“Mrs. H,” Jackson said, clearing his throat. He disappeared into the kitchenette. “I’ll put some coffee on.”
“This. Is. Incredible,” her mom repeated again. “How?”
“Jackson,” Clementine said, aware her cheeks were heating again.
Her mom looked around at the sparkling new bakery.
“I don’t get it,” she said, her face a picture of confusion. “He has no money to do up his family farm, yet he can turn around this place in a night?”
“Yeah,” Clementine said distractedly. “That crossed my mind too.”
She suddenly had a thought that sent her head spinning. She grabbed hold of the counter to steady herself, leaning in to whisper to her mom.
“Oh no, you don’t think he used his brother’s grave marker cash do you? I couldn’t bear it.”
Her mom shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. In the distance, Clementine could hear the kettle boiling and felt like her brain was doing the same thing. Surely Jackson wouldn’t have been so rash? The gravestone was the whole reason he was back in Willingham. Clementine felt glued to the spot as her mom lifted the counter top and walked into the baking section. The little excited noises spilling from her lips didn’t help Clementine’s angst. For each squeal and each squeak was a piece of equipment, or a fixture or fitting, that cost a bomb.
“What is this?” her mom pointed to a small trolley topped with a metal grid shaped like a hat in the corner of the store.
Clementine grinned despite herself.
“It’s a divider, for, well dividing dough into exact amounts. Great for bagels or pretzels. Oh my, I just want to get baking.”
“Is he going to be billing you for all this?” her mom hissed, opening a drawer and picking up a heavy looking marble rolling pin, smacking her other hand with it like a baseball bat.
“Mom! Put that down.”
Reluctantly she placed the pin back in the drawer where she’d found it. Jackson popped his head around the door and Clementine noticed he looked flushed.
“Coffee?” he asked, smiling at Clementine with a twinkle in his eye.
For the millionth time in the last five minutes Clementine felt her own face pinken. She nodded and smiled back.
“Please,” her mom added, still rummaging through the drawers of equipment.
The kitchen door shut swiftly. Clementine’s mom nodded towards it and raised her eyebrows.
“What?” Clementine mouthed.
“Go and ask him what he’s playing at.”
Clementine shook her head.
“Shhh,” she said, hoping that the walls were thick enough.
“Mrs. H.” The door swung back open and Jackson’s face appeared again. “You couldn’t head over the road and pick up some milk could you, please?”
He was angelic, his smile lighting up the space more than Clementine thought possible. Her mom giggled a reply and headed out to the general store, her purse swinging from the crook of her arm.
“You charmer,” Clementine smiled at Jackson.
He waited until the little bell above the door had stopped ringing to come over to where Clementine stood. She felt little goosebumps tickling her arms.
“We don’t really need milk, I put a carton in the fridge yesterday,” he said, smirking.
Her stomach dropped all the way down to her sneakers.
“What?”
“Yeah, sorry,” he said, twisting his fingers around themselves. “I needed a chance to talk to you alone.”
The goosebumps spread down her back and up into her hair. She felt the back of her head tickle with anticipation. Jackson took her hands in his. They were large and strong, with surprising well-manicured nails. A memory flashed in her mind of a seven-year-old Jackson spitting half chewed nails in her hair and running off laughing before she could get revenge.
“Okay,” she managed to croak, acutely aware that her own fingers were now shaking.
She felt him stroke the back of her hands with his thumbs and she shivered even more.
“I want to tell you why I did this for you. And how. But I need to do something first. Can you wait until tomorrow for answers?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Thank you,” he whispered, pulling her into an embrace. His strong arms held her against the wall of his chest. Clementine could hardly breathe, and it was nothing to do with how hard he was hugging her. She felt like she’d finally arrived back home. She felt like she was back where she truly belonged.
“I knew it,” a strangled voice shouted from the door.
Clementine had been so wrapped up in Jackson’s arms she hadn’t heard the bell. And from the look on Jackson’s face, neither had he.
“I knew it,” the sickly familiar voice said again, only this time closer.
Clementine didn’t want to turn around, she knew what would be facing her when she did. Or rather, who.
“Pete.” She forced herself to keep calm, but her mind was a storm.
“I knew you wouldn’t have just upped and left me for no good reason,” he spat at Clementine.
Never mind that I did have a perfectly good reason.
“It’s not what it looks like,” she said out loud, realizing as she said it how untrue it sounded.
She extricated herself from Jackson’s arms, aware that staying in his embrace would probably make things ten times worse.
“Not what it looks like? It looks like exactly what it is,” Pete said.
He had moved closer and was now right up to the counter. Clementine was glad of the marble tops in between herself and her ex because he looked like he was about to explode.
“Exactly what it is!” he said again. “You deserted me and our business so you could run back home to be with your new lover. Of course you were planning it, how else can you explain this? These things don’t happen overnight.”
He gestured at the bakery. Jackson took a step toward the counter opening, his whole body seeming to flex and grow, but Clementine grabbed his arm.
“Don’t Jackson, he’s not worth it,” she whispered.
But not quietly enough, as Pete’s face turned ashen.
“Jackson?” he spluttered. “The Jackson? Your childhood sweetheart? Now it all makes sense.”
He held on to the glass cabinet on the counter, looking like he might fall over with shock. If Clementine hadn’t been so worried about him collapsing, she would have been telling him off for smudging the clean glasswork.
“You’ve got it all wrong, Pete,” she said, trying to get past Jackson to open the counter and make sure Pete was okay.
But Jackson didn’t budge.
Pete’s eyes had darkened, and Clementine’s goosebumps were back, only this time they were a warning. A loud bang rang through the bakery as Pete smashed his fist against the glass. Luckily it was as good quality as it looked.
“I came back here to give you another chance, but now that is never going to happen. You’ve ruined any scrap of chance you had of getting back together with me. You’re going to pay for this.”
He turned on his heels and stormed out of The Gingerbread House, narrowly missing Mrs. Harper and her bag of groceries. Clementine sobbed but was soon comforted in the strong embrace of Jackson as her gathered her up in his arms once again.
“Shhh,” he said, stroking her hair. “You’re okay. You’ll never have to deal with that person again.”
But Clementine had a feeling he was wrong.
19
The dampness in the farmhouse was a stark contrast to the newly refurbished bakery, and with a week before the new windows and doors could be fitted, it wasn’t going to change anytime soon. Jackson sat on the foldable yard chair and picked at a sandwich he’d bought on his way home. The sandwich was tasteless. No, that was unfair. The deli pickles and thinly sliced ham were probably delectable, he was just not tasting anything. Everything felt numb after the encounter with Pete.
He thought back to two nights ago when Clement
ine had visited. It seemed like an absolute age had passed since then. She had been sitting in the chair opposite him and all the years between them had melted away with the first smile she had given him.
Dropping the sandwich and its wrapper to the dusty floor, Jackson let his head fall into his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the night’s work in its dustiness.
I need a shower.
He stood, picked up his overnight bag from the living room, and walked to the stairs, hoping they would hold long enough for his journey to the second floor. Without Clementine here he was happy to look around without having to worry about her injuring herself. He ignored the loud protests of the floorboards and headed down the dimly lit corridor to the bathroom. Luckily the sun was still shining with bright spring colors outside, which made the inside a great deal lighter than it had been the night he’d found himself back on his childhood bed with his childhood sweetheart.
Creaking open the door to the bathroom, he shuffled in, trying not to disturb any creatures that might have been camping out. At least the small, beveled window in here was still windproof. He pulled his sleeve over his hand and wiped away most of the grime from the inside. Sunlight filtered through the dirt and danced on the once white tiles. He turned, taking in the small space. The freestanding bath looked like it had been used as a pig trough, but other than that the room looked okay. The walk-in shower door opened when Jackson pulled at it, and it stayed attached to its hinges, which was better than most of the other doors in the property.
Hesitantly, he leant over the tray and turned the dial. The noise from the pipes sounded like a middle school brass band tuning up their instruments, and the bass drummer was a little over enthusiastic. But after a few spluttered false starts, a brown liquid sprayed from the shower head. Jackson let it run for a bit, hoping the water would wash clear eventually. He opened his overnight bag and rummaged around for a towel and some body wash. He’d taken quick showers before but if the temperature of the farmhouse was anything to go by he’d be in and out in a flash.
What he really wanted was a bath, somewhere he could lie and relax and figure out the confusion that was rife in his head. His plan had been simple; come back to the farm for a few days, await the arrival of the new gravestone, place the stone on Chase’s grave, apologize again for being the world’s worst older brother, and head back to the city. What Jackson hadn’t counted on was the state of the farm, and running into the only person he had ever truly loved.
His plan had been to wash his hands of Willingham for good. After fulfilling his duties to his parents—and the ten-year anniversary had seemed the best time to do something so meaningful—he was going to sell up. He had thought that with his parents’ wishes carried out he wouldn’t feel as tied to the place as he had done since he left, and he was going to sell it to a developer who could turn it into something new. He wanted no memory of the Brodie Farm. Jackson had even been in talks with a few companies, but there were no firm plans.
Now he was back here the guilt had settled in his stomach. Not only the guilt of what had happened ten years ago, but the guilt of how he had let the place go. Being inside the farmhouse, he couldn’t imagine it being ripped down and turned into luxury condos, but he couldn’t bring himself to imagine it repaired to a working farm either. And now he couldn’t even decide if he was going to leave. He was so confused. He needed to go but the pull of Clementine was too strong. There were too many memories.
Memories that will come flooding out of my mouth if I get any closer to Clementine. I have to let her go.
The thought sent bile rising up from his stomach, laced with the guilt that sat there. But he knew he was right. There was no way he could rekindle his friendship with Clementine because the truth would not stay hidden. Jackson rubbed his face again, trying to scrub away the tears that came at the thought of Clementine. Of her sweet face, her beautiful body, the kindness she showed people, the way her lips had almost met his earlier in the bakery. A shiver ran through his body and it was nothing to do with the temperature in the bathroom.
No, he’d done a good deed for Clementine in doing up the bakery, and although it didn’t make up for the hurt he’d caused her over the years, it was something. Besides, the hurt he could still cause her was so immense that it wasn’t worth thinking about. He’d do what he had to tomorrow and then it was time to leave. This time he’d stay away from social media for the foreseeable future, he would leave her alone for good.
In the meantime, he had a shower to take, a man to call to cancel the window replacements, and a gravestone to take delivery of.
The water was running almost clear, so Jackson stripped, took a deep breath and jumped under the shower head. The yelp he let out could probably have been heard by all of those working at Sweet Sensations back in the city.
“Do you want a hand into the house with this?”
Jackson leant to his right and looked over the shoulder of the man who stood at the front door. The sun was rising, and the sky was awash with oranges and reds. They reflected from the gravestone in the back of the truck and seemed to make the marble glow.
His stomach dropped all the way to his toes and he cleared his throat.
“Is it too heavy for one person?”
He knew as soon as he said it that the question was a stupid one. Jackson wasn’t sure what had happened to his mind since arriving back in Willingham. He was a smart businessman who knew how to make himself heard. Yet it was as though a fog had descended and blotted out all of his common sense. The man laughed, a rattling chortle that was probably the result of a cigarette habit.
“Buddy, this beauty couldn’t be lifted by Hercules. I’ve got a winch on the truck, and a trolley…”
“Look, sorry, I’ve made a bit of an error,” Jackson said. “I’m wondering if you could do me a favor, please? I can pay you for your wasted time.”
“Wait, are you saying you don’t need this anymore,” the man said, frowning. “That’s a hefty error on your part.”
Jackson shook his head. Deep down he wished he didn’t need it, he wished he had never needed to buy a gravestone for his younger brother. Chase should still be here, winding Jackson up and giving him what for. But he wasn’t, and Jackson couldn’t change that.
“No, sorry, I meant a mistake on delivery. I wasn’t thinking straight. Could you take it straight up to the church for me? I’ll call and let them know you’re coming. I’ve only got a motorbike, and the chances of me getting that on the back are slim to none.”
The man snorted.
“Yeah, go on then. Don’t worry about extra payment. We get this a lot. People aren’t always thinking straight when they order headstones. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Jackson shut the door, reeling at the man’s words. It had been a long time since anyone had said they were sorry to him for the loss of Chase. He leant against the closed door, counting down the minutes until he could get out of Willingham. It was sapping him of everything he had. His phone signaled a message deep within the house and, letting out a sigh, he went to retrieve it from wherever he’d dropped it the previous night.
The message was from Clementine:
Come to the bakery quick, something awful has happened.
20
Clementine read the sheet of paper for the millionth time, tears streaming down her face. It didn’t make sense. The words were now a blurry mess, but they were etched in Clementine’s mind.
Under new ownership.
Clementine had thought that perhaps the Carters had been back to the shop and placed the sign there. She hadn’t seen them since she’d signed the paperwork, and thought maybe they’d come to have a look at the renovated bakery. She knew how quickly word spread, and they were sure to have heard about the overnight refurbishment. But when she’d tried her key in the lock, it hadn’t worked. She’d rushed around to the back door, but this key hadn’t worked either.
Her mom and dad were both busy at the farm and no-one
was answering the Carters’ phone. Clementine had felt alone and scared and the first person to pop into her brain was Jackson. He’d be able to help. She’d dashed out a message, hoping that he wouldn’t mind her getting in contact before they were supposed to meet later on.
A warm feeling temporarily blocked out the panic when she remembered the closeness she’d felt with him yesterday. If she hadn’t imagined it—and she was almost one hundred percent sure she hadn’t—they had nearly kissed. A smile spread across her lips, but the black cloud soon descended once more when she remembered she was standing outside her new business, unable to get in.
Yesterday, after Jackson had left and the horror of Pete turning up had faded, Clementine had started baking. Her mom had visited the General Store again and returned with her arms full of baking supplies. Although Clementine knew she would have to find suppliers and wholesalers to trade with, she was very thankful for the few bits her mom had picked up and had thrown herself straight in.
She’d whipped up some cake batter in a flash, the new candy-colored equipment making everything ten times easier than doing it all by hand. The ovens had taken a while to get used to, but by the third batch of cakes Clementine thought she had them worked out. Soon the bakery had smelt sweet and wonderful. People’s heads were turning as they walked down Main Street, but the closed sign kept them away. Clementine hadn’t wanted to open before she was ready. Even though it would no longer take weeks to do up the bakery, it seemed silly to rush things—even though she so desperately wanted to.
When she’d gone into the little kitchenette to make the cup of coffee that Jackson had never gotten around to making, she’d found an apron hanging from the back door. It was in the same sweet pink as the store front, with The Gingerbread House in black writing, matching the sign. A flutter had swept over her heart at Jackson’s thoughtfulness. He had everything sorted, right down to the minutest of details. He always had been particular about details. That’s where Clementine had driven him crazy with her hairbrained schemes and off the cuff adventures. If Jackson couldn’t feel in control, he would certainly make sure everyone knew about it.
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