The Little Barn of Dreams

by Lucy Knott

  Suddenly, Florence felt Jo’s finger under her chin as he gently tilted her head up. His cheeky smile was back on his face causing Florence’s stomach to flip.

  ‘Should we kiss and make up now?’ he said, mischief in his tone. Florence ignored the butterflies that joined in with the somersaults in her belly and punched Jo in the arm.

  ‘No, I’m going to go and dunk my head into the lake for humiliating myself and for being so mad at you. Gosh I was so mad at you,’ she said, almost to herself as she moved a hand over her forehead, her eyes wide, astonished at herself for her own behaviour. OK, the rumours had been half true – the land was being sold - but now she had the whole story she was heartbroken more than angry at Jo.

  Jo laughed. ‘You really were. I was terrified for a minute,’ he joked. ‘Forgive me, for keeping that part of me a secret, Florence?’ he added, raking a hand through his curly locks, the humour in his face turning serious for a second.

  ‘Maybe we both need to walk the plank,’ Florence commented, before turning on her sandals and racing towards the lake. It was only when she reached the edge of the water that Florence realised it was the first time she had felt inclined to visit the lake since she had been back at Camp Calla Lily. Her vision of seeing her parents sat under the nearby blossom tree when she was a girl, on her first day, had at first unsettled her. Yet now, with her body full of emotions that she’d not felt in a long time due to her not letting anyone get close to her, she felt comforted by the water and drawn to it. It felt even more right with Jo by her side and as she paused on the grassy verge, her toes tickling the water, she glanced over to the bench and could see her parents waving happily over at her and Jo with beaming grins on their faces and love in their eyes.

  As Jo came up beside her, Florence reached out her hand. Caught up in the moment she didn’t stop to think of the magnitude of her actions. She had been the one to reach out her hand to him and Jo took it in his without hesitation. Nodding at each other they waded into the water, gasping over its coldness before quickly getting over that fact and proceeding to splash each other, laughing with delight. All trace of their argument having been forgotten.

  Fifteen

  After swimming in the lake and trying to dunk each other’s heads into the water time and time again, Florence and Jo lay on the grass watching the clouds shape-shift and glide across the sky, as they dried off their soggy clothes. When Florence’s stomach rumbled it was once again their cue to make a move. Now that they had communicated and got to the bottom of the rumours, Florence was feeling a lot better, though she still felt a pang of sadness when she thought of going home on Saturday morning knowing that Camp Calla Lily was going to be sold to a popular hotel and glamping trader. Seeing Jo with that woman this morning had thrown her and now she wasn’t sure if she felt better about the fact that the woman was an investor and not his girlfriend or worse.

  Her brain decided to examine the girlfriend theory first. Just because that lady wasn’t his girlfriend, it didn’t mean Jo didn’t have one. It wasn’t something she could bring herself to ask him. He would then wonder why she cared to know and that was not something she had quite figured out herself yet. But that was the trouble wasn’t it? That she did indeed care enough that she was thinking about it. Jo was bound to meet more women when she was gone. He would meet stylish, sophisticated women back in London and they would replace her. He might even bring them to Camp Calla Lily and read to them and frolic around the campsite with them and that would be that. She really shouldn’t be bothered by it, she told herself as she watched one very fluffy cloud form the shape of a bear. It was ridiculous for her mind to even be examining it. She liked Jo but they could never be more than friends.

  Florence was the oddball, the prude, the woman with one toe dipped into reality while the rest of her lived in the land of misfit bookworms and if by chance someone did not see her as all those things, there was that small matter of her being petrified of love. Like all children she had loved her mum with her entire being and her mum had been brutally snatched from her. Her dad had been the apple of her eye, but love had damaged his mind and led him astray. She had loved Ryan and that love had hoodwinked her and turned her into a fool. Where the road forked bearing one signpost for love, the other for safety, Florence would always choose safety.

  Plus, even Jo had mentioned that he wasn’t the settling type. That didn’t bode well for a relationship and therefore their simple companionship should remain just that. Yes, a simple companionship suited them.

  With that settled in her brain, she breathed in the buttercups and the crispy grass and jumped up. She hadn’t addressed the other tribulation in her mind yet, but if she was going to think of ways where Jo didn’t have to sell the land, she was going to need fuel.

  ‘I’m famished,’ she announced, her appetite coming back now that she had her emotions in check.

  ‘Well, let’s get you some food,’ Jo said, taking her outstretched hand as she pulled him up.

  In the café, they chatted to Sal and said hello to the other guests while enjoying a late lunch of ham and cheese toasties. Sal was much sprightlier when they avoided talk of the barn. Once refuelled it was time to get back to their day’s work and get the barn painted. Florence felt a certain ominous feeling now that she knew the real reason behind the barn’s makeover, but she also couldn’t shake the excitement of saving it from a trip to the tip. There was too much history inside it.

  Jo laughed with great affection when he saw the trolley full of paint cans and commended Florence for her brilliant initiative. He also promised that he would be the one to return the trolley and put the rumours straight when he did so. Florence knew it wasn’t going to be straightforward and she shuddered at the thought of confrontation. Poor Jo. She imagined that the villagers, like her, wouldn’t be totally convinced that the land being taken over by a hotel and glamping trader would be the right move, but only time would tell. If it saved George from debt, allowed him to keep his house and it preserved the land, then it couldn’t be all bad.

  Reading over the paint labels with great focus, Jo revealed to Florence why there were so many cans- three were for the interior and three were for the exterior of the barn and he couldn’t mistake them. They were working on the indoor today. Satisfied he knew which was which, Jo cranked open two of the paint cans, revealing a pearly deep red-brown shade of paint. Florence couldn’t help but think that her sunflower yellow and mint paint job would have brought a whole new lease of life to the barn and made it pop against the green and brown of the wilderness, but this was Jo’s project; he could paint it in the colours he liked best.

  ‘You don’t like the colour, do you?’ Jo asked, breaking into her thoughts with a small side smile. Florence’s eyebrows shot up. She hadn’t meant for Jo to see her disappointment; now she felt rude.

  ‘Of course, no it’s beautiful. It’s the perfect barn shade,’ she said quickly, cringing slightly. Did B and Q do a “perfect barn shade” collection?

  Jo shook his head and chuckled. Florence sensed he could see right through her white lie. ‘How about you get to painting the barn doors and I’ll get more of the sanding done,’ he suggested. Her face lit up as she yielded the brush excitedly over the tins. It might not be her colour of choice, but Florence loved to paint. ‘We can at least get that side painted today and leave this side to rest overnight before it’s painted.’

  Both Jo and Florence fell to work in the comfortable routine they had created over the past week. Side by side they got on quite contentedly in each other’s company, doing their work with great passion and enthusiasm. Florence was mesmerised by every swipe of paint she swished onto the barn door. Though not quite as happy and vibrant as a yellow, the pearly sheen of the brown made her smile as she covered the sandy beige panel with a new life that emitted cheer and possibilities. Jo sanded down each panel with determined vigour and Florence could feel that pull to him once more. He wasn’t afraid of hard work and it was something she adm
ired. Speaking of hard work, she had a question.

  ‘So, tell me more about being an architect,’ Florence said, glancing back at Jo as she moved into position to paint the second barn door. Jo’s curls were speckled with dust from the panels, the muscles in his arms flexing as he scrubbed. Florence enjoyed watching him at work.

  ‘I started out drawing the scenery in my head that I had for different novel ideas. The places where the characters lived, the haunted houses, the castles, anything far-fetched. Through fear of putting pen to paper and following through with any of those stories, I decided I wanted to build the structures. I put myself through school, working any odd job, and then eventually constructed sheds and playhouses for kids. It was just me at first, freelance. I had the network of foster carers and did custom orders and I loved it. Those were the projects that truly set my soul on fire,’ Jo told her, smiling at the memories.

  ‘What happened? Why did you stop doing that type of work? Which sounds rather wonderful,’ Florence asked, averting her eyes back to the barn door she was painting, a small smile curving at her lips when she thought of Jo making playhouses for children. Then she turned back to look at Jo when he spoke.

  Jo stopped sanding and rested his elbows on his knees in his squatting position. He turned the sandpaper over in his hands. His lips were pursed in thought. ‘I made a princess hut for a client who was a well-respected lawyer. He later started up his own company and enlisted me to design his new building and oversee the project. I was twenty-seven at the time, fresh out of years of taxing schooling. The lifestyle appealed to me and I felt I deserved the recognition and the rewards,’ he told her. ‘It skyrocketed me from the nerdy outcast kid who had bounced around from foster home to foster home until I settled with my long term foster family when I was nine, to making something of myself and becoming a distinguished architect. It felt good, really good.’ He shrugged with a faraway look in his eyes, the last words coming out in a sigh.

  ‘I don’t think you should be ashamed of wanting recognition Jo, or money and stability,’ Florence said.

  ‘I guess so,’ Jo stated, but he didn’t look convinced by Florence’s words. So, she continued. ‘Seven years is a long time to be in school. That’s an amazing accomplishment,’ she noted, encouragingly. Though she loved her books and had done well, getting exceptional grades throughout high school, she had never gone to college. With her job at the theatre having been secured at an early age and it being a place she felt safe and happy, she hadn’t thought much into further education. That and college had too many people who she didn’t know, and her fear of that new social environment kept her from pursuing it. In hindsight, Florence knew she should have gone and got a qualification in something, but she had been comfortable within the theatre.

  ‘I like books.’ Jo shrugged, looking over at her from under a curly lock, which had fallen in front of his eyes, but Florence was pleased to see a grin spread across his features. Then he stood up to stretch his legs and continue sanding. ‘What are you going to do when you get back home?’ Jo then asked, curiosity in his tone. ‘You have such a special imagination, Florence; you must do something with it. You shouldn’t settle for an office job, if you don’t enjoy it,’ he added, giving her a meaningful look that caused a family of butterflies to hatch in her belly.

  She turned away, carefully painting the panels, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she made sure not to paint over the accent beams that were to be white. That was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to her. How was she supposed to respond? Weirdly for her, her mind went with honesty and openness. Jo made it easy and after their fight earlier; she much preferred when they had no secrets.

  ‘I’d love to find work in a theatre again or maybe a class where I can teach kids. I don’t have any qualifications, just experience so we will see. I’ll do anything to keep nanna and I afloat. Maybe I’ll even try and find work in a bookshop – that would be lovely. I ended up at Paperchains when I was fired from the theatre because it was good money and they were the first people to say yes, so you shouldn’t feel bad about having had the money entice you, Jo.

  I imagine becoming an architect wasn’t easy and after everything you’ve been through, you made something of yourself. You should be proud. I think I’d like to do that, you know, have the confidence to go back and maybe even take a course. I was just always so scared of everything before. This place has truly opened me up to possibilities and allowed me to let go a little bit. I think I needed that,’ Florence expressed, still concentrating on the door while she mulled over her decision in her mind.

  Being at the camp and overcoming her fear of talking about her parents had released a huge weight from her chest, albeit even if it were only Jo in whom she felt she could confide. Furthermore, Camp Calla Lily itself and getting to focus her mind on the rebuild of the barn had been a wonderful source of inspiration in giving Florence that extra dose of determination to set about doing something she loved when she returned home. It wouldn’t be easy not seeing Olivia every day and having to introduce herself to a new crowd, but Jo had given her faith that meeting new people didn’t always turn out so bad.

  As Florence spoke, she could feel her cheeks reddening under Jo’s piercing gaze. He had stopped sanding to listen to her and she suddenly felt conscious, more aware of herself. Today she was wearing her golden waves in a loose high pony and another long-ruffled dress that reached a little higher than her ankles. Her fashion inspiration growing up had been her nanna. Margot always looked other-worldly with an old-fashioned elegance that Florence adapted with a modern flair. Her round clear frames didn’t take over her face and accentuated her blue eyes. Margot had told her this when she helped her pick them out. The bohemian, baggy style, she knew was not everyone’s cup of tea. Ryan had mentioned on a few occasions that being a grown-up meant that you could show off more skin, but she loved the feel of the silky gowns and high collars against her skin.

  ‘I think the kids would be lucky to have you teach them. I imagine you are a rather splendid teacher, Miss Danver,’ he said, clearing his throat when they broke eye contact. Florence did not do smug, but for a brief moment she felt herself soar with Jo’s compliment and for a flash of a second she floated on self-assurance and a confidence she never knew she could have. She chuckled to herself, feeling slightly ashamed, but then in her moment of confidence she let an idea slip.

  ‘This place would make for a beautiful theatre and art space,’ she mused. She then stuck out her tongue, careful not to get paint on the accent beams. Her brows drew together in great concentration, as she brought herself down from her perch and focused on the work she was supposed to be doing. A clatter from behind her distracted her once more and she turned to see Jo stand tall, with great confidence. He paused for a split second, a look passing over his face that Florence could not pinpoint. His brows knotted, then rose, knotted, then rose before a smile took over his face. Florence could have sworn she heard him squeal.

  ‘Is everything OK, Jo?’ she asked softly, not seeing Jo dip his finger into the brown paint before he stepped closer to her.

  Then with a flick of his wrist and as quick as a flash, Jo swiped paint across Florence’s nose, with a joyful smirk. Florence stood dumbfounded, her mouth making a perfect “O” shape. ‘Yes, everything’s fine,’ he replied before he turned to walk away.

  He hadn’t made it back to his sanding spot before Florence launched a flick of paint at him that hit the back of his neck and dripped off his curly brown locks. She gasped at her braveness. He scrunched his shoulders up to his ears, trying to halt the running paint from going further down his back, but Florence watched it trickle past the neck of his tee. When he turned around to face the culprit, his eyes sparkled with mischief, a mischief that Florence’s crystal blue eyes matched. For she was far more advantaged now, armed with a paintbrush and an open can of paint next to her. Where Jo now stood, he had nothing but sandpaper and dust at his feet.

  ‘Jo, did you real
ly think that through?’ Florence asked from across the barn. There was a cheeky threat in her tone. He held his hands up as though surrendering and let out a laugh.

  ‘No, I don’t believe I did,’ he confessed with another chuckle. Then his eyes grew wide and pleading. His hands drew together in prayer. ‘But surely a kind lass like you would not attack an unarmed fellow?’ he added, in a thick country accent.

  Florence held in her laughter, waving the paintbrush around in her hand, one arm crossed over her chest. She pressed her lips together in a tight pout, pretending to consider his plea, before taking a slow step closer to where Jo stood. ‘Around these parts we have to look out for ourselves. Ain’t no telling the kinds of folks that pass through this here Wild West,’ Florence informed Jo, swinging her paintbrush a little wilder now, her accent matching his.

  ‘It ain’t like you cowgirls to draw on a man without a fair and even draw,’ Jo tried again, knocking his knees together as if quivering in his boots. He too was keeping his face serious, which accentuated his distinguished heart-shaped jaw. Florence stopped in her tracks, her eyes narrowing, a finger tracing over her lips in thought.

  ‘So what, sir, are you suggesting? A shootout?’ she asked, quirking a brow.

  At this question, Jo stood up straighter and placed his hands in his pockets as though they were a holster and said, with a shrug, ‘You’re damn right. It’s only fair – you don’t wanna be giving cowgirls this side o’ town a bad reputation, not playin’ by the Wild West laws, now would ya?’

  Florence tilted her head and took a few steps back without taking her eyes off Jo. She reached around for another paintbrush and threw it at Jo. He caught it and made a show of locking and loading it and placing it in his holster.