‘Just like the Fee I knew. Always working.’ His teeth pull his lower lip into his mouth and let it out slowly, and I can feel his eyes burning into me and I squirm under his gaze. ‘I’m glad you don’t have to go yet.’
He wouldn’t be saying that if he knew the truth about where I work. He’d never believe there was anything genuine about my involvement in this campaign, and he’d definitely never trust me again.
I realise that my body language is going to give me away faster than anything else. Unless Baaabra Streisand finds a way of telling him first. She may be a sheep, but she could spell it out in tree branches or chew up enough items to form letters from the remains. I glance down at her, currently asleep half-on and half-off her dog bed cushion, snoring loudly. Maybe I’m giving her too much credit.
I lift my chin defiantly and try to push it out of my head. Ryan’s not being entirely honest here either. How convenient that the owner of the campsite next door wants to expand, has tried to buy this land, been refused, and now become the head protestor to prevent someone else buying it. And then I feel horrible, and jaded, and cynical for thinking the worst of him. Ryan isn’t like the businessmen I deal with at work.
Like he can sense we’ve reached an impasse, he reaches out both hands for some of the old strawberry leaflets that I’ve been mindlessly flicking through but not taken in a word of since he got back. I hand him half the stack, and shift around so I’m facing the strawberry patch again. I don’t even know when I turned around to face Ryan. Or when we drifted so close that our knees are touching again.
‘These are a piece of history,’ he says.
‘Real British heirlooms. We used to grow these ones at Sullivan’s Seed’s.’ I lean across to show him a picture in a leaflet dated 1906. ‘We can take pictures of these and put them on the website. This is real history. These are the same plants – their heritage can be traced back through these catalogues. Look at this one: 1892. Victorian strawberry plants.’
‘Whoever thought fruit ancestry could be so interesting?’
It could be a plumbing course, and it would be interesting with Ryan. Back in the day, he even made a good time out of mandatory health and safety courses and risk inspection days.
I hold up one of the hand-drawn maps inside a strawberry leaflet from 1987 and try to work out where each variety of strawberry plant is likely to be, and how we’d identify them.
After a few moments, Ryan moves too, and the chain drags against the tree as he stretches out on his stomach beside me, and I quickly put the map down to hide how much my hands are shaking at the sudden closeness.
‘This okay?’ he murmurs, tipping his head to the side so it knocks against my arm.
‘Fine.’ I stutter so much, it comes out sounding more like “greebavlehowblhe”, but what it’s meant to be is: “That feels really nice actually; I like that”.
He lifts his head again, but I can feel the space where he was is burning, tingling with the imprint of his skin against mine like when someone with warm hands touches your cold ones and you can tell they’re there but you’re too numb to really feel them.
His body is warm against the side of mine, his ribs pressing against my thigh, the side of his abdomen against my hip. He pushes himself up on his elbows and spreads Godfrey’s papers in front of him. ‘You were the best thing in my life too,’ he says softly, deliberately not looking up. ‘All the overtime I put in was solely because I didn’t want to miss a day with you.’
I take in a breath so sharp that cold air hits the back of my throat and chokes me. Ryan shifts until he can snake an arm between us and rubs my back until I’ve got myself under control. His arm is underneath his hoodie that I’m still wearing, and his fingers are burning hot through my T-shirt.
He pulls his arm back and leans on his elbow again, looking ahead instead of at me or the leaflets now. ‘I always thought things would be perfect when I met you again. I’d be mature and sophisticated and not the awkward gawky nerd I was back then, but it turns out, when I do meet you again, I’m chained to a branch with a sheep, trying to save a magical tree. You must think I’m such an idiot.’
‘I think you’re amazing.’ I get the words out before I can second-guess myself. He deserves to know that. Who else would literally move into a tree in an attempt to save it? And not just that – it’s the way he treats everyone around him. The respect and banter he has with the residents here, the way he cares about everyone and everything, the way Baaabra Streisand has clearly got everything a sheep could ever wish for in life. ‘Besides, I always thought I’d be sophisticated and not an awkward grieving teenager, but when I met you again, I had a foot full of sheep poo.’
I’m not sure reminding him of that was the best idea, but I don’t even mind that when he bursts out laughing so hard that it shakes me too, making me giggle even though sheep poo is really no laughing matter.
‘Ah well, at least we can be unsophisticated adults together now.’ He hesitates. ‘I wasn’t an adult back then, Fee. If I had the chance again, there are certain things I’d do differently. You should know—’
I get a sixth sense that he’s talking about the kiss, and I really, really don’t want to hear it.
‘That makes two of us!’ I think even the tree jumps at the high tone in my voice that sounds like an out-of-tune violin.
Instead of saying anything, he drops his head to the side so it rests against my arm again.
‘I’m glad you came back,’ he whispers. ‘Maybe it’ll give me a chance to make up for certain things.’
I go to tell him he has nothing to make up for, but the words are either going to choke me or make me start crying, and they stick in my throat. My mouth opens but nothing comes out. He isn’t the one who did anything wrong, but being this close to him, surrounded by the scent of his cologne and with the heat of his body filtering into mine, I hadn’t realised how lonely I’d been, and it feels nice to just be with him again.
He doesn’t lift his head, and even though it’s by far the strangest position I’ve ever been in with a guy, it somehow feels right with Ryan, and I let myself enjoy it for a few moments. It’s temporary – all this is temporary. What harm can it do?
I put the leaflets down and lean back without moving my left arm and dislodging him. Instead, I move my right hand across and my fingers skate over the muscles of his back, warm through his grey T-shirt.
His hand reaches up blindly to catch my hand and his fingers hold it on his shoulder, and I get the feeling it’s his way of letting me know it’s okay to touch him. When he lets his hand drop again, his head still heavy against my arm, my fingers rub mindlessly against his shoulder. In my head, I’m shouting at myself to stop touching him and keep a professional distance, because I am supposed to be here as a professional and this whole thing is going to come crashing down the moment anyone finds that out, but my hand moves of its own accord, slinking towards the nape of his neck and the dark strands of hair that start to curl there.
It’s a natural instinct to touch it and my fingers graze the hair at the back of his neck, and I look down, watching him, expecting him to jump up and put as much space as possible between us, but his dark eyelashes are blinking slower as his eyes drift closed, and his head grows heavier against my arm.
I let my hand play with more of his hair, stroking through it, pulling it back and letting it spring forward again. His hair is straight for the first couple of inches and then starts to curl over, and he always used to keep it short enough not to show the curliness, but now it’s more unkempt than it used to be, and if it gets much longer, it’s going to turn into a mass of waves.
Without opening his eyes, he lifts his head, curls his fingers around my other hand and holds the back of it to his mouth. ‘I missed you.’ He breathes the words against my skin and presses his lips behind them.
He must be able to feel the way my whole body flushes. Every inch of my skin feels tingly and overheated, and with the prickly burn of his stubble agains
t it, my hand must be so hot it’s currently akin to touching an oven that’s been on full blast for three hours.
‘I missed you too,’ I say honestly. My fingers tighten in his hair as he finally lets go of my hand and nestles his head back against my arm, where it’s resting uselessly against my leg, held stiff and starting to ache because I don’t want to make any movement that’s going to destroy the peace of this moment. I let my fingers keep carding through his hair, enjoying the peacefulness and the warmth of his body against mine.
The idea that he didn’t think he was good enough for me keeps doing three-point turns in my mind, and the thought that he didn’t realise he was the best thing in my life back then prickles at me. Maybe I was so busy not letting him see that I had a ginormous crush on him that I never let him see how much he meant to me as a friend, and I decide here and now that I’m not going to make that mistake again. He deserves to know that he was the highlight of my life for many years.
He starts singing under his breath – another Nineties classic that fits the moment perfectly, “Together Again” by Janet Jackson, and I join in, humming along quietly. There were a lot of times I wouldn’t be self-conscious about singing in front of Ryan, but this is not one of them.
‘Not sure if I’m falling asleep or already dreaming,’ he mumbles as he leans even heavier into me. ‘Lying in a tree shouldn’t be this comfy, should it?’
‘I haven’t felt my bum for the past two hours.’ Great, Fliss. Draw attention to the one part of you doesn’t need any extra attention drawn to it, not with the amount of time I spend sitting on it at my desk in the office.
‘Ah, you get used to that. Trees don’t come with built-in cushions. Well, unless this counts.’ He lifts his head to rub his chin against my arm and when he glances up, I meet his eyes, and it’s like it unlocks something in the haze we’ve been in.
He shakes himself and pushes off me, shifting over to put some space between us. ‘Sorry, I think I entered a different reality for a minute. I’m forgetting myself. It’s been a long day and I think my brain melted there.’
‘There’s something about this tree,’ I say, because his cheeks have gone so red that even the weird evening light can’t disguise it.
‘It grants wishes,’ he says softly. ‘I mean … that was mine. That you’d …’
‘Sit in a tree and stroke your hair while murdering a decades-old Janet song? That’s quite specific for a helicopter seed. Spending so much time in this tree is clearly affecting you. Maybe it’s got psychotropic properties or something and that’s why everyone thinks it grants wishes but really it just makes people lose their minds when they’re near it.’
He looks at me for a long moment, and then drops my gaze and looks away. ‘That must be it.’
I get the feeling he wants to say more, and my thigh feels cold without him lying next to me, but it’s for the best. Getting close to Ryan is a recipe for disaster in more ways than one.
Chapter 11
‘I’ll see you in a bit, my class is coming to your strawberry patch this morning,’ Cheryl calls as she leaves the bedroom the next morning, leaving me half-asleep on my mostly deflated bed, and wondering if I should see about getting something more permanent, but that would be guaranteed to jinx Harrison into calling me back to the office, and I’m not ready to face that yet.
I toss and turn for a while longer before I finally persuade myself to go downstairs, surprised to find Dad feather dusting around the living room with music on in the background.
‘You’re enthusiastic?’
‘Thought I’d get an early start. The sun’s shining, the birds are singing … well, technically the birds are pooing all over my laurel hedgerow as they queue up for the neighbour’s bird feeder, but we can’t win ’em all. Are you off to see Ryan?’
Is it that obvious? ‘Well, I thought I might get some breakfast first.’ I start heading towards the kitchen and then stop. ‘And I’m not going to see Ryan, I’m going to the strawberry patch to help the protest. There’s a difference.’
He ignores me. ‘Thought I might stop by later myself. Cynthia said she had some old photos to show me from the good ol’ days at work.’
‘You always did like her …’
‘It’s always nice to reconnect with an old friend. Isn’t it?’
‘It’s certainly been an eye-opening experience.’ I look pointedly at the corner of the curtain rail he’s dusting. This is the first time it’s had so much as a sniff of a feather duster for months. That is not the influence of an old “friend”. ‘It would be good to see you. We need all the help we can get, and you’re brilliant at gardening.’ I nod out the window towards his pristine front yard full of fancy planters bearing rainbows of flowers and not a weed in sight.
‘It would be nice to know I’m doing something to help the community. I keep our garden nice because your mother always did, but it’s only myself and random passers-by who appreciate it. I’m told you’re uncovering strawberry plants?’
‘And who would’ve told you that, I wonder …’ I leave nothing out of my voice, my tone clearly telling him I know exactly who told him that.
‘I may have had a little conversation with Cynthia on the phone last night.’ It’s really something when even your seventy-year-old dad goes the colour of a Parcelforce van.
‘It’s okay if you like her, Dad. Mum’s been gone for nearly twenty years. She wouldn’t want you to spend the rest of your life as alone and unhappy as you’ve been until now if there’s someone out there who you deserve a second chance with.’
‘You and your sister are just the same. I’ve already had this conversation with Cher this morning. I don’t know where you’re both getting these ideas from.’
‘And I guess that big grin you can’t get off your face wouldn’t have tipped us off at all, would it? Or the matching one Cynthia’s wearing around the strawberry patch …’
I go to the kitchen before he has a chance to respond, throw some cereal down my throat for breakfast, and pack a couple of slices of the lemon meringue pie Dad baked last night for Ryan too. I’m rushing because I can’t wait to get there.
I can’t wait to see him again.
Chaos. Chaos is what awaits me at the strawberry patch. The gate is open and there are at least forty children hanging around on the coastal path and a couple of the local primary school’s minibuses are in the car park with teachers trying to herd children into groups. Some of the children have filtered down towards the strawberry patch where Cheryl and a couple of other teachers are standing inside the gate, talking to Ryan, Tonya, Mr Barley, and Morys.
There are so many people that I seriously consider turning back, but like he’s got some kind of radar for my footsteps, Ryan looks up at that exact moment and catches sight of me. Or maybe it’s because the lower half of my hair is blue. I thought it blended in, but maybe it makes me impossible to miss.
He beams and waves, and the sight of his smile is enough to make me dodge my way through the groups of kids and teachers on the coastal path.
‘Like your hair, Miss,’ one of the little boys says, making me grin as I thank him. No matter his age, his simple compliment puts a spring in my step.
Ryan’s excused himself from the conversation and is coming over, and Cheryl waves to me, and I don’t miss the stealthy gesture as she points to him and then gives me a thumbs up.
Even though the gate’s already open, Ryan meets me there like he did the other day and before I realise what’s happening, he’s hugging me.
‘Good morning,’ he says in my ear as strong arms tighten around my body, making me feel steady despite the swirling in my head caused by his closeness.
I murmur something that might also be “Morning” as my hand drifts up his back and my fingers curl into his shoulder like a claw, involuntarily pulling him closer. He must’ve been home to change because he’s wearing ripped jeans cut off to mid-calf length, which don’t go at all with his usual black and grey hiking boots, a
nd a navy vest tight against ample tanned shoulders that my chin is somehow resting against as I hug him.
His hair is still damp from a shower, and I know drying it in the sunlight will make the curls go mad, and he smells of shampoo and that green, herby cologne again.
This isn’t weird. He used to hug me when I got into work at Sullivan’s Seeds every day. I repeat it to myself until one of the little boys makes an “oooo-ooooooh” noise and I blush and push myself away rapidly.
Ryan rolls his eyes and looks at me with a grin, and for one second, I think he’s going to lean down and kiss my cheek, and that would be weird.
I take a step away from his arms, and then because I can’t keep my distance no matter who’s watching, I reach out and jiggle the soft fabric of his vest. ‘No chain today?’
‘Alys is on tree duty.’ He nods towards the giant sycamore where Alys is sitting in the deckchair underneath it, the chain wound around her, and Baaabra’s non-murderous head in her lap, like an overly large dog. ‘I thought I’d better handle flyer distribution to this lot.’
He looks around the sea of children. ‘Who’d have thought summer camp would be so busy?’
Even though it’s the summer holidays, the school stays open as a summer camp for children who have got nowhere else to go. All ages are mixed together, none of them are in uniform, and from what Cheryl says, it’s a lot more relaxed and fun than an ordinary school day.
Ryan takes my hand and pulls me along with him. ‘Everyone’s waiting for you. And when you get a minute, Alys wants your opinion on the latest round of “Guess the Gadget”. Her mate is winning and she knows you’ll be able to outfox her.’
I appreciate his faith in me, but it makes my stomach sink again. Lying to them all is making me feel worse every day. Ryan’s hand tightens around mine as he tugs me over to rejoin the group.
Tonya comes over for a hug and I have to let go of Ryan’s hand to hug her back, which is just as well because there is no universe in which I should ever be anywhere near his hand, never mind holding it.
The Wishing Tree Beside the Shore: The perfect feel good romance to escape with this summer! Page 17
