Sunrise at Strawberry Farm: As delightfully delicious as strawberries and cream, this is the perfect summer romance to read in 2020.

by Kellie Hailes

  Her life had been so good back then. So simple.

  If only all the effort she’d put into filling those big work boots of the Beety men who’d run the farm before her had been good enough in her father’s eyes. If only he’d seen her worth. Trusted her…

  ‘You need to get up earlier, Hannah.’ ‘That strawberry is a second. Can’t you see that?’ ‘Those newfangled ways of doing things aren’t how we do things, Hannah. You’re best not to think about them.’

  …Perhaps then her life would still be simple rather than a hectic race from appointment to appointment, keeping up with trends, maintaining your brand, ensuring you never missed a step, a trick, a beat.

  Her grandfather glanced up at the clock above the windowsill. ‘Your dad will be here soon. Grey too. Never ones to miss afternoon tea.’

  Hannah pushed the plate away. The gingery, sugary aromas no longer so appetising.

  Sylvia slipped into the chair beside her and patted her hand reassuringly. ‘You’ll be fine. Your dad’s glad you’ve come home to help. Really. You’re his daughter. He loves you. He’s accepted the way things are. Besides, after you’ve gone he’ll still have Grey to help him. And, Lord knows, that young man’s never leaving.’

  What should have made Hannah’s swirling stomach settle only served to further roil it up. Her grandmother was right. Grey was never leaving. Hannah wouldn’t be surprised if one day he put in an offer to buy the farm and take it over. Make it his.

  At least if he did, when he did, she’d have one less thing to fret about. Her family selling the farm – as much as it hurt her to think about it – would mean she’d never have to spend her visits home trying to keep out of Grey’s way. Keeping herself to herself so as not to feel his dislike. His disdain. His pain.

  She went to stand and excuse herself but stopped as the back door opened and two tall, broad-shouldered figures bowled in, toed off their work boots and went to the kitchen sink to wash their hands.

  Hannah sank back down into her chair and kept her hands under the table so no one could see how they held each other tight, how her knuckles strained white against her skin.

  Her father grabbed the hand towel off the bench and turned, his eyes narrowing as he registered her presence.

  ‘Hannah. You’re here.’

  She nodded. ‘I am.’

  A long pause followed. Hannah waited for her father to tell her it was good to see her or that she was looking well. No words came.

  He finished drying his hands, passed the towel to Grey who hadn’t once glanced in her direction, and made his way to the kitchen table, pulled out a seat and sat down.

  ‘Have those city ways of yours made you forget how to work on the farm?’ His eyes didn’t meet hers as he reached for a biscuit and accepted a cup of tea from Sylvia.

  Hannah bristled at the implication that she didn’t know how to work hard. That she flitted about from place to place slapping makeup on face after face. ‘I’m often up at the crack of dawn, Dad. On my feet until late into the night too. I may not have dirt under my nails but it doesn’t mean I don’t know the meaning of hard work.’

  ‘Duncan, Hannah’s just arrived. Give her a moment to catch her breath. Eat your biscuit, drink your tea.’ Sylvia’s words were gentle, but full of steel.

  So much so that Hannah caught the flush in her father’s cheeks, the tautness of his jaw, at his mother’s silent reprimand.

  ‘Grey? Are you wanting a cuppa?’ Sylvia indicated for him to take a seat, but he was already shoving his feet back into his boots.

  ‘Can I get one to take away[HN7], Syl? I want to head up to the farm shop and check the stock. Make sure we’re ready for tomorrow.’

  Sylvia’s brows rose. ‘You sure you won’t sit and stay for a bit? There’s a lot to discuss.’

  ‘Duncan can fill me in.’ Grey found a smile for Sylvia. ‘In fact, you sit, Syl, and I’ll make the tea. The sooner I get back to work the better.’

  More like the sooner Grey was away from Hannah, the better. She shouldn’t be upset at being given the cold shoulder, didn’t have the right to be. But that didn’t stop a shiver of regret rippling down her spine. If only she’d not been such a coward, running off in the middle of the night without a word to anyone. If only Grey hadn’t been so closed off to her feelings, her insecurities, hadn’t shunted them aside whenever she brought them up, hadn’t left her feeling so alone when he’d been the only person she thought she could turn to, things could have been so different right now.

  She pushed the thought away. Different didn’t mean better. If she’d stayed she’d have been stuck in the same cycle of looking for her father’s approval, only to be heart-hurt when it couldn’t be found.

  ‘Hannah, we were thinking you’d do best helping with picking first thing in the morning, then working out at the shop during the day.’

  Hannah turned to face her father. The flush had disappeared, and his jaw had softened, along with his tone.

  ‘There’s also the matter of the end-of-season festival.’ Duncan folded his arms across his expansive chest and sat back in his chair. ‘You’ll have to work with Grey on that.’

  ‘You sure that’s a good idea?’ Grey’s focus was on Duncan, his eyes not once drifting towards Hannah, like he couldn’t bear to look at her, preferred to act like she didn’t exist. ‘You know what a big deal the festival is around here. The locals love it. It’s a huge day. We can’t have anything go wrong.’

  Unspoken words hung in the air. Words you didn’t need to be a mind reader to interpret.

  Are you sure she’ll stick around?

  Are you sure she’s up to the task?

  Are you sure she won’t let us down once more?

  Defiance surged through Hannah’s veins, igniting the side of her nature that had seen her keep going in the makeup industry, even when times were tough, money tight, and it seemed like she’d never get out from working behind makeup counters.

  Before she could answer back, Grey turned on his heel and left the house, further stoking the anger in the pit of Hannah’s stomach.

  ‘He has a point.’ Duncan wondered aloud. ‘I know you said Hannah would be capable of helping out, Mum, but this is our thank you to the community, the last big event of the summer. It has to go like clockwork.’

  ‘And it will go like clockwork. I’m excited to work on it.’ Hannah kept her tone light, breezy. Confident. The opposite of what was going on in her gut, where nerves tightened and nausea twisted and tumbled. ‘In fact, I’ll go and catch up with Grey now. Have a chat about it, get the ball rolling. No time like the present, right?’ She smiled brightly, pushed her chair out and made her way out the back door.

  The sun greeted her, but failed to work its ways on the goose bumps that pebbled her skin as she plodded around the house, then down the path towards the farm shop.

  It hadn’t been the warmest of homecomings, but then this wasn’t home. Not anymore. She was here for three weeks and then gone again. And it seemed her family weren’t going to let her forget it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Three weeks. Three small, tiny, insignificant, didn’t-matter-at-all weeks.

  Grey groaned as he shuffled around jam jars that didn’t need rearranging. Who was he kidding? The next three weeks were going to be interminably long. Painful. Probably enough to make him pack his bags and go gallivanting about the globe the way he and Hannah had talked about doing years ago, when they were in school together. When they were happy. And reality was something to be dismissed as that which adults had to deal with, not two young people with the world at their feet.

  Not that he’d wanted to leave the area. Not then. Not now. Not ever. He’d just wanted to be wherever Hannah was. If she’d wanted to see the world he’d have been happy to go with her. If she’d wanted to settle down here – the way he knew she’d have to eventually as was her Beety birthright – he would have been happy to settle with her. More than happy.

  Strawberry Farm was his home away f
rom home. The place he’d been crossing the lane to visit since he was old enough to look left, right, then left again. Soon as he was old enough to take on a part-time job, he’d taken up strawberry picking during the summer season, staying on once the other workers had left, following Duncan – or Mr Beety, as he’d called him back then out of respect – around the farm, learning the ins and outs of strawberry farming.

  As a child the farm had been his escape from the overcrowded cottage he shared with his father, mother and four rowdy older brothers. A place to hide from arguments and tension. Then, after his father packed up and left, a refuge from his mother’s snapped orders and quick ear-pinching hand. Not that he blamed his mother or resented her in any way. She’d done her best with what little she had. Taking on as many jobs as she could to feed the boys, to keep the roof over their heads. But, being the youngest, he’d felt like an afterthought. Just another mouth to feed. A further burden in a life that had been unkind. At Strawberry Farm he’d felt… special. Like someone worth caring about. Worth having around. A place where you were welcomed with open arms, where food was in abundance along with smiles. Where you were made to feel like family.

  Something he’d been idiot enough to believe would happen, well and truly, when he and Hannah married. Another thing, along with travel, that they’d often talked about. Or at least he had. Not that she’d negated his dreams. She’d simply smiled up at him – that sweet upward tilt of lips that sent his heart into a quick trot when it was directed his way – squeezed his hand, and let him dream.

  Daft dreamer that he was.

  Her leaving had put paid to what little whimsy he entertained. Never again. It was better to keep your distance from those you cared about, those you loved. Better? Safer.

  His ears pricked as the shop’s back door squeaked open. Probably Sylvia coming to check on things. Or on him. She had a way of reading people that meant she knew how they were feeling without them ever saying a word.

  Not that it would take a mentalist to know that Hannah’s return, at a time when he couldn’t avoid her, would have him out of sorts.

  ‘Ah, here you are.’ Hannah’s bright voice filled the room.

  Overly bright. Bordering on brittle. His shoulders automatically bunched up as his chest tensed. Grey forced them down, kept his chin high, and skipped his fingers over the small jam jars in a show of counting.

  ‘I’m exactly where I said I’d be.’ He managed a shrug, then slowly turned to face her as she hovered about the door that separated the storeroom [HN8]and kitchen from the customer area.

  He pretended not to see her smile falter, then kick back in, more brilliant. More welcoming. More fake.

  She felt as awkward as he did? Good. He didn’t want their interactions to be easy. To be as natural and effortless as they’d been back in the day.

  A person who left the person they’d promised forever to, without a word, didn’t deserve an easy go of it.

  ‘The place looks the same, mostly.’ Hannah took in the small farm shop and café.

  Half the store featured the preserves and fruit pastes Hannah’s family produced, alongside a selection of strawberry paraphernalia. Tea towels and oven mitts, lip balms and bath products from a local producer, cutesy signs talking about love, hope, laughter and family. The other half of the shop had a small counter, coffee machine and an ice cream machine that ran hot making fresh strawberry ice cream during the summer season, and even into the winter season when people craved a taste of the warm weather.

  ‘New tablecloths.’ Hannah set foot into the store. Her pink-polished fingernails [HN9][KW10]caressed the red and white gingham tablecloths her mother had whipped up three months ago, fresh for the summer season. ‘They’re nice.’

  ‘Your mum made them.’ He crossed his arms and let the sturdy timber shelves hold his weight. Hoped the stance would further create the impression that he wasn’t bothered by her presence. By her. ‘She updated the curtains too.’ He nodded at the matching swathes of fabric framing the shop’s windows.

  ‘Suits the place.’ Hannah pulled out a chair and sank into it with a soft sigh. Like she’d been carrying the weight of the world and was glad to relieve the pressure. She relaxed into the chair, the casual move negated by the drumming of her fingertips on the table. ‘So… We’re going to be working on the festival together. Is that…’ Her chest rose and fell, her lips pressed together then released. ‘Is that okay with you?’

  Oh, now she cared? Ten years later? It took her a decade to consider his feelings?

  ‘Kind of you to think of me.’ Grey left the implication that she wasn’t generally so thoughtful in regards to his welfare hanging in the air.

  The finger drumming ceased. Her hand curled into a fist. Her knuckles strained against her tanned skin.

  From a bottle. He’d bet on it. Along with the hair colour. The nail colour. And everything on her face.

  Not that he had anything against women using cosmetics. He didn’t. Not at all. If a woman wanted to wear makeup he was fine with it. Their face, their choice. But the woman before him was alien to him. The opposite of the girl he once knew. The girl whose dark blonde hair fell in waves and curls down her back. Whose nails always had dirt under them and were cut short for practical reasons. Whose tan came from working out in the strawberry fields, the sun sending a constellation of freckles across her nose and cheeks by the end of the season.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling that this Hannah was manufactured, whereas the old Hannah – his Hannah – had been as natural as the berries her family grew.

  In separating herself from the farm had she separated herself from her self?

  Grey forced his gaze to his feet, aware he was staring. He didn’t want Hannah to get the wrong impression. To think he was interested. That this new her was intriguing to him. And he hated that he was overthinking the Hannah in front of him – that he was thinking about her at all.

  ‘I know it’s too late to say this. I know it’s too late for it to mean anything.’ Hannah’s words were tentative.

  Grey knew what was coming. Didn’t want it. Didn’t need it. Wasn’t going to let it happen.

  He held his hand up and met her cornflower blue eyes. ‘Don’t. Don’t say a word. I don’t want to hear it. Your words mean nothing to me. Not anymore.’ You mean nothing to me.

  Was it true? Did she really mean nothing? What was the old saying? The opposite of love is ambivalence? Did that apply to hate as well? Was the opposite of hate also ambivalence? Because he had hated her. Hugely. For so long.

  Now? It wasn’t hate that surged through his veins. Nor was it ambivalence. Irritation? Perhaps. He didn’t want to have to work with her, be around her, but he had to because it was his job and this was her home.

  Was it dislike? Possibly. She’d certainly not given him any reason to like her.

  Disgust? Sadness? Confusion? Hurt? He mulled the idea over. A tangled mix of emotions? Definitely.

  All in all, it created a feeling within him that demanded he keep Hannah at arm’s length. That he not let her close. Or in.

  ‘Well if I mean nothing to you, you won’t mind my apologising. Because it means nothing.’ Hannah’s brow furrowed. Her petite but plump lips pursed. ‘To you, anyway.’

  Grey dismissed her comment with a wave of his hand. ‘Don’t waste your breath. You didn’t ten years ago – there’s no need for you to now.’

  Hannah’s throat worked, like she had words she wanted to say. Needed to get out, but couldn’t. Words that involved more than ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘forgive me’. He turned back to the shelf and pretended to be invested in sorting out the stock once more. Whatever she wanted to say he didn’t want to hear it.

  In fact, what he wanted was to move the conversation along and get her out of his space.

  ‘Has your family told you anything about the festival? What it involves?’

  There was silence, then Hannah cleared her throat. ‘No, not really. Just that it’s a way they came up
with to bring the community together a few years back. To thank them for their support.’

  ‘And it’s a way to deal with the last of the strawberries.’ Grey straightened up the already straight oven mitts. ‘You do remember how they get? Don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been working in London, not having a decade-long lobotomy.’

  Despite himself, a hint of a smile found its way to Grey’s lips at Hannah’s ‘duh’ tone.

  ‘Just checking. From what your family have said you’ve all but forgotten where this place is. I couldn’t help but assume that would extend to the rhythms of the farm.’

  His dig elicited a sharp inhalation.

  Did she really think she could come back without consequences? That just because she turned up when desperately needed that it would be happy families again? That all would be forgiven?

  She hadn’t seen her father in the months after she took off. He’d been beside himself with worry. He’d never said as much, Duncan not being a man who dealt in high emotions, but Grey suspected he’d blamed himself for involving her in the farm too early, for putting too much pressure on her. Meanwhile Hannah’s mother had retreated into herself. Lost the sparkle in her eye, the ready smile, the kind words she bestowed upon people for no other reason than a kind thought had come to her.

  Her grandparents had dug in, kept the farm ticking over, picked up the slack that Hannah’s leaving had created. He’d helped out more too, as much as they’d allow him to. Part of him doing it because he hoped he’d be around if news from Hannah came. That she’d made a mistake, seen the light and was returning home. But no news came, and by the time his shock had morphed into heartbreak, then anger that rankled, growing fiercer and more deep-seated by the day, he’d been offered a full-time job on the farm. One he’d snapped up.

  Hannah may not have known where she belonged, but he did.

  ‘Is this how it’s going to be while I’m here? Between you and me?’ Hannah’s voice was small, careful. Like she was walking blindfolded through a field pockmarked with rabbit holes. ‘Not that I don’t deserve whatever you throw at me. But I just…’ She paused, the fabric of her dress swishing as if she were rearranging herself, trying to get comfortable.