Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

  When I’ve finished, he reaches round and finds my hand again. ‘I’ve got some news that might make you feel better. Parsons won’t be moving into home deliveries after all.’ He chuckles. ‘So you’re free to carry on with your plan for world domination in the veg box arena.’

  I swallow. To be honest, I’m more focused on the beautiful masculine fingers wound round mine than what he’s actually saying. But it’s definitely good news.

  I force myself to concentrate. ‘So why have you changed your mind?’

  We turn briefly towards each other, so close I can almost feel his breath on my face. The touch of his hand is doing very weird things to my insides.

  I lean back against the trunk of the tree as he answers me.

  ‘When I first met you, I thought that was the way the business should go. But I’ve decided there are other things I’d like to try my hand at.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I’m embarrassed.’

  ‘No, go on.’ I laugh, feeling suddenly heaps better. ‘You’ve seen me at my worst. I’d like to have something over you, too!’

  ‘Well.’ He pauses so long, I turn my head, right at the same time he does. Our eyes meet and my heart starts to hammer so loudly, I think he definitely must be able to hear it.

  He’s looking down at me, his face only inches from mine. He has a lovely mouth, well-shaped, firm, with a fullness to the lower lip.

  The silence goes on and so does the eye contact.

  A blissful feeling creeps over me. A lovely stillness that I haven’t felt in a long time. I want to sit under this tree forever, in this lovely dappled sunlight, breathing in the delicate scent of the apple blossom and listening to Dan murmuring in my ear all his hopes and dreams for the future.

  ‘What is it,’ I ask, my eyes still locked on his, ‘that you want to do?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I watch his mouth move, feeling drowsy with the heat and the summer scents.

  ‘You said you wanted to do other things?’

  ‘Did I?’ He frowns comically but still doesn’t look away. ‘Oh yes. I want to write. Bit of an impossible dream, really.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ I shake my head firmly. ‘You’ll do it.’

  He laughs. ‘You sound very certain.’

  ‘I am.’

  And for that second, it’s absolutely true.

  A light breeze flits through the branches, stirring up the scent. I feel light-headed. Intoxicated.

  There’s a moment when I think Dan is going to lean towards me, bridge the gap between us and place his mouth on mine.

  And amazingly, I want that to happen.

  Then a crow flies overhead.

  It caws so loudly, I practically jump into next week.

  It’s as if the spell has been broken.

  As my heart rate steadies, I suddenly remember I’ve got lots of boxes to pack and very little time now in which to do it.

  Even more alarming is the fact that I’m still holding Dan’s hand.

  When my relationship with Erik turned out to be the mistake of the century, I swore to myself I wouldn’t get close to another man for a very, very long time.

  And yet here I am, sitting under this bloody bewitching blossom (I definitely blame the tree), having all these ridiculously dreamy thoughts about Dan Parsons.

  The heat has definitely gone to my head.

  Or the scent of the blossom has addled my brain.

  I scramble to my feet, aware of Dan’s surprised look.

  ‘Thank you so much for listening. I feel so much better. But I’ve got to get back to work,’ I gabble, suddenly desperate to put some distance between us.

  Dan catches up with me on the way back to the house.

  ‘You should sit under that tree more often,’ he says. ‘Chill a bit. You know? And keep up with your running. Exercise is great for beating stress.’

  I smile sheepishly at him, wishing he would just go.

  Then he says, ‘By the way, I’ve thought of a solution to your time issue. You know Alison, who works part-time in the farm office?’

  I nod. I like Alison. I’ve chatted to her on the few occasions I’ve called at the farm for a top-up between my big Monday deliveries from the London depot.

  ‘She’s a lovely person. And very efficient,’ says Dan. ‘She’s starting a psychology degree in the autumn and she needs all the cash she can get. I’m sure she’d pack boxes for you if you asked her.’

  ‘Oh.’ I look at him in surprise. ‘Well, great. Thanks! I’ll have a think.’

  Dan nods. ‘Good.’ He looks down at his feet, a bit awkwardly, and scuffs the gravel. Then he says, ‘Right. Take care, then.’

  I stare after him as he gets in his car, reverses out of the gate and drives off.

  I feel weird. Sort of light-headed with a stomach full of butterflies. I put it down to Dan’s surprising suggestion.

  Alison packing boxes for me might just save the day.

  By the following morning, I’m convinced I need to get Alison on board.

  The week’s disasters have taught me a valuable lesson. I can’t carry on doing everything myself as the business expands. I need help if I’m going to take Izzy’s Organics to the next level.

  Later, I drive over to the farm to broach the subject with her.

  As I motor along the country roads, I think for the millionth time about Midge’s tree.

  I still can’t believe the apple tree has blossomed. It’s like a fairytale. I keep thinking about it and marvelling all over again.

  In fact, when I picture that whole scene, with Dan and me sitting under the flowering tree and opening up to each other, it has a sort of dreamlike aura about it, as if the whole thing is touched with magic.

  I keep thinking maybe it was a dream.

  But then I look at the tree, sprung to life, and I know it wasn’t.

  At the farm, I bring up the subject of needing help and Alison immediately offers her services. I’m a bit taken aback, to be honest, because I haven’t yet given any thought to the wage I’d be offering. But she’s very happy for me to get back to her.

  We start chatting about our lives. And for some reason I get on to the subject of Erik. ‘He flits from one woman to another and seems to have no conscience at all,’ I tell her sadly. ‘It was never going to work.’

  ‘Hi there.’

  I spin round.

  Oh, bugger!

  Dan, who’s come in without me knowing, has probably heard every word I just said about Erik and I feel foolish and awkward for two reasons.

  First, because I think I might have been a bit too forward yesterday, pouring out all my worries then gazing into his eyes for far longer than I should. (I definitely blame the tree.)

  And second because it annoyingly proves that Dan was right all along. He always suspected Erik was a waste of space.

  But to give him his due, he doesn’t look smug like he’s thinking I told you so. He just waits until we’re outside, stacking trays of oranges and glossy red peppers into the van, and asks me if I’m OK.

  ‘Fine, thanks. I’ve made a dartboard of Erik’s head.’ I blush stupidly, remembering the weird interlude under the apple tree.

  He laughs at my dartboard joke. ‘It’s tough at first. But what you’ve got to do is remember the positives.’

  I look at him blankly. ‘How is that supposed to help?’

  He leaps down off the van and hefts up three trays of carrots. ‘I don’t mean you have to remember the good times. Quite the opposite. Remote control’s the classic example. How often did you feel obliged to feign an interest in sport on TV?’

  ‘Formula One. Yuk!’ I watch him lever himself back up and, crouching into the limited space, stack the carrots next to the peppers.

  This is good, I think. It feels easy between us. We can hopefully forget that we almost snogged yesterday and concentrate on being friends. Because I think I’d like that.

  ‘Well, there you are then,’ he’s saying. ‘A positive thing about
not being with Erik is that you can say, Thank God I never have to watch Formula One on TV.’

  ‘You sound like you’re speaking from experience.’

  ‘You better believe it.’ He throws me a lopsided smile. ‘My own personal favourite was: Thank God I never have to sit around a dinner table making inane chit-chat with B-list celebrities I’ve never even heard of.’

  I nod. ‘Zak told me Monique’s a make-up artist and that she flies all over the world. I bet he thinks that’s cool.’

  He gives a mirthless laugh. ‘I guess so. But I think Zak would prefer she had a normal job and lived around here so he could see her more often.’

  I absorb this insight into their lives.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says, jumping down and shutting the van doors. ‘We were thinking up positives. Any more?’

  I frown and say slowly, ‘Thank God I … will never have to get into a bed that’s gritty with Erik’s toast crumbs?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Thank God I … will never again find smears of raspberry jam in the butter.’

  ‘Hey, you catch on fast.’

  Driving off, I wind down the window.

  ‘Thank God I don’t have to give up wearing my baggy old jumpsuit round the house in the interests of looking sexy.’

  He grins. ‘You might want to keep some of them to yourself.’

  My mother is worried about me.

  She phones to tell me I’m working too hard and I really should schedule in some play time.

  I tell her I’m not eight years old any more.

  Then she starts on about how she regretted working long hours when I was a kid and that she often wondered if things might have worked out differently if she’d been at home more with me and Dad.

  ‘Worked out differently in what way?’ I ask, mystified.

  But she cuts straight to another subject. ‘I hope you’re still running. Exercise clears the mind, you know, apart from keeping you fit. And it gives you those pheromone thingies.’

  I appeal to the ceiling.

  ‘Jim Three Doors Along says I look years younger than I am. And I tell him it’s walking Trixie that does it. Don’t let yourself get frumpy and unfit, Isobel. It’s a mistake so many women of our age make.’

  ‘Of our age?’ I splutter.

  ‘Well, neither of us is getting any younger. The point is you need to look after yourself.’

  Later, I recall Dan saying exactly the same thing about the running. Maybe they’ve got a point.

  I say as much to Alison the following week when I’m collecting my order of salad vegetables and confirming her start date for packing boxes.

  ‘Dan runs too, you know,’ she points out. ‘Maybe you could run together.’

  ‘Um … why?’

  She shrugs, runs her pen down a list and signs it with a flourish. ‘Company? Motivation?’

  She reaches for another sheet and studies it closely. ‘He goes running around four p.m. generally, so if you timed your visit for then, we could get your stuff on the van while you got your exercise fix.’ She looks up and beams at me. ‘Think how delighted your mother would be.’

  I laugh. ‘Pleasing my mother isn’t exactly top of my priority list. But I’ll think about it.’

  JULY

  Last July, my leek crop failed.

  Culprit: the Allium Leaf Miner.

  I read about it in my brand new gardener’s companion.

  The adult of the species punctures the plant and sucks up the sap before laying her eggs. White dots on the leaves are the first sign of danger. (How was I to know?)

  Then the maggots get to work.

  Lovely, huh?

  There was a picture of distorted, twisted foliage that made me feel quite sick.

  Lest the horrid little buggers survived to inflict more damage, I built a bonfire at the bottom of the garden and burned the entire crop. The physical effort and disappointment made me sweaty and cross. I could not believe how heartbroken I felt.

  It’s something I never imagined when I embarked on my mission to feed myself – that vegetable growing could stir up so many emotions. But it’s dawning on me that even the most seasoned gardeners have to deal with bad crops. Even with focus, time, back-breaking work and the utmost care, success is never guaranteed.

  I’ve decided to view each thing that comes into my garden – good or bad - as an opportunity to learn. So with each damaged crop, I get another chance to move forward and try something new.

  And this July, I actually have a glut of leeks. So I’ve gone from famine to feast! It’s lucky I like them. Posy’s doing her best to help, too, cooking everything imaginable with leeks. (Although her experiment with leek and parsley chutney will definitely not go down in history as the greatest of culinary triumphs.)

  P.S. Oh, the unbridled joy of digging up the first new potatoes of the season (they come out clean, as if already scrubbed). It’s best to take them straight to the pan and savour their wonderful, earthy taste with melted butter.

  There’s a lot to be said for this gardening lark!

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Now that the business is gradually growing, it’s a real boon having Alison on board.

  With an extra pair of hands to relieve the pressure, I’m even finding the time – joy of joys! – to get out into the garden most evenings. I may not be able to put my own vegetables into the boxes (since they’re not strictly organic, according to the Soil Association rules), but that doesn’t mean I’m giving up on growing my own. In fact, I’ve been thinking I could probably start selling my surplus veg at a local farmers’ market.

  Alison comes round late afternoon, five days a week, and packs boxes for three or four hours. We work well together and sometimes, I pack alongside her if there’s a lot to do. We have a similar sense of humour so the sessions tend to speed by.

  I’m so grateful to Dan for suggesting it.

  I’m also delighted to have Jess back in circulation. She phoned last week, saying she was really sorry for not being in touch with Anna and me but that she’d had a lot of thinking to do.

  I asked her about Luke and she said it had been a real shock when he turned up again. Lots of old memories had come flooding back and had really messed with her head.

  But she’d told Luke she couldn’t see him anymore.

  It was Wesley she loved.

  It’s less than a week now till the wedding.

  And today, I’m going with her for support when she has her last dress fitting.

  ‘Oh, Izzy, I can’t believe I’ll be walking down the aisle in six days’ time. I’m so lucky!’ She beams at me as we leave the car and hurry along to her appointment. She looks so flushed with joy, my own heart starts beating faster, feeling her excitement. Her trip to Cornwall seems to have done her the world of good. She’s had time to think things through and get some perspective on Luke’s shock reappearance in her life. Last time I saw her, she was an emotional wreck. But today she’s very much the happy, thrilled bride-to-be.

  She finally found The Dress in a shop in Guildford – so thankfully we don’t have to contend with frosty-faced Marcia of Romantic Bride.

  I wait outside the changing room, listening as a softly spoken assistant called Josie fusses around Jess getting the fabric lying just right.

  Josie comes out and smiles at me.

  ‘Now,’ she says to Jess through the curtain, ‘go and show your friend what a beautiful bride you’re going to make.’

  And then Jess glides in.

  I’m all ready to be wowed.

  But I wasn’t expecting to have such a huge lump in my throat.

  The dress is white satin; elegant, simple and very chic. She’s pulled her hair up, the way she’s having it on the day, and it’s perfect.

  ‘Oh, Jess.’ I circle my finger. ‘Twirl?’

  Gracefully, she turns so I can see the back of the dress with its deep V and train. She smiles over her shoulder at me and my soppiness. ‘Will I do?’

  I
nod, a tear splashing down. ‘Wesley’s very lucky.’

  The next morning, I’m in the shed packing boxes with Alison when she makes a startling announcement.

  ‘I – um – mentioned to Dan that you’d like to go running with him. So he said what about four pm tomorrow?’ She glances around the shed, blonde ponytail swinging. ‘Shall I make up some more bags of mushrooms? We seem to be out.’

  ‘What?’ I stare at her, feeling a flush rising up.

  ‘Mushrooms?’ Her pale blue eyes are wide with innocence.

  ‘No, the other thing,’ I say, pursing my lips.

  She beams at me. ‘Phone him and cancel if you don’t feel like it.’

  I glare at her but I’m half-smiling at the same time.

  Now that I’ve got Alison’s help, I can no longer use work as an excuse to opt out of things quite so often. And besides, it might be fun.

  So next afternoon, I arrive at the farm office in my running gear, feeling more than a little bit self-conscious. My old Lycra is OK for pounding the lanes on my own but I’m wishing now I’d bought some new stuff. It fits. But only just.

  Dan walks in just as I’m hitching the top up for the twentieth time in five minutes, desperately trying to minimise cleavage overspill.

  Luckily he doesn’t seem to notice.

  After a brief ‘hi’ to me, he sorts out an admin problem with Alison, then disappears off to get changed.

  I’m finding it hard to meet Alison’s eye. She’s probably reading far too much into this. I escape into the courtyard.

  Dan returns in black shorts, a dark grey vest and running shoes that have definitely seen better days. ‘Ready?’

  I nod and we set off down the farm track towards the road.

  ‘Is this speed OK for you?’ he asks, and I get the feeling he’s slowed his usual pace to accommodate me. But it’s still faster than I’m used to.

  It’s hardly surprising, since his legs are considerably longer than mine and have impressively solid muscle in all the right places. Talk about an unfair advantage.

  ‘Fine,’ I squeak, light-headed with the effort of trying to breathe silently.