The Wishing Tree Beside the Shore: The perfect feel good romance to escape with this summer!

by Jaimie Admans

  Why is that obvious? He’s thirty-eight and gorgeous, funny, and kind, with absolutely no clue of how gorgeous, funny, and kind he is. Even after nearly two weeks of adjusting to the shock of him still being single, I still can’t believe that someone hasn’t snapped him up by now.

  ‘But you still believe in magical trees and wishes coming true?’ He raises a dark eyebrow.

  ‘I can be old and cynical and jaded when it comes to relationships, but no one’s ever too old for a bit of tree magic. That’s like saying you’re too old to read Enid Blyton or enjoy Disney films or laugh at Mr Bean.’

  ‘Well, while I still love all those things, I think I missed my chance when it comes to love.’

  ‘Me too.’ I look over at him and can’t help the way my mouth curves into a half-smile at the sight of his half-smile. That’s exactly how I feel about him. That we missed our chance. Especially with what he said the other day about not being good enough … That maybe if I’d been braver, told him how I felt sooner, if I hadn’t waited until the night before I left … because I was so certain he felt the same, that he’d tell me how he felt as soon as we were no longer boss and employee, that he wouldn’t let me leave Wales without telling me …

  ‘Fresh Welsh cakes!’ Ffion shouts, walking down the garden with a batch of freshly made Welsh cakes on a tray, followed by a couple of nurses bringing out trays containing bowls of clotted cream, jam, and sugar, and a teapot and set of cups.

  Ryan and I stand back as the group descends on the baked goods, dragging along the fracture clinic couple, Ellis, and my dad, who’s come down to see Cynthia with the excuse of bringing my gardening gloves. He’s now examining the hedgerows with Morys and discussing what would be best to do with them.

  ‘He’s enjoying himself.’ Ryan’s gaze follows mine.

  ‘Yeah. He loves gardening. I knew something like this would be right up his street, but he needed a push to get out and about. I think he was feeling like he didn’t have anything to offer anyone, and coming here, and Cynthia being so pleased to see him and everyone asking for his gardening advice has given him a confidence boost.’

  ‘I wish I’d known. I could’ve done something. Asked for his advice or his help with maintaining the campsite borders or something.’

  We’re both watching the feeding frenzy but I look back over my shoulder at him. ‘You always were too nice for your own good.’

  He’s blushing when he answers, steadfastly ignoring the compliment. ‘Well, if he needs anything again, let me know, all right? When you’ve gone—’ He cuts off the sentence abruptly and I watch his Adam’s apple dip as he swallows. ‘We’re not going to lose touch this time, are we? Swap numbers and that. I don’t want to lose you again … lose touch with you again.’

  ‘You could always add me on social media …’ I try a sneaky attempt at getting to the bottom of why he’s not on Twitter or Facebook.

  ‘I don’t do social media,’ he says instantly.

  ‘What about your business? Everyone has to be on social media these days.’

  ‘Exactly why I’m not on it. I like being awkward and doing the opposite of what everyone else does.’ He opens his hands and does a bow. ‘My assistant handles all that for the campsite. I take photos when I walk Baaabra Streisand and he puts them on the internet to show things to do around the area. It’s only on there at all because he gave me the same lecture when he started working for me.’

  I go to question him further, but … ‘Did you say you walk your sheep?’

  ‘She needs her exercise too. She’s on a lead all day, so she needs a break from that, and with the campsite full, I don’t have an empty field I can put her in. Sheep appreciate a change of scenery. Just don’t say “walkies” too loudly or all hell will break loose.’

  I know he can see the cogs in my mind turning and he holds a finger out and beckons me closer as I put two and two together, because I’ve been here every day for a couple of weeks now and I’ve not once seen him walk his sheep.

  ‘Does that mean you leave the tree unattended?’ I whisper to him, being careful that no one’s in earshot, even with their hearing aid signal boosters tuned in.

  His breath moves the hair by my ear when he speaks. ‘Only very late at night when Steffan has gone home and I’m certain no one’s going to check. And I always leave my lamp on in case anyone happens to glance down.’

  I love that he trusts me enough to tell me that, like no time has passed between us. This is exactly the sort of thing Harrison would be proud of me for – earning his trust and getting his secrets, another possible “in” to securing the land, but the idea of it makes me feel ill. I look up into Ryan’s genuine, trustful eyes, and I can’t imagine ever betraying him.

  Which makes me brilliant at my job, and I start wondering how long I’m going to have left before I have to do something about this. Harrison isn’t going to let this go on indefinitely without expecting something in return, and he’s following the campaign, so he’s going to see the strawberry patch is reopening and that I’m doing the opposite of what I’m supposed to be doing.

  I’m so lost in thought that I don’t realise Tonya is trying to get our attention until she lets out a shrill whistle to attract it, inadvertently piercing the eardrums of everyone within a ten-mile radius. We go across when she beckons us over to the group where the tray of Welsh cakes looks like it’s been decimated by a shoal of starving piranhas.

  ‘Fliss, you can make jam, can’t you?’

  ‘Jam?’ My voice goes so squeaky that it sounds like I’ve been sucking helium out of balloons. Who the heck makes jam? Outside of trying to impress Paul Hollywood on The Great British Bake Off, that is. You buy it in a jar with “Hartleys” written on the front like any normal person. ‘Of course,’ I say brightly. ‘What chef wouldn’t know how to make jam?’

  Oh God, it can’t be that difficult, can it?

  ‘We thought we could set up a little sideline for opening day and have a table outside with tea and Welsh cakes. The nurses are going to make them fresh from the kitchen – they’ve just agreed.’ She indicates towards the two blue-uniformed nurses sitting with them.

  ‘I think “agreed” is a bit strong a word,’ one of them says.

  ‘As I’m sure you know with this lot,’ the other one says with a grin to me and Ryan. ‘Either you agree or they agree for you.’

  ‘There’s nowhere nearby to get food,’ Alys continues. ‘For opening day, we thought it would be a novelty if we could offer Welsh cakes and cream and sugar with strawberry jam made from the strawberries grown right here. Our Welsh version of a cream tea. Maybe in the future, we could make jam and sell jars if it proves popular.’

  ‘Sounds great. Yay.’ I do a little clap. Inside, I’m feeling very much not-yay. How on earth do you make jam? Would they notice if I scooped some out of a supermarket-bought jar and said I’d made it?

  In the crowd, my dad does a thumbs up, which I take to mean he can and will make jam on my behalf. I also catch Ryan’s eyes flicking from me to him. I’m about to create a distraction, but thankfully Tonya has arranged a flyer swap with another local event planner, and the girl chooses that moment to walk in carrying a stack of flyers. She hands one out to each of us while Tonya grabs a stack of ours and dashes across waving them around.

  ‘Sandcastle building competition.’ I read aloud from the flyer she’s just given me. ‘Is this really still going?’

  I’m consistently surprised by how Lemmon Cove seems to have avoided the trappings of time passing and stayed exactly as it was when I left. This annual sandcastle building competition has been going since the Seventies. It was still going when I left, but it was never popular enough to have any sort of advertising materials then.

  ‘It’s a huge deal now,’ Cynthia says proudly.

  ‘I’m overbooked at the campsite next weekend with how many tourists are coming,’ Ryan adds. ‘The strawberry patch will be open by then, so it should have a good impact for us. This is the
main access route to the beach, so a heck of a lot of people will be walking by. There’s actually a route down from the campsite but I’m going to block it off so they’ll all be forced to come this way.’

  ‘I admire your sneaky, underhanded tactics.’

  He grins like it’s the best compliment he could ever get.

  ‘It’s a real thing for sand artists now,’ Alys says, going back to the flyer in her hand, while Tonya swaps our stack for the sandcastle competition stack and sends the girl on her way. ‘There’s a £500 prize and your creation gets in all the local papers, and national news websites cover it.’

  ‘We should enter.’

  ‘This is not just kids slopping sand into a bucket and upturning it anymore, Fliss,’ Ffion says. ‘The people who enter these days are real sculptors. Artists. They travel around the world entering competitions like this. It’s serious business.’

  ‘It could be fun. And if there’s that much local interest then it could be great for our cause, even if we don’t win. It says here the entry fee is only a tenner – I’ll pay that.’ I gesture to Ryan. ‘You’re good with your hands. You and whoever’s the best designer do it together.’

  ‘Ah, just one problem,’ Alys says. ‘There’s only two of us who are young and fit enough to make it down to the beach.’

  ‘And I’m not doing it on my own. You work with food, you must be able to, y’know, sculpt things.’ Ryan looks at me expectantly and mashes his hands together.

  ‘I assure you, no one has ever done that to food,’ I say with a raised eyebrow, but the wider his smile gets, the more I smile back, even though I hate that he has absolutely no doubt that I am a chef. I thought I would’ve been caught out by now.

  ‘Go on,’ Morys says. ‘We’ll manage here while you’re down on the beach next Saturday. Someone will take over on tree duty, and the rest of us will man the strawberry patch. You’ve got nothing to lose.’

  I look at Ryan and shrug. ‘I’m in if you are.’

  ‘It’s a date.’

  ‘Yeah, the—’

  ‘And not the twenty-third of August this time.’ He winks at me. ‘A real date, yeah?’

  I’m caught off-guard at his casual suggestion. Me and Ryan on a date. What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter 13

  ‘Why don’t you go and see him?’ Cheryl says without me saying a word. It’s only ten p.m. but she’s getting ready for bed because she gets up early for summer school and I’ve always been a night owl. Sharing a room is not ideal.

  I’m standing at the bedroom window, watching a hedgehog pottering around in next door’s garden, and I turn around to look at her. ‘The hedgehog?’

  She laughs, knowing full well I’m winding her up and the “him” in question isn’t wildlife-related.

  ‘Because I made the mistake of getting too close to Ryan Sullivan before. It didn’t end well that time, and I’m not going to give history a chance to repeat itself. There’s nothing between us.’

  ‘Then someone needs to tell him that. I was there when you walked into the strawberry patch the other day and he literally illuminated when he saw you. He excused himself mid-conversation and sprinted across to you.’

  ‘He’s being polite.’

  ‘He’s just invited you on a date!’

  ‘It’s not a date.’ I say it so firmly that I’m trying to convince myself more than her. ‘It’s just for the strawberry patch. The publicity.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Fliss, what happened between you two?’

  I’ve never told her. I’ve never told anyone. The only people who know are me and Ryan. ‘Something that’s never going to get a chance to happen again.’ I sigh. ‘I shouldn’t be spending more time with him. I should be … leaving.’

  ‘Is that still on the cards then?’

  I look over my shoulder at her. ‘I have to go back. I have a job, a flat, a …’ I was going to say “life” but I don’t have much of a life in London at all. It’s certainly not something to miss.

  ‘I know, but you seem so happy here. And Dad’s been so much happier since you arrived.’

  ‘That’s Cynthia, not me.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’ve got him involved in the strawberry patch. I didn’t know how to push him out of his comfort zone, but you did. I think he feels “whole” with both of us here. It’s the closest we ever get to Mum now. When all of three of us are together. He’s been talking about clearing out the spare room so you’d have your own space, and it’s been nice having you around. I didn’t realise how much I miss my big sister when you’re away.’

  I can’t stop myself going over and giving her a hug. It’s been nice to be here too. It’s been a long while since I shared a house with my family and I had visions of it being the stuff of nightmares, but it’s been warm and homely and it feels like I’ve never been away.

  The thoughts are making tears threaten to fill my eyes again, so I extract myself from the hug. ‘Maybe I will go and see him …’

  ‘The hedgehog?’

  She laughs when I hit her with a pillow.

  After I say goodbye to Dad, who’s busy doing a video call with Cynthia even though her camera is pointing at the floor and his is showcasing a particularly interesting spot of the ceiling, so maybe being equally inept at technology is a sign of romantic compatibility. The hedgehog in question scurries across the path when I step out onto the pavement and it makes me smile. I can’t remember the last time I saw a hedgehog.

  ‘It’s just me, Ry,’ I call out quietly when I reach the strawberry patch.

  He turns his industrial-sized torch towards me, illuminating the path between strawberry plants as I head towards the tree. ‘You disappear for fifteen years and now I get to see you both day and night? Can we flip it and have the next fifteen years like this?’

  I ignore him. They’re just words. They don’t mean anything. They can’t mean anything.

  Baaabra Streisand is sleeping beside the tree trunk, and I push myself up on tiptoes to see what Ryan’s doing.

  He’s sitting cross-legged in the tree using a little knife to do … something … to a strawberry. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Aw, you’ve caught me red-handed. I was trying to carve strawberries into roses and present you with a bouquet of them tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s romantic.’ The words are out before I can stop them.

  ‘Yes, it is.’ He meets my eyes and holds my gaze unwaveringly.

  My legs feel so unsteady that I have to drop down off my tiptoes, and after a few moments, he shakes himself and looks away.

  ‘Godfrey showed me how to do it. He used to make them for Henrietta.’ He puts down the one he’s working on and picks up another, and leans forward so I can see what he’s doing. ‘If you carve four thin strips here, you can peel them back to look like petals.’ He does that around the widest part of the strawberry and then moves up to the narrower part and does the same in between the “petals” below so they overlap. ‘And then you do it again at the narrow part, and then criss-cross the tip, and voila.’ He hands me the mutilated fruit that really does look like a rose, his fingers hovering over mine as I take it carefully because it’s so delicate.

  I can’t help smiling at the idea of a guy who would put in the effort to do that. The last time someone bought me flowers, they were mostly dead from the supermarket clearance bucket and still had the “reduced to 10p” sticker on them, and I later discovered were out of guilt for cheating on me. ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘The benefits of befriending a man who sold strawberries for forty years. I was going to do a whole load and put them on skewers and wrap them in pretty paper like a real bouquet, but now you’ve caught me, I’ll have to think of something else.’

  ‘You don’t have to do anything romantic for me …’ I trail off, automatically pushing myself up on tiptoes again as he leans further down.

  His fingers are still around mine where mine are around the strawberry and they tighten so much, the fruit is in re
al danger of being crushed.

  ‘Fee …’ His eyes close and my name comes out as a breath, his hand coming up to brush my arm, trailing up and across my shoulder. He leans so close that our foreheads are millimetres away from touching, and …

  He overbalances and has to grab a branch to stop himself falling headfirst out of the tree.

  ‘No. No, of course not.’ He yanks his hand away and scrambles backwards, and I step away, my heart pounding and my breath coming in such short, sharp pants that I could’ve just ran a marathon. Except not, obviously, because me and running don’t mix.

  ‘Sorry if I overstepped the mark earlier with the whole date thing. The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. As is tradition whenever I’m around you.’

  ‘Of course. I get it, Ry, you didn’t mean it like that.’

  He looks confused. ‘I meant it like that, I just didn’t mean to ask you in front of everyone.’

  In that moment, something snaps inside of me. ‘All right, I’ve had enough. What are you playing at? All the touches, the hugs, the hand-holding, and now you’re asking me on a date too? You’re doing exactly what you did before. No one can correctly interpret these mixed messages. I got it wrong before and I’m not going to get it wrong again!’

  He looks taken aback by my sudden outburst, and I take a step back in surprise because I didn’t realise I was going to say that.

  ‘Oh, come on, Fee. Seriously? Don’t you know how I feel about you?’

  ‘No!’ I snap. ‘No, Ryan, I don’t. I showed you how I felt fifteen years ago and you clearly didn’t return it then—’

  ‘You think I didn’t feel the same.’ He says it more to himself than to me, shaking his head. It’s not really a question at all. ‘There were two reasons I didn’t kiss you back, and believe me, that wasn’t one of them.’

  I take a deep breath and steel myself to ask something I should’ve asked years ago. ‘Then what was?’

  ‘There was someone else.’

  ‘What?’ It comes out sharper and louder than I intended it to, but I’ve spent years imagining potential answers to that question and that was not one of the possible responses.