Wouldn’t.
Strawberry Farm had been the love of her life for eighteen years, but one short overheard conversation between the men of her family about her place on the farm – her future on the farm – had ripped that love apart.
That kind of pain couldn’t be repaired in a mere three weeks.
Not in three weeks.
Not now.
Not ever.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hannah groaned into her pillow as her phone’s alarm screeched a merry tune.
She reached out, eyes still closed, found the offending phone, and stabbed at the screen until the sound stopped.
Early mornings? No problem. She was used to them.
Early mornings when she’d had next to no sleep and what sleep she’d had had been peppered with nightmarish stress dreams? The worst.
She rolled out of bed, the shock of bare feet on cold timber floors waking her more than any tinny tune ever would.
Hannah flicked out the gritty bits of sleep that had gathered in the corners of her eyes, then pressed the surrounding area in an effort to depuff it and make herself appear somewhat presentable.
Coffee. She needed coffee. Buckets of it. And a long, hot shower, followed by a freezing cold burst of water. Then she’d be properly awake. Ready to start a day of picking strawberries. Under the critical eye of your father.
Her shoulders tensed then she shuddered at the thought. In twenty-four hours she’d had a ten-year regression. If she wasn’t careful she’d be siphoning a bit of everything she could find in the family liquor cabinet into a bottle and dragging a protesting Grey down to the end of the farthest field for a bit of delinquent drinking.
A tentative knock came from her bedroom door.
‘Hannah, pet? You awake?’
Her gran’s soft voice sounded bright and alert. No doubt she’d been up for a good hour. Pottering in the kitchen. Baking for the day. Snatching minutes here and there to do her daily crossword.
‘Awake, Gran.’ Barely.
Soft, padding steps that grew quieter with every second told her she was alone once more.
‘Up.’ She pushed herself into a standing position as she said the word.
Hannah reached for the clothes [HN16]she’d set at the end of the bed the night before and pulled them on. Worn, cotton shorts. A simple grey T-shirt. Lastly, a navy sweater that would be discarded as the sun rose higher. This early in the day there was a nip in the air, and the last thing her family needed was for her to come down with a chill.
She padded down the hallway, made her way down the stairs and was greeted by the kitchen’s sweet, bready aroma and the warmth of the oven that glowed with another batch of baking scones.
‘Nothing much changes does it, pet?’ Sylvia patted her shoulder as she bustled past, stirring a bowl filled with a camel-coloured mixture dotted with frozen strawberries.
Muffins for the workers, Hannah bet.
‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Honestly, Gran? I slept terribly. It’s so quiet here. I’m not used to it anymore.’ Hannah went to the kettle and flicked it on. Grabbed the instant coffee jar and added two big teaspoonfuls into a mug that was already set out on the bench. Printed with strawberries, the green and red colours faded with age and washing. Her mug from since she was a kid. Still here. Unlike her.
A subtle dig? Or a quiet welcome home from her gran?
‘I hope you don’t mind me pulling that out.’ Sylvia spooned the muffin mix into the greased tin. ‘Just thought you might enjoy seeing it again.’
Not a dig then. Hannah resolved to stop seeing every little thing her family did for her or to her as a needling for her leaving. It would do her no good, and it wouldn’t help in mending torn relationships.
She fingered the delicate porcelain handle. So different to the designer double-walled glass coffee cups she had back in London. Back home. ‘Thanks, Gran. I forgot how dainty it is. And pretty. Can’t believe I didn’t break it.’
‘I can. You were always careful with the things you treasured.’
Was she careful with the things she treasured? Hannah wasn’t so sure. She’d not been careful with her family. With Grey. The opposite.
The kettle flicked off and she poured the steaming water in, added sugar, a dash of milk, then picked up the mug and went to the kitchen table.
Before she could protest and say it was too early to eat, a fresh, golden scone covered in melting butter was placed in front of her.
‘There’s jam and cream on the table.’ Sylvia nodded in its direction. ‘Eat up. You’ve a big day ahead.’
Her stomach gurgled, reminding Hannah she’d barely eaten in the last twenty-four hours. Her gran was right, a day in the fields required sustenance, and who was she to turn down beautiful food cooked with love?
Ignoring the condiments, Hannah picked up the scone and bit into it. Still warm from the oven and lighter and fluffier than any scone she’d tried in all her travels, it all but melted in her mouth.
She closed her eyes. A quiet mmmmm of satisfaction left her lips.
‘Nothing quite like homemade, is there?’
Hannah shook her head, and opened her eyes as thunderous feet on the stairs alerted her to the men of the family’s imminent arrival.
‘Morning.’ The word was grunted in unison as her grandad, quickly followed by her father, entered the kitchen.
Her father took his place at the head of one end of the table, smiling up at her gran as she placed a mug of coffee in front of him. He brought it to his lips then met Hannah’s gaze.
‘All set, Han?’
The question took her by surprise. As did the further lifting of lips that accompanied his question.
She’d expected to be greeted, but not so warmly. Had their conversation at the dinner table last night thawed things a bit? Had her mother had a word with him? Told him to go easy on her?
Either way, she wasn’t going to give her father a reason to retreat into his shell.
‘Ready. Willing. Able.’ She took another bite of her scone.
‘That’s what I like to hear. Can’t have anyone on the team letting us down.’
Hannah turned her attention back to her scone and did her best not to let the hurt that squeezed her chest at the small dig show. So much for a thaw.
A quick knock at the back door was followed by Grey’s head poking in. ‘Enough dilly-dallying, you lot. The crew’s here. Time to work.’
‘You heard the man.’ Duncan scraped his chair back, stood and emptied his coffee into a travel mug.
Hannah followed the men out to the driveway where a bunch of workers had gathered. A group of teens huddled together, arms folded across their chests, hips popped out, eyes dull in a way that suggested they’d rather be anywhere but there. Probably forced to work through the holidays by their parents. That, or working to save for their first car so they could escape village life as soon as possible.
Hannah grinned inwardly. She knew how they felt. Had felt that way herself. While she had been eager to take her place on the farm, to help run it as the eldest Beety was born to, she’d equally been excited for a gap year. A chance to see the world. To discover what it had to offer before settling down. Never, though, had she thought that gap year would turn into a gap decade. A gap lifetime.
The larger crowd appeared to be in their twenties and early thirties. A varied lot who she suspected had come from overseas. People who travelled with the seasons, going from country to country, funding their travels by picking, or – for some – funding their families back home.
Her eyes connected with a top-knotted, bearded man, who looked to be around her age. His skin burnished from the sun. A spray of lines fanned out from his eyes as he grinned at her. Friendly, open. The smile of someone who was used to making friends.
She moved to stand beside him. If she was going to be out here for the next few weeks, she may as well have a friendly face to chat to.
‘Hey.’ She held her hand out.
‘I’m Hannah.’
He took her hand, and gave it a shake. ‘Matt. Nice to meet you.’
She liked his handshake. It was firm, somehow honest. Not remotely creepy. She liked his accent better. Flat, the words almost swallowed, and ridiculously charming. It reminded her of a photographer she’d dated who’d come from New Zealand, and she’d have bet a day’s wages – if she were being paid – that Matt was from there too.
An elbow met her waist. ‘Watch out, Mr Boss Man over there’s giving you the hairy eyeball. First day on the job and you’re already in trouble.’
Hannah followed Matt’s gaze. Sure enough Mr Boss Man was looking surly as ever.
Except Mr Boss Man wasn’t her father, as she’d expected, but Grey.
Seeing her seeing him, he turned his interest to his beaten-up work boots.
‘I’m not worried about that Mr Boss Man. I’ve known him all my life.’ Hannah figured she may as well be honest with who she was, and where she fell in the farm hierarchy. ‘I’m the proper Mr Boss Men’s granddaughter and daughter. Just here to help out for the next few weeks.’
Matt sidestepped exaggeratedly away from her. ‘Does that make you management?’ His words were a loud whisper. ‘Are you a plant? Here to tell management who’s pulling their weight and who’s not?’
‘Wouldn’t that make me a useless plant, since I just told you who I am?’
Matt moved backed next to her. ‘This is true. So why haven’t I seen you here before? You’re not a face I’d forget.’
Was Matt flirting with her? There was one way to find out.
‘Are you flirting with the boss’s daughter?’
Matt folded his arms across his chest. Well-muscled, Hannah noticed. But not too big. Much like his chest. There were pecs there, definitely. But they weren’t ridiculous in size. She paid closer attention to his hair – dark blond shot with lighter strands.
The tan. The fine lines. The muscles. It all added up to one thing – surfer. Travelling with the summer. Practised at keeping life light and easy. Flirting probably came as easy to him as catching a wave.
‘Would it be the worst thing if I was?’ His brows rose in good-natured challenge.
A bubble of laughter rose up, and Hannah didn’t bother pushing it down. She liked Matt. Wasn’t attracted to him, but she had a feeling he’d be great fun to have around.
His hand fisted and went to his heart. ‘I’m wounded. Rejection through laughter. How will I survive?’
‘Just fine, I expect.’ Hannah shook her head and rolled her eyes.
‘Good morning, everyone. Thanks for turning up for another day.’
Her father’s voice rang loud and clear, capturing the attention of the crowd. The teenagers’ backs straightened. The rest of the workers ceased their idle chat.
‘If I can get you lot from here to here.’ His arm made a cutting movement at the four-fifths mark of the group and slashed across. ‘To head out into the fields. The rest can go to the packing shed and ready what’s brought in for sale, and set up more trays. Remember, if you see any signs of bug infestation, get me, Peter or Grey. Otherwise, happy picking.’
Hannah’s shoulders sagged in relief to have been on the picking side of the small crowd. Standing still sorting strawberries was tedious work at the best of times. At the worst? It was so mind-numbingly boring that when she was younger she’d wished the ground would open or swallow her whole. Or that an alien ship would appear from above and take her to their people.
‘Back field forward?’ Matt’s head angled, waiting for an answer.
‘I like your way of thinking. Starting at the back makes for a shorter walk home at the end of the day.’ Hannah grabbed a cardboard carton in which plastic trays were laid out, placed it in the little trolleys that made carting produce up and down the rows easier, and began ambling down the dirt trail.
Their path took them towards Grey. His face impassive, his gaze straightforward, like he didn’t seem them. Or didn’t want to. As they passed his lip curled up just a hint, sending a bolt of pain straight to Hannah’s heart. How could he hate her so much, even after all these years? Was there anything she could do to change things?
As quickly as the hurt arose, it subsided as irritation at herself for caring so much ripped through her. She couldn’t control Grey’s feelings. Couldn’t change ten years of anger in three weeks in the same way she couldn’t get him to take her feelings seriously when she was younger no matter how hard she tried, so there was no point trying, or fretting.
She turned her attention back to Matt. ‘So, how long have you been in Cornwall?’
Matt’s lips quirked to the side. ‘You caught that I wasn’t from around these parts, ay?’
‘Australian, right?’ Hannah smirked as Matt’s chest rose in feigned upset.
‘Wash your mouth out. Honestly.’ He shook his head and pah-ed in disgust. ‘I should ditch you right now and leave you to work the fields alone.’
‘Joking.’ She elbowed his side. ‘I dated a Kiwi. You’ve less of a twang than the Aussies I know. And the humour’s more subtle. I spent the first few months with him completely befuddled. Never knew if he was joking or not.’
‘That’s because we’re born with our tongues firmly planted in our cheeks. We’ve got to have an operation to dislodge them.’
‘See? Like that. I would’ve thought he was serious. That it was fact that your tongues were pushed into your cheeks right from birth, because you say it so seriously.’
‘So when did you figure him out? Figure our humour out?’
Hannah shook her head. ‘Never did. He left me for a model before I could.’
‘You sound broken up about it.’ Matt shot her a wry smile. ‘Bet your heart’s still healing.’
Hannah snorted before she could stop herself. She covered her nose as embarrassment heated her cheeks. ‘So ladylike. Sorry about that. And you’re right, I wasn’t heartbroken. He was fun, but we both travelled a lot for work. Too much for anything serious to happen.’
‘Ah, so what do you do when you’re not chatting up Kiwi blokes?’ Matt ducked out of the way before she could elbow him again. ‘And don’t think I haven’t figured out that all that elbowing you like to do is just a way to touch my washboard abs.’
Hannah rolled her eyes in reply to his wink. ‘I’ve seen enough washboard abs to last a lifetime. Painted a fair few on, too.’
Matt’s brows drew together. ‘Painted them on? That’s a thing?’
‘It is in my line of work. I’m a makeup artist.’
‘Do you do brides and ball-goers and whatnot?’
‘More like actors and models. Magazine and screen.’
They reached the end of the field, parked their trolleys in a row each and began fossicking through the deep green leaves. Hannah’s speed picked up with each plant, until in no time she was keeping up with Matt’s practised hands. Their conversation going by the wayside as they filled their trays.
They reached the end of the row and Matt straightened up, arching his back in a stretch. Hannah followed his lead, her back screaming in protest at being hunched for so long. Her calves burned, her thighs ached.
‘How people do this day in, day out is beyond me. I don’t even know how I managed it for so many years.’ She pulled her trolley to the next row, and reached her arms above her head in another, deeper stretch, rolled her neck to the left, then to the right. ‘I’d rather deal with a temperamental actor.’
‘Well, that’s a hard pass from me. I’d rather listen to the birds chirping away and feel the breeze on my face than deal with temperamental types.’
‘Fair enough. Though why this job? There are plenty of other jobs out in the great wide yonder that would give you singing birds and windburn.’
Matt shook his head. ‘You really aren’t fond of this place, are you?’
Hannah shrugged. ‘I used to be, but people change.’ People are left with no choice but to change. ‘People choose not to settle. Not to stick wit
h what you know. I’m guessing you’d know something about that?’
‘True. I like to move around, meet new people, surf in new spots.
‘Knew it! I had you pegged as a surfer.’ Hannah’s exclamation startled a flock of sparrows, sending them flying into the air before resettling into the poplar trees that bordered the fields creating a natural windbreak.
‘What gave it away? My toned guns?’ Matt lifted one arm and bent it, revealing a pop of bicep.
‘You’re a knob.’ Hannah grinned. ‘It was the hair. The tan.’ And the muscles. Not that she was going to say that and watch his ego expand. ‘Your head can stop swelling now. You’re sucking all the oxygen.’
‘You’re a tough woman, Han. But I think we’re going to get along famously.’
‘Agreed. So, does that mean you’ll be here for the rest of the season?’
‘Of course. It’s a beautiful farm. Your dad and grandad, and even Grey when he’s not got his knickers in a knot about… well… whatever his knickers are in a knot about… are top blokes in their field. I get to be in the sun, and I don’t mind it when it rains. And it leaves time for surfing. Also, your gran makes the best scones this side of the equator, and your mum’s a sweetheart. It’s the perfect life. I don’t know how you dragged yourself away.’
The perfect life? Is that what people thought life on the farm was? Did they think she was mad to have left? She didn’t need an answer to that question: she knew it all too well. Despite how well she was doing in the life she created, she still at times wondered if she should have dug her heels in, refused to let her father’s nit-picking get to her. Should have confronted her father the night she overheard him tell her grandfather he was worried about her one day running the farm.
‘Well, just because an environment is good for one person, it doesn’t mean it’s good for another.’ Hannah bent over, picked a misshaped strawberry from her seconds bucket and held it up. ‘Take this strawberry. Grown under the same conditions. Still perfectly good. But it’s not meant to go where its strawberry family goes. It has its own journey.’ She placed it back into the bucket with a shrug.
‘They all end up in the same place eventually though.’ Matt patted his flat stomach and smacked his lips together. ‘Best perk of the job. Sylvia gives me an ice cream at the end of every day. Rain or shine.’ He ducked his head closer. ‘Don’t tell anyone though. It’s just me she does it for and I wouldn’t want to start an uprising.’
Sunrise at Strawberry Farm: As delightfully delicious as strawberries and cream, this is the perfect summer romance to read in 2020. Page 5
