Page 5 of A Wedding in a Week

I’m sure I’ve said thanks at the end of every workday before escaping to my own spreadsheets, but have I explicitly told Marc how having him home after three years feels?

No.

No, I haven’t.

Lukas must see that silent confession. “Then start by doing that because he dropped everything to come the moment I told him you’d been injured. And I do mean everything.” Lukas comes closer. “He didn’t even need to think about it. Did you know that?”

I shake my head, which Lukas cuffs, or pretends to. In reality, he ruffles my hair while letting out a soft huff. “Stop being strong and silent for a moment and thank him, Stef. Then spend some more time with him while you’re still on light duties.”

“Because?”

“Because the more time you spend with him, the sooner you’ll spot if he settles for someone who doesn’t deserve him.” He doesn’t say again. I still hear it like I also hear him say, “I saw what rejection did to him last time.” He fixes me with a gaze that isn’t Dad’s or Mum’s. It’s pure Lukas, aimed my way like an arrow. “He’s had enough of that from his family.”

He voices what Mum and Dad made us promise not to quiz Marc about when he was younger.

“Who does that, Stef? Who stops loving one kid the moment they have another?”

I don’t have an answer.

Lukas doesn’t either. Instead he issues an order. “I’m trusting you with my best friend.” He starts the engine, its roar not masking his final demand. “Don’t let him pick another loser who’ll reject him.”

2

Doubts about doing what Lukas ordered don’t only mount as he drives away. They also surge in later as I breakfast alone at the kitchen table we grew up sharing, the same question circling over and over.

Marc won’t really want to stay now that Lukas has gone, will he?

I can’t answer that or distract myself with my own business-planning spreadsheets on my laptop while I eat. They only make my eyes cross because numbers might not be my skillset but even I can see the farm is barely ticking over.

My gaze flicks to a framed photo and I wonder what the man smiling down from his tractor would make of the direction I’ve steered the farm without him. As if he can listen, I murmur, “I didn’t know the bottom would fall out of milk, Dad. Would you have seen that coming?”

Of course he doesn’t answer. That doesn’t stop me from asking another question.

“Would you have worked in more arable options, like me? Or would you have expanded the flock more than I have?” I can’t rely on sheep long term though. They’re such daft beggars, plus it turns out I’m too softhearted to send lambs to market. “Wool then. Or maybe camping?”

I know his answer. Or what his answer would be if he were still here.

No.

He’d never go for turning the land over to tourists, not when camping on this coastline is restricted to permanent venues, and that word was his one line in the sand. Permanent. There’d be no going back to farming the moment an official stamped that change-of-land-use permit.

At least my car crash and enforced time off has given me time to revisit less-permanent options. I click another spreadsheet, opening a plan that feels pie-in-the-sky. It’s also my favourite option, and it beats thinking about what Lukas ordered.

I can’t expect Marc to want to spend more time with me after last time. I also can’t vet Marc’s potential partners. His love life is none of my business. I know that and yet I can’t ignore that my brother was right about one thing: I do need to let him know I’m grateful and that I’m happy he’s decided to try and make Cornwall his home long term. If he scores a job here, I’ll be delighted. And if he finds someone special to be with once he’s relocated, I’ll be…

Happy for him?

That shouldn’t leave me rattled, should it? Not after all this time.

I’m still uneasy as I leave the house to search for him, and even more unsettled when I can’t locate him. He isn’t in the barn. My farmhand, John, is though.

“Morning, Stef.”

Before I can ask if he knows where Marc is, he points out that the barn is more shipshape than usual. Bales of last year’s straw and hay have already been rotated so this year’s first cut is stacked behind it, a job made awkward by the old oak beams crisscrossing the hayloft.

“Thanks, John.” I land a hand on a broad shoulder that’s helped carry more of my load for weeks now. “I hadn’t expected you to get around to this. Appreciate you getting it squared away so fast.” I squint. “What’s that on the bales though?” I point up. “They’re numbered?”

“Yep.”

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