Page 112 of A Recipe for Love
He walked to the centre of the plot, trailing tendrils of green brushing against his legs. Sure. A lot of what was here was not what his father had intended but it was here, regardless of intent or design, and it was thriving – joyously, vibrantly alive. There were tomatoes, bright and red and almost ready to harvest. Runner beans, rapidly going to seed but here and defiantly surviving. He’d missed the asparagus entirely, but that in itself made Adam smile. He warned his dad years ago when he’d first planted it that the asparagus picking season lasted about twenty-five minutes and not a moment longer. The marigolds his father liked to dot between the rows of vegetables were in full flower, loud and bright and full of sunshine.
A pair of sheep ambled through the gateway and started chomping happily on the produce in the nearest bed. Adam didn’t even try to chase them away. This garden had been intended to grow food for the residents of Lowbridge. It felt right that at least some of them were enjoying it now.
Adam turned around, trying to take in the explosion of greens and reds and yellows around him. The garden was alive. With a little bit of care and love it could be wonderful again. It could provide produce for the cookery school. It could work as a proper market garden. It could supply the village store. It could…
Adam stopped. Of course he wasn’t going to do any of those things.
‘What are you doing out here?’ Darcy came from the open gateway, picking her way past the sheep and across the gravel pathways in her wedges. ‘I haven’t been out here since…’ She folded her arms. ‘Well you know.’
‘Me neither.’ Adam held out his arms. ‘But look. Everything he planted.’
Darcy nodded. ‘He was good with things that needed tending.’
‘He was good with all of it.’
Darcy snorted.
‘What?’
‘Well, I mean I loved your dad. I love your dad, but he wasn’t good at everything.’
Compared with Adam, Alexander had been a paragon.
‘I mean he was good at the estate stuff, managing all that side of it, but he hated having to make nice with the parish council and host big dinners and all of that. He only did any of that because he was too scared of Veronica to tell her no.’
That wasn’t true. Adam’s father had been the perfect laird. Organised. A natural manager, but also a genial host, at ease in any company.
‘We had a little code at all those parties. If he mentioned New York or the Mets or, I don’t know, the Statue of Liberty or something it meant he needed me to come and be American at people.’
Adam shook his head. ‘What does that mean?’
‘You know, all teeth and tits and bubbliness so he could sink into the background.’ She smiled. ‘Which was fine. All of this is too much for one person on their own, so we helped each other out.’ She folded her arms across her body. ‘I wish he’d let me help more. I used to be a dab hand with a spreadsheet.’ She smiled. ‘Oh, come on. I know I say I was a model but most models are admin temps most of the time.’
A quiet descended over them, punctuated only by the buzzing of bees between the marigolds and the dull background hush of the waves in the loch.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Adam eventually.
‘What for?’
‘For selling this place.’
‘It’s a done deal then?’
‘I mean I haven’t actually contacted McKenzie yet, but I’m decided.’ He looked over his father’s garden again. ‘I was decided. I’m sorry for not talking to you all about it first though.’
‘Like father, like son,’ Darcy murmured.
‘What?’
‘Making big decisions without talking to anybody. Asking for advice wasn’t exactly your dad’s strong suit either. Like he was fine with my being the social butterfly of the team, but he never talked about anything else that was worrying him.’ Darcy shook her head. ‘I miss him.’
‘Me too.’ Everything at Lowbridge was something Adam wanted to tell his father about. He was telling himself that back in Edinburgh the gap where his father was supposed to be would feel less pointed somehow.
‘He wasn’t good at asking for help though. Those last few months, he was—’ Darcy’s voice broke a little. ‘He was tired. I told him to go to the doctor.’
‘Grandmother said it was a heart attack.’
‘Yeah, but I don’t know. Maybe if he’d asked for help they would have picked something up. Maybe if he’d slowed down and rested more. Maybe if I’d made him.’
