She nodded in encouragement, back across her shoulder to where Tilly was at the outer edge of the field. She was dressed in jeans and a pale-blue checked blouse, with a wide-brimmed hat on her head that fastened with a ribbon under her chin to keep it in place.
‘Tilly!’ I called, running towards her, the round bud of the not-yet-open peony bouncing against my ankle as my feet pounded through the rows. As I approached her with that single bloom in hand, I knew that nothing would bring Giles back to her, but the blessing I held could possibly bring back the faintest hint of a smile on the lips of the woman who’d become like a second mother to me. Puffed out, I stopped in front of her and held up the drooping peony stem. She crouched down and extended her arms right before I fell into them. I tried to wriggle some distance between us, but she hugged me tight, squeezing the breath out of me. When I was finally able to pull away, I flicked up my gaze. She was smiling through tears that glided down her face. It was the sort of smile that was mixed with grief and love and warmth and sadness. It had the hallmark of appreciation, the infusion of a lifetime of memories, and the easing of pain. And that’s when I knew; if there was one reason a flower might bloom, this was it. I had witnessed firsthand the true beauty of the flowers.
The memory, so vivid, departs from my mind, and I’m left standing in the field, squinting at the skyline, holding onto something so precious that my decision to revive Summerhill almost makes itself. But that night, when I reach over for the stack of books on flower farming from my bedside table and line them up beside me on the bed, it feels almost futile. By the time I churn through all these books, spring will have come and gone.
NINETEEN
It turns out Charlie’s house is exactly five properties away from Summerhill. The moderately sized cottage with quaint sash windows and a fire-engine-red front door is surrounded by plenty of open space. I step through the front gate, past a number of chickens left to roam freely in the front yard, and notice a woman sitting in the garden. She’s wearing a pair of grey pants, a cashmere cardigan, and her blonde hair falls around her face in short layers.
‘Lara, is that you?’ she asks. Her eyes are hidden behind a pair of large sunglasses and I can’t quite tell if she’s looking at me or behind me, so I check behind my shoulder just in case, but there’s nobody there.
‘My name’s Gracie,’ I say, stepping forward. ‘Were you expecting a Lara?’
‘Not today,’ she replies absently.
‘I’m a friend of Charlie’s. I live down the road,’ I explain, as Charlie steps through the front door and into the garden. He waves at me as he strides over.
‘Love, this is Gracie, the young lady I was telling you about. She’s thinking about getting the flower farm up and running again. We spoke about the possibility of me giving her a hand with that.’
Maggie nods and extends a hand into the air. Charlie looks at me and nods. My hand meets her frail one, dotted with age spots, adorned with rings that catch the morning light, and she gives it a gentle squeeze.
‘Lara comes every other day to keep Maggie company,’ says Charlie.
I nod, understanding. ‘I brought flowers for you,’ I say, handing Maggie a bunch I’d procured from Tilly earlier this morning. She extends both arms out in front of her, and I deposit the flowers in them. She buries her face in them, inhaling deeply. I’d deliberately chosen some of the strongest scented blooms I could find. Earlicheers, a handful of muscari and a few hyacinths.
She lightly runs her fingers over the petals. ‘Hyacinths,’ she whispers, her voice filled with delight. It’s as if she’s mesmerised by them.
Charlie glances over at me, a momentary expression of happiness on his face.
‘Is she staying for a cuppa?’ asks Maggie, rubbing a floret between her fingers.
I exchange a glance with Charlie. ‘Actually, there are a few things I’d like to discuss with Charlie about some work I’d like to do on the farm, so a cuppa would be perfect.’
My heart fills with something I can’t quite pinpoint. I think it’s the desire for something I’ve been looking for since the accident. Purpose.
Charlie flicks on the kettle to prepare our teas and coffees while I chat to Maggie about the flowers. I don’t know if she’s listening, because she sits as if she’s cocooned in her own world. But finally, she looks at me and speaks. ‘Dear, why don’t you go on home early?’
I look at Charlie, questioning him with my eyes. He sighs discreetly.
‘Soon,’ I say, going along with it. ‘But I brought something else for you,’ I say, producing a small gift bag.
She turns over the bag. A seed packet falls out. She looks up at me, somewhat puzzled. ‘They’re sweet peas. They’ll fill the air with a scent that’s heavenly, they’re beautiful to look at, and if you give them the right place to grow, they’ll provide you with a sprinkling of extra joy.’
She smiles for the first time. ‘We should plant them, dear,’ she says to Charlie as she tears the packet open.
Charlie wipes the corner of his eye before he sets down a mug of coffee in front of me.
And that’s when I know that I really must go home and run some numbers.
No matter how many times I try to calculate how it might be possible to make an income from flower farming to afford the bank repayments, the numbers don’t add up. I’m in the barn, chewing on a pencil, where the walls are plastered with sheets of butcher’s paper—sowing windows, blooming periods and harvesting timelines drawn on each one in thick black marker. As hard as I try to focus on the figures, I still haven’t been able to work out how many corms or seeds to order, let alone any yield estimates, which means I can’t even work out any potential profit I might be able to make.
I’m tearing a sheet of paper off the wall when Flynn enters the barn. I ball up the wad of paper and toss it away with a frustrated groan. It flies across the room in Flynn’s direction and almost hits him. He catches it just in time.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Having a bad day?’ He steps over the mess of crumpled paper on the floor.
‘Sort of.’ I press my temples in an effort to relieve the pressure. I have a headache coming on.
He walks closer to me and stands beside me as he considers the paper taped to the wall. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, and stare at the ground. I don’t want Flynn, or anyone else for that matter, seeing how hard this task is for me. I should be able to do this, but everything here serves as an undeniable reminder that I’m different, now.
‘Can I help?’
‘Um, maybe another time. I was about to go for a run.’
‘In jeans and a jumper,’ he says, turning his body towards mine. He raises an eyebrow. ‘Gracie, I know that things right now are a little tough. You don’t have to do what you’re doing by yourself.’
‘And what is it you think I’m doing, exactly?’
His gaze darts from the paper on the wall, to the calculator on the bench, to the floor. A flush of warmth pricks my cheeks. ‘Trying to figure something out the hard way,’ he says, picking up a crumpled ball. He goes to smooth out the page.
‘No,’ I reply, trying to snatch it from him. I don’t want to admit to Flynn that this is what I want to do when there’s every chance I might fail. I haven’t even told Scarlett about my plans yet. Ever since she came to visit, and acted the way she did around Flynn, I’ve avoided telling her too much about what’s been happening here or how much time Flynn and I have been spending together.
He cocks his head. ‘You don’t think you can trust me by now?’
I swallow the discomfort in my throat. ‘I do trust you,’ I whisper. ‘It’s just that …’ I feel my cheeks burn. ‘I should be able to do this on my own.’
‘You can’t help what happened to you,’ he says. Flynn smooths out the paper and takes a moment to register what I’ve been trying to do—my page of failed calculations testament to how unlikely it is I’ll ever be able to manage a farm. Flynn squints as he tries to make out my hand
writing, which causes my cheeks to flush with embarrassment again. Quietly, I start to walk towards the door, not wanting to witness his reaction.
‘Wait,’ he says, reaching out for my arm, without lifting his gaze from the page.
‘Is this …? Do you want to make Summerhill a working flower farm again? Is that what you’re trying to do here?’ he says, lowering his voice.
I look down at my feet and nod.
‘All the reading you’ve been doing lately—it’s so you can do this?’
‘Well, I thought I would just work on the front garden, but I think I want to do more here.’ I grab one of the books from the workbench and sit down on a bale of hay, where Flynn joins me. Sitting beside each other, our shoulders touch and I try to ignore the way that makes my heart beat. My thoughts dart to our kiss the other week.
Focus, Gracie, focus.
Friends. Just friends.
I let out a long breath of air. ‘Okay, so this book explains how to set up a polytunnel,’ I say, opening the book for him to see. ‘And this book here,’ I point, ‘explains the flower varieties that can be planted now for summer flowering. The peonies and roses—they’re already in the ground, so they’ll bloom in spring. All they need is a bit of ongoing maintenance.’
Flynn scans the page, while I continue chatting away at him, more out of nervousness than anything else. ‘The spent sweet peas in the field need to be mowed down, so I can make way for new ones. So, the first step is to tidy up the fields, condition the soil and prepare new beds.’
Flynn’s bottom lip protrudes as he nods in acknowledgement, but his face remains expressionless. ‘But before I do any of that, I need to work out whether it’s even possible or worthwhile.’ I pause, snap the book shut, and finally look Flynn in the eyes. ‘And that’s turning out to be a bigger problem than I thought,’ I say, frowning. I fold my hands into my lap as I await Flynn’s response.
He hesitates before speaking, as if he’s trying to find the right way to tell me what he wants to say. He clears his throat. I brace myself for his words because I can sense what he’s thinking. This is a bad idea. Terrible. Will never work.
‘Gracie, this is something you need to give a lot of thought to. The irrigation system, composting, not to mention preparing all the beds—we’re talking potentially months of work here and not just for one person.’
My shoulders sag and I unconsciously shift farther away from him. ‘It’s important work, though. For me, for others. I met Charlie’s wife, Maggie, the other day, and you should have seen the way she reacted when I took her flowers. She …’ My voice trails off.
Flynn pinches the space between his eyes as he shakes his head. ‘That’s great. Really great. You make people happy and that’s a special quality that you have. But have you thought this through? I mean, really thought this through? Maybe you could just … I don’t know, sell flowers? Like your friend Tilly.’
‘You think it’s a crazy idea, is that what you’re saying? Growing and selling flowers is a silly idea?’
Flynn ignores my question. ‘Does this mean that you staying here in Summerhill … is permanent?’
‘I don’t really belong anywhere else. But I don’t see how that even matters. How is that even relevant?!’
Flynn’s eyes fixate on the wall. I sit there, mute, as he contemplates things, watching him out of the corner of my eye, wondering what he’s thinking. He shifts his attention to me. The way he looks at me makes me feel as if he’s holding back his true thoughts.
‘Flynn?’ I ask finally, breaking the unbearable silence.
‘Mmm,’ he replies, making me wish I could read his mind.
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ I say. ‘About my idea …’
‘Not … entirely crazy.’
‘I knew it! I knew I shouldn’t have let you—’ I wriggle off the bale of hay and snatch the paper from him before storming away. Making my way up the incline, I tear up the paper, letting the wind carry away the pieces.
‘Gracie, wait up!’ calls Flynn. Twigs snap under his feet as he catches up to me. He reaches for my shoulder. ‘I don’t want to fight with you over this. I don’t want to see you upset like this.’
‘Well, I don’t think there’s anything more to say. You made your thoughts pretty clear,’ I say, firing him a look.
‘It’s not a stupid idea—that’s not what I meant. It’s just that … what you want to do here—it’s a massive job. It means you’ll be staying here for I don’t know how long. And everything in your life is so …’
‘Don’t you think I know that? I’m trying the best I can,’ I say, my voice uneven. ‘I want to stay here, Flynn. This is the only place I know that feels like home. Most of the time, I feel like I don’t belong in my own life. Have you any idea how that feels? To not recognise the person staring back at you in the mirror? To not know what lights you up, or what makes you sad, or what you care deeply about, or what you’re lukewarm about? I spend most of my days trying to work out all the stuff that you take for granted. I don’t know if I was happy. I have to trust someone to tell me I was happy. But what if I was faking happy? What if I was secretly miserable? What if I had doubts about my wedding? How would I even know if he is … was … the right guy for me? I don’t know anything for sure. I’m still learning how to tie my shoelaces, cook a proper meal, do basic math calculations. I can’t even do my own grocery shopping without having a list and it takes me an hour to write that list. I read books and some words are familiar and some aren’t. Sometimes, I have to read the same page over twice, three times, or more just for it to make sense. And all I want from my life right now is for it to make sense.’ I pause to take a breath. Flynn is looking at me wide-eyed. ‘I’m different now, and I don’t know who I was before, but I have been desperately trying to work out who I am today. And I’m close to finding out. Really close. So, excuse me if I want to stay and do that, because I don’t really have a choice. If I can’t make the repayments here, the bank will take Summerhill away from me or I’ll have to sell. Either way, I don’t think I can bear to lose it.’ I take a staccato breath. ‘Do you understand?’
He chews the inside of his lip. ‘I understand,’ he says, nodding. ‘I just don’t want to see you fail at the one thing you want to succeed so badly at,’ he says, his voice flat.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’
‘I can’t sit back and watch you do it tougher than you already are. If you do this, I want to be one hundred per cent behind you.’
‘I’m not your responsibility. I’m not asking you to commit to physically doing this. I know you have your own life and career. I’m just asking for a bit of support.’
Flynn sighs, running his hands through his hair.
‘This is a big deal, Gracie. It’s a huge commitment, and you know as well as I do that things could go wrong.’
‘Then don’t let me fail. Help me work out how I’m going to do this. Because I could really do with your help. Especially since I just tore my notes to shreds and they took me about forever.’ We look at the grass behind us, dotted with tiny pieces of paper. ‘Please?’ I say, my bottom lip protruding.
Flynn chuckles and shakes his head, closing his eyes in defeat. ‘I’m pretty good with a calculator. Let me see what I can do.’ He gives me a squeeze, and reassuringly kisses the top of my head, but as I gaze into his blue eyes, I can’t help noticing the obvious worry in them.
Despite Flynn’s reservations about me reviving Summerhill, a few days later, I finally muster up the courage to visit a local wholesale gardening supplier. Mason, the burly sales attendant, leads me to a large shed shrouded in an earthy smell of hay mixed with manure. His leather boots leave a trail of dirt behind as he leads me to the vast shelving that houses all the farming supplies I could possibly need: seed packets, gloves, tools, fertilisers and bags of compost. I have spent the previous days making lists: what flowers to plant, their blooming windows, their growing habits. With my neck stretched as I scan
the shelves, I’m wondering how many details I might have overlooked. Nonetheless, I tell Mason about my plans for Summerhill, showing him my rough sketches of the fields, while he listens with a careful ear.
‘I’m hearing you, but what you’re saying if I’m hearing right, you’re telling me that you want to have most of your field space working for you in time for a summer harvest, is that so?’
‘Uh, yes, I think so.’
His brow creases. ‘Big job. But I’m guessing you already know that,’ he says, as he gives me one small nod.
‘Ah, yep,’ I reply.
Callused fingers rub the salt-and-pepper stubble on his face. ‘And you haven’t done anything like this before?’
I shift my weight from one leg to another. ‘Uh, nope. So, I guess I need all the help I can get.’
‘Hmm. You going to install a hoop house?’
‘Uh, I don’t know,’ I reply, shrugging my shoulders. ‘Do you think I should?’
‘Well, if you want to start seedlings throughout in the cooler months, you’ll need one.’
He slides a pencil into his hand from behind his ear. ‘Right, so tell me again, how many acres have you got there at Summerhill?’
‘Around five.’
‘What are you thinking of growing?’
‘Well, I’ve got a decent number of roses, one peony field, and there’s another of dahlias. But I was thinking of adding some sweet peas, gladioli, and whatever seeds I can sow now for summer flowering.’
‘Did you dig up the tubers yet?’
‘The tubers?’
‘The dahlias you have in the ground—you dug them up already, right? They’re in storage?’
A hot flush of panic overtakes me. ‘Uh, no.’
His face wrinkles. ‘They should have been dug up ages ago. It’s too late in the season, now. I think you’ll be hard-pressed to bank on a successful crop if you haven’t dug them up. They hate wet feet, the dahlias, and if they’ve rotted, well, then I think you might have lost them. But then again, you might be lucky and see some bloom for you.’
The Memories That Make Us Page 17
