Shaking my hands clean, I head for the gate that leads to a second field, this one bordered on its three sides by an abundance of almost fully bare rosebushes. Long rows of plants that have died back and are now yellow and withered, peek out from the soil. I can’t seem to place what they are. They’re almost suffocated by the grass that has been left to grow amongst them.
There’s so much to be done here and nobody to do it. My eyes travel to the rosebushes. There are at least a hundred of them, maybe more, all of them needing to be reshaped. Holding onto that thought, I pull my coat tighter around me and think, Why not?
Inside the barn, dried lavender bunches that were drained of colour long ago hang from the wooden beamed ceiling, which is now laced with thick cobwebs. The air, scented with damp straw, is weighed down by the cold, but as soon as I orient myself in here, my mood starts to lift. Bales of hay are stacked in one corner and a couple of wagons are lined up in the other. A long wooden table with a seated bench is positioned at the far end.
I reach for my new pruning shears and guide the wheelbarrow outside. Once I reach the roses, I start pruning back each bush as far as I can, stripping each one of its remaining leaves and cutting away any dead wood until they’re half the size they originally were. Thorns catch against my jacket and graze my cheeks and hands, scoring tiny scratches into my skin. My thoughts wander to the things I want to know about my life. Like whether I cry at sad movies. Do I play sport? Why did I choose to become a stylist? Why not a teacher, or an artist, or a bookkeeper? What are all the things that made me, me? And what were the things that made Blake and I, us? With a head full of tangled thoughts, my naked hands furiously reach for branch after branch. Why can’t I find the answers? I hate that this has happened to me. I never wanted it. I never asked for it. I don’t want this to be my life. I want a reason, need a reason, have to find a reason to get up out of bed in the morning. I wipe my nose with the cuff of my sleeve, completely unaware until now, that I’ve been crying. I throw the pruning shears to the ground, drop to my knees and notice a plaque in front of one of the bushes.
Lainey Ashcroft. Gone, but not forgotten.
My fingers trace the letters and I feel a pang of nausea at the irony of these words. And then, I look up to the sky and ask, ‘Why can’t I feel you with me?’
Back in the barn, I deposit the full wheelbarrow by the door and take a minute to rest on a square bale of hay, as I try to calm myself down. A sense of familiarity floats around me, alongside the dust motes that bounce around in the morning light. I grab a clump of straw and inhale its scent. As if on cue, a memory slips into my consciousness, as if it’s been waiting for the right time to present itself.
I’m wearing a pair of frayed denim shorts, pulling myself up a rope that’s suspended from one of the wooden beams in the barn. The air is pleasantly warm, a welcoming breeze brushing my skin. Someone gives me a gentle push from behind. With my bare feet, I try to grasp a lemon from a basket sitting on a bale of hay. The sound of laughter echoes through the barn as the lemon slips from between my feet and lands with a thud on the bed of straw covering the ground.
‘Help me down,’ I call out, swinging in circles.
I feel the warmth of a pair of hands, male hands, on my waist as I’m lifted down. My legs wrap around his body. My forehead rests against his, and even though I’m securely held, I still feel like I’m floating.
‘My turn now, ladybug,’ he whispers, right before his lips brush against mine. I close my eyes. He tastes like lemon and ginger beer. I break the kiss with a grin, and a feeling sweeps through me. A tingle, a lightness, a blissful fluttering sensation. Is that love?
My heart starts to pound against my chest. The boy I’ve just remembered is Blake. Holding the weight of a clump of straw in my palm, I sit in silence, desperate for more details, when a voice calls from a distance.
‘Knock, knock.’
Slowly, I blink myself back to reality and face Flynn, who’s poking his head through the barn door.
‘Just thought I’d come say hello,’ he says, grinning at me.
It’s as if I’ve been interrupted in the middle of a dream, the kind that you wish you could close your eyes and finish, if only to feel what you’d just felt, or find out what happens next.
‘Bad time?’ he asks.
‘No, I was just thinking of someone,’ I say, brushing the excess straw off my hands.
‘Anyone special?’ he asks, stepping into the barn.
My words almost catch in my throat, because I can’t bring myself to say yes, yet I can’t bring myself to say no, either. ‘I think so.’
Flynn looks up at the ceiling. ‘Wow, this place needs a bit of a tidy-up, doesn’t it? Those cobwebs are—’
‘On my list.’
‘So, you got to the roses already?’
‘You’ve been spying on me?’
‘You’re covered in scratches, and your wheelbarrow over there is full of rose clippings,’ he says, nodding in its direction. ‘And …’ He reaches over and touches my beanie. I take a slight step back, caught off guard.
‘Hold still,’ he whispers. ‘You’ve got some …’ He tugs gently at something in my beanie, as I stand there frozen. He’s taller than me, though not by much. While he works on removing whatever is in my beanie, I glance up at him discreetly, noticing his five-o’clock shadow. And his jawline, which is defined, yet not too pronounced. He has a serious expression on his face, and he smells nice. Like a minty, ocean-fresh, just-got-out-of-the-shower kind of scent. My breath catches in my chest. A sensation of warmth pumps through my body and my cheeks heat up. I shouldn’t be thinking about Flynn getting out of the shower. He catches me staring and offers a lazy half-smile, and I can’t help looking away, as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t be.
He opens up his hand to reveal a palm scattered with rose thorns. I stand there blinking at them for a couple of seconds, thinking that nobody else except Blake should smell this good to me. Besides, Flynn is aggravating. Oh, but his jawline is …
Stop it, Gracie!
‘I really don’t have time for this,’ I say, awkwardly tugging one of the old wheelbarrows from the corner of the barn. The metal grates against the concrete floor.
Flynn looks at the old thing. ‘I think you’re missing a wheel.’ He bends down to inspect it. ‘I could fix it for you.’
I cock my head. ‘What did you do before you were between jobs?’ I say, crossing my arms, wanting to satisfy my curiosity about him.
‘I’m a vet.’
‘A what?’ I take a better look at him, trying to make sense of this unexpected light that has been cast on him. He looks like the outdoors type, and I’m almost certain that underneath his jacket there are muscles, the kind of muscles you only get from working out. I start to blush again. I look down at my toes. This really needs to stop.
A smile forms on his lips. ‘A vet,’ he repeats. ‘You know … they work in animal hospitals and—’
‘Make yourself useful, then,’ I reply, pointing to two wagons that seem to have their wheels intact. I shake my head. I could have sworn he might have been a tradesman of some kind. A plumber, a carpenter, or a builder, but not a vet.
Flynn surveys me. ‘Are you okay? You seem a bit jumpy.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, heading towards the crates nestled under the table. With two hands, I manage to tug free the one labelled Supplies.
‘I think you should wear some—’
‘Gloves,’ I say, finishing his sentence. There have to be gloves somewhere in here. I scour through the crate and sure enough, a few pairs of stiff gloves are tucked inside. They’ll have to do for now. I grab a pair for myself and toss another in Flynn’s direction.
He catches them midair.
‘Don’t forget the wagons,’ I say, gesturing to the corner of the barn, but Flynn’s already approaching them.
‘What are we working on?’ he asks, catching up to me as I forge ahead.
I point
to the field. ‘See those roses up there? I want to finish pruning them by the end of the day.’ I adjust the scarf around my neck and pull my beanie over my ears.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Do I sound like I’m joking?’
‘No, ma’am, you look very serious,’ he says, his face pretending to be grave. It lasts all of two seconds before he starts to laugh.
‘Why are you laughing?’ I demand, pinning him with my stare.
‘There must be at least a hundred bushes.’
‘And I’ve done about twenty of them so far. Afraid of hard work?’ I tease. ‘You could always go home.’ I smile into my scarf and give him a cheeky sideways glance.
I can tell he’s trying not to smile back, but that just makes me chuckle to myself. And when I do, I like the way it feels, because I haven’t felt it in … who knows how long. Despite how I was feeling before Flynn arrived, my mood is already lifting.
My wagon catches on a clump of overgrown grass. Flynn gives it a push from behind to help it along. ‘I can do this,’ I say, tugging harder.
‘You know, that stubborn streak might get you into trouble some day. Think about what you would have done if I hadn’t turned up here to light your fire the day you arrived.’
‘Oh, I’m not stubborn. You were trespassing.’
‘You almost refused my help. That makes you stubborn,’ says Flynn. ‘What are your real plans here, anyway, Gracie?’ he asks casually, in a way that shows me he’s intrigued, but it catches me off guard all the same.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I reply, surprised at how firm my voice is. Suddenly, my sense of humour has evaporated.
‘No problem,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’ Flynn takes a deep breath. ‘Wow, the wind’s got a bite to it today.’ He pulls on a glove.
‘Sorry—it’s just that we don’t know each other very well and I don’t really want to burden you with all my problems.’
We continue making our way up the incline. By now, we’ve reached the point where the land levels out and a little further ahead is the row of spent sweet peas, and just beyond them, the roses. We reach the gate and I push it open. Flynn steps through and I follow after him.
‘What’s your favourite colour?’ he says, changing the subject. He reaches for a pair of snips from the wagon. He waggles his eyebrows. ‘Getting-to-know-you question,’ he adds playfully. ‘So, then you can burden me with all the problems you want.’
‘What?’ I ask, swallowing my discomfort. I know he’s asking a harmless question, but the problem isn’t the question, the problem is my answer, or lack thereof. I shake my head, trying to think.
‘I bet you like purple. I like green,’ he says, looking me straight in the eyes.
I bite my lip. ‘Green’s nice,’ I say, noticing the sapphire in his eyes. ‘But I prefer blue.’
Flynn smirks.
‘Sweet or savoury?’ I ask, playing along.
‘Sweet tooth all the way.’
‘Well, it appears we have very little in common.’
‘Bet I can prove you wrong.’ He flashes me a cheeky grin. ‘Favourite food?’
Does toast count?
‘Um, I don’t have one,’ I reply. ‘Aside from maybe spinach and omelettes.’
‘Omelettes?’ repeats Flynn. He tips his head to the side, tiny creases appearing in his forehead. It’s like he doesn’t believe me. ‘Really?’
‘What can I say? I’ve had lots of practice recently and I happen to make a good omelette.’
He shakes his head. ‘You should get out more to good restaurants. There’s this place not too far from—’
‘Don’t even go there,’ I warn, pointing my finger at him.
He laughs. ‘Beach or snow slopes?’
I let out a sigh. ‘If you want to know the truth—I don’t really know.’ I scratch my head. ‘My life’s a little … complicated right now.’
‘So is mine. Deliciously complicated.’
‘I bet I’ve got you all worked out. Beach,’ I declare.
‘Nope,’ he says. ‘Couldn’t be further from the truth.’
‘Do you prefer to be indoors or outdoors?’
‘Definitely outdoors. As much as I love being a vet, I don’t like being cooped up in a city vet clinic. I prefer the country air.’ He stands straight and inhales before letting out a contented sigh. ‘You?’
‘Definitely outdoors.’
‘Ah, so we do have some things in common.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I can find plenty more things to disagree with you on.’
‘So far, it’s been a pleasure getting to know you, Gracie Ashcroft. I can’t wait to find out how much more we don’t have in common. So … what do you do for work?’
‘I’m a … was a … stylist for Country Dwellings,’ I reply, trying on the fresh knowledge about myself, but owning these words is like trying on an outfit that’s two sizes too small. There’s no way it can possibly fit. It feels like I’ve blurted out a lie. ‘But I’ve … taken some time off.’
‘A stylist … That’s interesting, because I thought that maybe you were the kind of girl who likes flowers and the outdoors. You seem like the gardening type to me.’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘We’re standing in a paddock in the middle of winter with a couple of wagons and pruning shears in hand, when we could be out walking a loyal and trustworthy dog or riding horses or sipping beer in a country pub. Or, you could be shopping at the local homewares store or whatever it is stylists for Country Dwellings like to do.’
‘I loved my job,’ I mumble and I hope Flynn doesn’t notice the doubt in my voice.
‘Obviously,’ he replies. ‘Unless you were doing something you thought you should have been doing for the sake of not doing the actual thing you loved because you didn’t think you should have been doing that.’
‘Why would anyone do that?’
‘Sometimes the past has a funny way of influencing our future,’ he says.
But what if you can’t remember your past?
‘What if you didn’t have a past to hold onto?’ I say, my voice low.
‘Then maybe you’d leave things to fate and destiny.’
By now we’ve reached the roses. He snips a branch off a bush and tosses it into the wagon.
‘So, you think that sometimes you’re meant to end up where you end up? That maybe you’re meant to end up with the right person, in the right career at exactly the right time?’ I pull on my gloves and start working on the bush adjacent to Flynn’s.
‘Maybe.’
‘Well, if you could live your life over, what would you do differently? Would you still be a vet?’
‘Almost nothing. And yes, I think I’d still be a vet.’
‘Why’d you become a vet?’
‘Animals have a way of understanding that people don’t. They see what we don’t see. And I’ve been fitting tiny splints on injured sparrows since I was a kid. I figured I’d be good at it. Though I’d be perfectly happy living off the land, tinkering and building if I could do that.’
‘But you wouldn’t do anything differently if you had your time over?’
‘Nope, because everything in life has led me to exactly where I need to be.’
‘I don’t know if that’s true for me.’
Flynn pauses. ‘Nobody really knows if that’s the truth for anyone. But believing it takes a whole lot of questioning and doubt out of the equation.’
‘Well, that’s a positive way of looking at things,’ I say, considering his words.
He shrugs. ‘What other choice is there?’
I lift my arm and unhook the fabric of my sleeve from the thorns it’s caught on.
‘You can’t travel back into the past,’ he adds.
‘But isn’t it our past that shapes our future?’
‘To a degree …’
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘It’s our memories that make us who we are.’ My skin tingles, tiny goosebumps ap
pearing on my forearms. If memories are the delicate threads that knit our souls together and make us who we are, who can we be without them? I continue pondering this as Flynn and I steadily work on filling the wagons with dead stems, making way for renewed spring growth.
‘So, you prefer the country over the city?’ I say, once we finish pruning the last bush.
‘Let’s just say this here is a far cry from the smell of sterile vet rooms and dog vomit,’ says Flynn.
‘This place must smell heavenly in the spring,’ I muse, imagining the field awash with the pastel tones of roses and sweet peas. Something stirs inside of me as the pictures form in my mind.
Flynn removes his glove. ‘You didn’t tell me what you’d do differently,’ he says.
I search his eyes for answers, trying to recall his question.
‘If you had your time over.’ He tosses his gloves into the wagon.
‘I have no idea,’ I reply pensively as my gaze rests on the winter landscape enveloping us. I might not know what I would do differently, but I do know that the field surrounding us, drained of colour but dappled with the odd cluster of snowdrops, promises a carpet of possibility.
The following morning, I sit in front of the fire, under the weight of a woollen blanket, twirling a pencil around, trying to find the right words to pen to Blake. I’ve been avoiding writing to him for more than one reason. Partly because writing a letter takes so much effort, and partly because I still don’t know what to say. How to admit to the person who loves you more than anything in the world that they’ve lost you? Without quite knowing how I fit into my own life, I have no idea how to fit Blake into mine, and with each day that passes here, I’m finding it harder and harder to imagine a place for him to fit into my future.
The Memories That Make Us Page 10
