumb behind me. “I should leave you in peace and get going before my muscles seize up.”
Pete nods. “Always happy to be interrupted by you, Story.”
I let out an awkward chuckle and try not to grimace. I haven’t been Story for six years. It’s a name I’ve grown to hate. A name too reminiscent of painful memories.
“It’s ah . . . Sophie. I don’t go by Story anymore. But yes, probably see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here, Sophie.”
Sprinting out of the yard, I’m almost home when I remember I’m supposed to go to the bakery and take a left turn.
It takes me a minute to realize the tightening in my chest isn’t from running too fast, but because I’m heading down the lane that leads past Hendricks and Miles’s cottage.
I don’t even know if they still live here.
Do they still live together now that Hendricks is with the blonde?
I can’t imagine she’d want to live with Miles. And I doubt Miles would ever live with a woman, even one in a relationship with his brother.
Oh God.
What if they’re there now? What if they come out when I pass?
For a second, I hop about on my feet, deciding what to do.
I could turn back and cut across the field, but I hate the mud more than I hate the idea of bumping into Hendricks.
So instead of slowing down, I sprint, narrowing my eyes to the point I can only see a tiny shard of the road in front.
If I can’t see the cottage, then logic dictates that the cottage or anyone in it can’t see me.