Alexis poured her friend a glass of wine and offered her the packet of chocolates. The more that Phoebe ate, the fewer would be left to tempt her into breaking her diet worse than she already had. “It was on Saturday night. He broke up with me.”
“At our work party? That you’d spent months planning? How dare he come in and ruin your night like that.” She grabbed one of the hazelnut chocolates, stuffed it into her mouth and chewed angrily. “He dumped you at a work function? What an absolute douche.”
Phoebe’s anger and indignant tone made Alexis feel slightly better. “I’ve been thinking, Phoebs, maybe I’ll go to New Zealand.”
Phoebe looked at her as if she had grown a second head. “You what?”
“I have the farm to sort out. I was going to sell it from here, but I think I need a vacation. I have leave owing. I’ve just finished a big project. It’s the perfect time to go really. Everything here just reminds me of James and I want to get away.”
“You could go on a cruise to the Caribbean and drink margaritas instead. That’s what I would do.”
“I’m not really in the mood for partying. A sheep farm in the middle of nowhere will suit my mood.”
Phoebe nodded her head, trying to look like she understood this train of thought and failing. “How long would you stay for?”
“Just a week or two. A month at the most. Give myself time to pack up my grandfather’s things and find a good real estate agent. I’ve never seen the farm and Mom didn’t talk about it much. I could visit it, maybe make a bit of a vacation out of it. New Zealand is meant to be very pretty.”
Phoebe looked at her doubtfully and absentmindedly helped herself to another chocolate. “Do they still live in grass huts there?”
“Maybe in some areas?” She felt silly, but she wasn’t sure. “I don’t actually know.”
Phoebe had her phone out in seconds, frantically googling tourism websites. “It says here it’s a great place to visit if you like nature. Yuck.”
Once the last of the chocolates were gone, Phoebe left with promises to call and visit after work again, and offered to cover for her at work, if she needed it. Alexis felt the best she had in days, although that could have been the alcohol, too.
One last glass, she thought to herself as she eyed the nearly empty rosé bottle. It's just one more glass and I’m not working tomorrow anyway.
She poured the remainder of the bottle out. It filled up her glass a little more than she had expected. Oh well, why not? she thought, and with a giggle she brought it to her lips and took a big sip. It was a delicious rosé, soft and fruity and with just the right amount of sweetness. She settled back further into the couch and opened her laptop.
After a minute or two searching, Google told her that the local airline, Air New Zealand, was offering discounts to fly direct from New York for a limited time only.
Why not? You only live once and so far, this life was shaping up to be a disappointment. Maybe she should…
She looked at the dates on sale. She could leave in two days, and the flight would be nearly half the price that it usually was. A vision of herself in a pretty country farmhouse, surrounded by fields of flowers and a baby lamb frolicking at her feet appeared in her mind. Her finger hovered over the “Book Now” button for a fraction of a second, before she pressed down with certainty.
It had better not be one of those small planes that fit ten people at a time on it with a pilot that had only done a couple of days training. We’d better not crash into the sheep farm. Are there more people in New Zealand, or sheep? Has James ever seen a sheep? Alexis’s last dreamy, tipsy thoughts drifted off as her eyelids closed of their own accord, her fingers slackened on the wine glass that now held a half mouthful of rosé at the bottom, and she slipped into a fitful, restless sleep.
*****
Three days later, Alexis crept down the overgrown driveway in her low-slung rental car, doing her best to avoid the juddering potholes that jarred her teeth and her nerves equally.
The house that looked oh-so-charming from a distance, with its tall gabled roof and double bay windows, wasn’t quite so charming up close. The garden was a tangle of long grass, what looked like blackberry bushes and, in one corner, a huge climbing rose bush that sprawled over a ramshackle wooden fence.
And the house itself. It was a disaster—there was no other way to describe it. Paint was flaking off the weatherboards, leaving patches of bare wood. Tufts of grass poked up from the guttering, and water stains and traces of black mold ran down the walls from the blocked gutters. The grime on the windows was thick enough to obscure any view inside.
It needed a good clean. And a paint. And a carpenter, and a plumber. And probably a pest exterminator, too.
Bleuch. No, scrub that thought. She refused to deal with rats and spiders and cockroaches and other nasty creepy-crawlies. If it was infested with crawling, scurrying, squeaking things, all it deserved was a can of kerosene and a match!
She drew in a deep breath, blinking back a few self-pitying tears as she stopped the car on a patch of oil-stained gravel where the driveway came to a sudden stop. Was this run-down hovel the extent of her grand inheritance?
Maybe it would be better inside than it looked from the outside. Heavens, she hoped so, or her stay here would be a short one.
Carefully she opened her car door and got out, smoothing down her pale pink linen skirt. It wasn’t the most comfortable item of clothing to drive in, but it was a great designer piece. It looked good with her ivory skin and made her waist seem smaller than it really was. So what if it pinched a bit. She only had one chance to make a good first impression on the locals, and she wasn’t about to throw it away by wearing comfortable clothes.
Her heels snagged on the loose pieces of gravel as she picked her way through the front gate, which was sagging drunkenly on its hinges, and onto the front porch. The boards creaked alarmingly, but held firm as she tiptoed across them, avoiding the worst of the splintery wood. She looked down ruefully at her feet. Her poor shoes would never be the same again. Just as well they were last season’s style and not her brand new Miu Mius. By the time she returned to New York this pair would be hopelessly unfashionable and she wouldn’t want to wear them again anyway.
The key she had picked up from the lawyer’s office that morning turned in the lock with a groan of protest, and she pushed open the door.
A long, narrow hallway stretched in front of her, with rooms off to each side. On the left was a sitting room, complete with a brown tweed lounge suite that would have been violently ugly when it was brand new, and now just looked sad and tired. The room on the other side had clearly been her grandfather’s bedroom. An old woolen sweater was tossed on the end of the bed, and there were piles of books on the bedside table. She glanced at the title of the one on top. Modern Sheep Farming Methods, it proclaimed in bold print. The book was so old that its spine had cracked and when she picked it up, a couple of pages came loose and fluttered to the floor.
At the end of the hallway lay the kitchen. She pushed the door fully open and stepped in. It was like stepping into a time machine. A time warp that had transported her back to the 1950s.
Cracked linoleum of an indeterminate color stretched in front of her. Maybe it had been pale green once, under all that grime, but it was now a muddy gray. The mint green cabinets were chipped, and the benchtop scarred and stained. A wicker basket of wood stood next to a coal range.
A coal range?
She looked around the kitchen in disbelief, a sense of impending panic creeping over her. No, there was no other oven, no cooktop even. Just the coal range to cook on. How was she going to prepare her gluten-free, organic food on that dinosaur? And if she couldn’t cook, what was she going to eat?
She shook her head to clear it. Did people still live like this? Had her grandfather lived like this?
The long flight from New York, the early morning start, and the endless drive along relentlessly narrow and winding roads suddenly
caught up with her.
Dusting off an old kitchen chair, she sat down, leaned her elbows against the heavy kitchen table, and gave in to a moment of utter defeat. She should never have left New York. She should have held her head up high and waited until James realized what a mistake he was making by dumping her, instead of running away to other end of the universe and doubling her misery.
Cocooned in her despair, she barely registered the noise of a truck pulling up outside until a loud banging on the kitchen door roused her.
Great. Now she had to deal with some random local when she had never felt less like dealing with a stranger in her life. All she wanted was to drown her sorrows in an almond milk latte from her favorite upscale café. And even treat herself to a mini macaroon, which she reserved for true emergencies.
Another burst of loud knocking. Did he think she was deaf or something? Wearily she got to her feet.
She fumbled with the unfamiliar lock and yanked open the back door just as a third round of knocking started. “Keep your panties on,” she muttered crossly, just as it swung open.
A pair of gumboots splattered liberally with mud. Jeans that were worn to softness and faded in all the right places to fetch a premium price in her favorite consignment store. A heavy woolen hoodie just like the one abandoned at the foot of her grandfather’s bed. Designer stubble. Dark eyes. Thick black hair with the hint of a wave.
They sure made nice-looking farmhands on this side of the world. If she were to clean him up and dress him in the right clothes, he wouldn’t look out of place at one of her fanciest cocktail parties. Hmmm, she wasn’t sure if she would prefer him clean-shaven or whether that stubble would rock the hipster look.
Catching the direction of her gaze, he rubbed his chin self-consciously. “I saw you pull up and thought I’d come by to say hello. I’m Mason Quinn, one of your neighbors.” He gestured in a random direction. “From up on the hill.”
“Alexis. Alexis Morgan. From New York. Bert was my grandfather.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
She shrugged. “I’d never met him.” How sorry could you be for an old man you had never met? “Mom never talked about him except to say that he made her childhood a misery, and that she wouldn’t spit on him if he was on fire.”
His sudden grin lit up his entire face. “Yeah, he was a mean old bastard, that’s for sure. I hope it doesn’t run in the family. Can I come in? It’s kind of awkward talking to you in the doorway like this.”
She held on to the doorjamb uneasily. Why on earth did he think she would invite him in? She’d never met him before. He was good-looking, sure, but he could be an ax-murderer for all she knew. The house was so isolated that no one would ever hear her scream.
“I hope you don’t mind me intruding as soon as you arrived, but I wasn’t sure how long you would be here.” His glance fell to the trio of gold bangles on her left wrist and it looked like he gave a grimace. “I wanted to talk to you before you hightailed it back to the city again.”
She shook her wrist just enough for the ruffle of her sleeve to fall over the bracelets. He had no business turning his nose up at them. They might only be nine carat gold, but he wasn’t to know that just from looking at them. “What about?”
“The farm. Can I come in?” he repeated, more slowly this time, as if he thought she didn’t understand him.
“But I don’t know you,” she blurted. “I don’t invite people I don’t know inside my house.”
He opened his eyes wide. “You don’t what? For heaven’s sake, I’m your neighbor.”
She stayed mute. No way was she letting him into her grandfather’s house. Well, her house now, she supposed. That just wasn’t the New York way.
After a few seconds he shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. Can we talk in the garden then?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heels and strode out into the backyard, sitting himself down at a rickety picnic table and staring at her with irritation.
Her backside was numb from driving for five hours to get here, and the seat at the picnic table was covered in lichen that was bound to leave a mark on her skirt if she were to sit on it. With her luck, the nearest dry cleaner would be five hours’ drive away, instead of down the stairs and two buildings along, like she was used to at home. She remained standing and looked down at Mason, her neighbor. “What did you want to tell me about the farm? Are you the foreman?” She’d thought her grandfather’s lawyer had called the foreman Nate, but she could have remembered the name wrong. She hadn’t been listening terribly hard as he’d droned on endlessly about falling profit margins and overdue property taxes.
The irritation in his face had by now morphed into dislike. “I wanted to talk to you about buying the farm. I’m assuming you will be putting it on the market as soon as probate is cleared.”
“I haven’t made my mind up what I’m going to do with it yet,” she temporized. “I might stay here for a while.” Ten minutes ago, she would have cheerfully jumped on a plane straight back to New York, sold the place to the highest bidder, and never looked back. She wasn’t sure just what it was about his attitude that irked her and prevented her from telling him so. Maybe his assumption that he knew all about her just because of where she came from and what she looked like. Or his clear inference that he had judged her for it and found her lacking.
Besides, judging by the clothes he was wearing, he didn’t look like he had the money to pay what the farm was worth. She wasn’t going to sell it to him for nothing just because he asked her nicely.
He raised his eyebrows at her. “You can’t seriously mean to tell me you are thinking of keeping it? Running it yourself?”
“Maybe I am.” Actually, the idea had not occurred to her before he put it into words. It was not such a bad idea. It would be an adventure, something to tell her friends about at parties back home; how she had single-handedly rescued an old sheep farm in the wilds of New Zealand and turned it into a successful and thriving business, all in just a couple of weeks, while she was on vacation. Hmmm, the thought had merit.
“Have you ever run sheep before?”
She shrugged. She had no idea what running sheep even meant so she guessed she hadn’t.
“Managed a farm?”
“Nope.”
“What was it you did over in the States then?” There was genuine curiosity in his voice.
“I work in PR. For a niche supermarket that specializes in organic and GE-free produce.”
He barked a laugh. “Figures. I should’ve pegged you for that straight off. Have you ever even seen a sheep before?”
“Of course I have.” Did he think she was some kind of idiot? “We do get nature programs on TV in New York, you know.”
He dropped his head into his hands and roared with laughter until his shoulders shook. “Christ, you won’t last a week out here,” he said, when he had finally gained control of his voice again. “Call me when you get tired of playing farms, and I’ll buy the place off you for a fair price.” He got to his feet and dusted off his jeans. “See you around.”
She watched as he climbed into his muddy pickup truck and headed off up the gravel road towards a rather large-looking house a mile or so away up on the rise of the hill. That must have been what he meant when he said they were neighbors.
His mocking laughter still rang in her ears. She’d show that neighbor just what she was made of. He wasn’t going to laugh at her and then expect her to turn around and sell him her grandfather’s sheep farm for peanuts. Nope, she’d turn it around, make it profitable again, and then make him pay through the nose for the privilege of buying it. Or better yet, sell it to someone who could afford to pay her the real value of the place.
The only problem was, that to do that, she would have to live here for the next few weeks. She peeked inside the back door again, hoping that her first impression of the kitchen had been mistaken, and that it wasn’t that bad.
Nope. It was that bad. Probably worse.
Th
e first item on her list was to give the house a decent clean. She might temporarily be a sheep farmer now, but she wasn’t going to live in a filthy dump while she was here.
Ten minutes later, she had brought in her smaller suitcase from the car and changed into her lululemon yoga pants and matching hoodie, the mint green set that she didn’t like so much.
When she’d packed her yoga pants and sneakers, she’d expected to be doing sun salutes and pigeon poses on a romantic veranda at dawn in the clear country air. Or on a well-manicured lawn with a soft breeze gently ruffling her hair.
Pfffft. She and romance were clearly mortal enemies.
With a sigh she got down onto her hands and knees with a bucket of soapy water and a scrubbing brush and began to remove the layers of grime from the floor.
Chapter Two
Nearly a week later, she hung the last of the sheets and towels out on the rotary washing line to dry in the sun and collapsed onto the grass underneath it. Her grandfather’s house—her house now—was clean. Clean enough, anyway.
The garage was stacked with the detritus of her grandfather’s life, waiting for her to take it to the dump and dispose of it all. Old papers, chipped china, furniture that was beyond saving that she had single-handedly dragged out of the house. He’d owned surprisingly little for someone so old. It seemed sad to her that she was throwing away what was left of his possessions so unceremoniously, as if some of his essence drifted away with each cracked glass or old newspaper she threw into the garbage pile.
If her mother was here, she would say good riddance to bad rubbish.
It was even sadder that he had died and no one truly mourned his loss. What was it that Mason had called him? A mean old bastard? Yes, that was it. It takes one to know one, she muttered to herself, and then laughed out loud at her own childishness. She didn’t know why she let thoughts of Mason bother her. He was supremely unimportant, and she would enjoy showing him how capable she was and making him eat his words.
Head First (Quinn Brothers Book 1) Page 2
