Page 43 of Summer At Willow Tree Farm

She could see the struggle cross his face.

‘Because I was here and you weren’t,’ he said. ‘You weren’t here to see what it did to her when you left. I don’t want to see her hurt that way again.’

‘I don’t plan to hurt her.’ Despite the denial, guilt coalesced in the pit of her stomach, heavy and indigestible, like a wodge of unleavened dough.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘Maybe you don’t plan to,’ he said. ‘But you will.’

What could she say to that? She wasn’t even sure what he was accusing her of? It had been her mother’s choice to abandon her, not the other way around. Hadn’t it?

‘Losing Pam nearly destroyed her,’ he said, the sincerity in his voice cutting through all Ellie’s defences. ‘She had to watch the woman she loved, the only person who stuck by her no matter what, die a slow and painful death.’ He waved his arm to encompass the workshop and the farm beyond. ‘This place means everything to Dee, because it’s all she’s got left of Pam.’

‘Which is all the more reason to try everything to save it.’ Why couldn’t he see that? Was this all simply because he had no faith in her? Why couldn’t he at least give her a chance? ‘I know the idea has come out of left field, but it really is a good…’

‘I knew about the damn planning application, Pam and I worked on it together,’ he said, the revelation shocking her into silence.

‘But if you knew about it, why didn’t you say something sooner?’

‘Because Pam told me not to. She was going to surprise Dee, on the anniversary of their civil partnership. But then she got diagnosed with stage four breast cancer and she wanted me to bury the idea. She didn’t want to risk Dee losing the farm as well as her.’

‘I… I didn’t know that. But if you went along with it then, why are you so against the idea now?’

‘Because it’s too big of a risk. What if the shop doesn’t work? It’ll be like losing Pam all over again for Dee. It’s easy for you, it’s just some project to keep you occupied before you go home again, but for Dee it could mean losing every damn thing that matters to her.’

If she’d wanted evidence that Art did feelings, other than stubbornness or temper, she had it now. But she also had evidence that every damn thing that mattered to Dee didn’t include her.

‘She’s not going to lose anything,’ she said, suddenly weary. She couldn’t fight this battle all over again. ‘It’s a good idea. And I promise you, even though I’m going back to the US at the end of the summer, I am totally invested in making this work.’ And she was even more invested now because it turned out she had something to prove to Art as well as Dee. ‘Perhaps you should try trusting me on that?’

The suggestion hung in the air between them, the blank look on his face all the answer she needed.

What had she been thinking? Persuading Art to trust anyone, especially her, was about as likely as persuading him to join a Spice Girls tribute band.

She braced herself for the inevitable slap down. But instead of telling her where she could shove her trust, he simply said, ‘It’s not like I have much of a choice now, is it?’

She didn’t reply, as he walked back to the workbench. Not sure what to say, the grudging acceptance about as far from a vote of confidence as it was possible to get.

The saw roared to life.

She stood and watched him for a moment, her emotions in turmoil, as he snapped the goggles back on and worked the wood.

He handled the plank with easy competence, his large callused hands stroking the grain. The hairs on his forearms misted with sawdust, more flecks standing out against the sweat pooling at his clavicle.

The inappropriate heat flooded in her abdomen to go with the rising feeling of inadequacy. She shot out of the workshop into the night.

She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling despite the warm evening, and spotted the lantern her mother had left burning in the farmhouse window so Art could find his way home in the darkness. The ball of anxiety knotted in her abdomen.

Art knew her mother now better than she ever could. And whose fault was that, really? His, for being such a bastard to her that whole summer, or hers, for letting the way he treated her mean more than it should?

However much she might want to dismiss his criticisms of her and the shop project as envy, resentment, his fear of change or simply his trademark Art bullheadedness, she had to accept that underlying all that were some genuine concerns. And if he ever found out how badly she’d stuffed up her own business, not to mention her marriage, he’d think he was even more justified in believing she had no way of pulling this off.

What Art refused to believe, though, because the man clearly had serious trust issues, was that she was prepared to do everything in her power to make sure the shop was a success. And all she had to do to prove that, to him and her mum and everyone else at the co-op, not to mention herself, was make absolutely sure this was one thing she did not stuff up.

She trudged back to the farmhouse in her ruined bunny slippers.

No pressure at all then.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘Right, so which man-killing pedi colour are you?’ Annie delved into her tray of nail polishes, lifting the sample bottles as she read the titles. ‘Juicy Hibis-Kiss? Guilty Pleasure Dominance? Or Tangerine Tigress? Those are my suggestions, to go with your Hot Raspberry Wine fingernails.’

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