Page 14 of A Wedding in a Week

“Like you were only treading water?”

“I was drowning.” That comes out as if I’d sighed instead of spoken, and I’d tell myself to get my shit together if his hand over mine didn’t squeeze tight. It prompts my real confession. “I could only do the same as these trees, yeah? Bend with the wind and hope my roots were strong enough to hold me. That was all I managed for a while, which is why I’m sorry about what I did.”

“When?”

“That summer. When I hurt you.” We’re almost in the same spot where I did it. I let go of the tree, but Marc’s grip only moves from my hand to my elbow, careful but determined.

“No,” he says, and like the last time that we stood on this sliver of land between the moor and ocean, something shifts between us. Maybe that’s because he stands uphill, putting him at eye level with me instead of inches shorter. Or perhaps it’s down to his hold on my elbow coming with a slow sweep of his thumb rubbing. More likely, it’s him saying, “I’m the one who should be sorry. And I am, Stef. Really sorry for how that day went.” He looks away again, out to sea this time, his hand still on my elbow. The sun’s lower in the sky, now forging the red in his hair to copper before he faces me again, slowly, as if meeting my eyes takes effort. “I only thought about what I wanted.”

“Which was?”

Three years ago, his answer would have landed like a punch.

Now it’s a caress I lean into.

“To save you.”

6

Marc lets out another of those soft huffs. “Stupid, right? You saved yourself. Then you did the same for your Mum after Lukas got his diagnosis. All that and you kept this place going? Of course you’ve got even more plans for the farm’s future.” He makes a confession of his own. “I couldn’t stop talking about you today at my interview.”

“Me?”

He nods. “You. And about how many changes I saw on the farm after being away for a few years. You’ve transformed it. Are still transforming it.”

“I don’t know about that. Hopping from dairy to sheep to arable farming feels more like…” I cast back to a memory he must share because he laughs as soon as I ask, “Remember when Lukas used to shout, ‘The floor is lava’?”

Marc nods, his smile as warm as the last of this evening’s sunshine. “Your mum would lose her shit about him climbing the furniture. Then she’d join in.”

I smile too, and it feels good. It also makes it easier to admit, “That’s what I did though. I jumped onto whatever would keep us afloat. Did whatever it took to stop the farm from sinking. I could only cope day-to-day at first. Then season-to-season. I didn’t have headspace to plan any longer term than that.” Not until lately, which Marc also picks up on.

“That’s why I talked about you. You’re a textbook example of someone too busy to track down the cash the Penzance practice specialises in finding. Their focus is local regeneration—about keeping Cornwall thriving. Sounds like yours is too, so I wish I’d known about your wedding concept. Because you couldn’t do it yourself, could you? You’d have to involve a host of other people, and local employment is another part of the practice ethos.” He shields his eyes with his free hand. “Where exactly do you see them happening? The ceremonies, I mean.”

I go ahead and show him where I’ve pictured my plans coming to life. That means taking him further uphill to where the view turns panoramic, every inch of Luxton land spilling below us as if I’ve shaken out a patchwork blanket.

Marc does the same, only with the picnic blanket he fishes from the bag while I talk. “We’re lucky here. We get months of relatively reliable weather for outdoor weddings. If I schedule one per weekend and charge less than market rate to attract clients, it still adds a hundred grand to my turnover.” That’s one hell of a difference. “And that’s where I picture the ceremonies happening.” I point towards the headland. “Under an arch, right there.”

“An arch? Like the one at the back of the barn? I wondered what it was for.”

“That’s only a mock-up I made last winter.” But here’s the trouble with me—once I touch something with my own hands, I get attached, and not only to lambs, the daft beggars. Now I’ve built that arch, I really want to see it in use.

Marc hums, thinking. “The headland does have the best views. What about access?”

“I’d extend the lane.” It’s the biggest start-up cost. “At the very least, I’d mow paths.”

“It would be a great place to party.” He stands closer beside me. “Can you imagine being there with all your friends and family?” His voice drops. “On a really clear day, you’d even see Kara-Enys.” He points in the direction of a distant island, a helicopter streaking towards it. “Remember the foster family I used to stay with?”

“Before Mum and Dad got clearance?” I do. “The Lawsons?” They also brought him here on his first farm visit.

He nods. “Remember when they sailed us over to Kara-Enys to spot seals?”

I grin. “One chased Lukas along the beach. He must have set a land-speed record.” It shouldn’t still be funny now that I know his heart had been a ticking bomb the whole time. I can’t help snorting. “Highest pitched scream I ever heard. We had to leave in a hurry in case the duke caught us trespassing on his island.”

Marc grins too, his murmur almost lost, caught by the warm breeze. “Bet Noah would love to see some seals. They’re less dangerous than the wildlife at home.” His gaze turns, like his thoughts must away from a brother I’ve never met, drifting back to weddings. “And in the evening, wedding guests would see the harbour lights twinkling down at Porthperrin. Can you imagine that as a backdrop while slow dancing with someone you get to spend the rest of your life with?”

Yes.

Yes, I can.

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