Page 21 of A Wedding in a Week

John surprises me by saying, “Yes. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Always looking forward.”

I don’t know about that. Lately, all I seem to do is look back.

John doesn’t seem to think so. He can’t do. His certainty rings out. “Born farmer like your father, aren’t you? Richard didn’t let the grass grow under his feet either, not when it came to switching up the business.” I must look blank, so John adds more detail. “I mean when he bought the dairy herd in the first place. Was a hell of a risk, like him taking out that mortgage to buy them and the extra acreage. No way to have a herd that big and make it cost-effective without enough pasture to keep them fed through winter. Before then, the farm stopped before the headland.”

This rings faint bells, but it’s all way before my time. Way before Marc’s time here too. He asks the questions I can’t, not while I imagine Dad sitting in this seat and mulling over a change in direction—and not only mulling it over, according to John, but struggling with it.

“He hated borrowing the cash to do it. Said it seemed like a backwards step after his dad left it to him free and clear.”

Fuck me, don’t I feel that?

“He tied himself up in knots until he made the decision.”

He did? I thought he always knew what he was doing.

“But your dad wanted more for your mum than he’d grown up with. Just scraping a living wouldn’t do. Not for her. He wanted better, so he made it happen.”

That’s another insight I can hardly imagine, but Marc cups his chin with his hands, both elbows on the table, as if he’s captivated. I am too, only it’s seeing him so starry-eyed that’s enchanting, not John’s story that I only tune back into when he snags the last piece of toast.

“But that’s love for you,” he says while slathering it with jam. “Makes you work that much harder.”

Marc has more questions. “I thought it was always a dairy farm. You mean it wasn’t?”

“Not until Richard bought Kara-Tir and had the scope to”—John gestures with his toast, picking a word that I thought was my own—“pivot.”

Marc’s still captivated. “Wait. Both farms were called Kara-Tir?”

“Nope. It’s what the farm next door was called first. The old man would only sell it if Richard kept the name going.” John chuckles. “Maybe this was all meant to be.”

Marc asks, “How do you mean?”

John points his toast my way. “I mean, you thinking about using the headland for weddings, and it being called Kara-Tir.”

I’m none the wiser.

John helps me out. “Because of what it means in Cornish. Love-Land. Not a bad name for somewhere to tie the knot, is it? Oh!” He stuffs in a last mouthful and stands. I’m pretty sure he says, “That reminds me,” around his mouthful. He also jogs out.

I hear his car door slam in the yard before he comes back with a copy of the local newspaper. “Look.” He opens it, toast crumbs flying, and points to the centre pages. “There’s a wedding fair. It’s only a few miles along the coast road.” He checks the address. “Yeah, just past the Porthperrin turnoff.” He also checks the date. “Been going on all week. Big fundraiser for the duke’s refugee charity. Today’s the last day though, if you want to do some market research.”

There’s work to do—plenty of it. Light duties or not, I can’t ignore it.

But Marc says, “That would be good for my case study. Want to come with me?”

And me?

I’ve never said yes faster.

8

The only problem with going to the wedding fair is that it means getting in the Land Rover for the first time in a month. Not that I haven’t been in a car since the accident, but that one was driven by Mum, and codeine always makes me woozy. I ditched those painkillers as soon as I could, so nothing takes the edge off the heavy clunk of the door shutting me into a space I barely made it out of alive last time.

You’d never know this Land Rover had been in an accident. Panel-beating magicians have worked magic by filling more dents than the clifftop left behind. They’ve also spray-painted over decades of farm dinks. It looks as good as new, but that’s Land Rovers for you—indestructible, unlike me. My sling is evidence of that. It also makes fastening my seat belt tricky, which Marc must notice.

He slides along the bench seat, in my space before I know it, leaning across me to grab it. He’s so close my arm is caught between us. “Sorry, sorry.” He’s out of my space just as quickly, maybe mistaking my indrawn breath for pain. The reality is the opposite. Yes, overdoing it yesterday means I still ache, but I don’t hurt like I did the last time I sat in this vehicle. I’m surprised, that’s all, even though people have taken care of me for weeks now. Or taken care of the farm, at least.

Marc helping me with my seat belt feels different. Personal. Even more so than him helping fasten my sling in the kitchen. That room was spacious. Now we’re in close confines and I don’t know why it takes me back to sitting on a picnic blanket with him, so close and almost kissing, although I guess he’s drawn another line under that happening again now that we’re working together.

He also smells good.

---