Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli

by Portia MacIntosh

  I laugh inside my head at her paradoxical argument. She’s upset at me for giving a job to someone other than her husband after her husband said no. So, I should be giving them my business, but they don’t want it, so…I’m not really sure what she wants from me.

  ‘Avril, I wanted to give your husband the job. I don’t want to take food from Jack’s mouth – in fact, it would be so nice if Frankie and Jack could be friends. I think he’s having a bit of trouble settling in,’ I confess.

  ‘Jacques,’ she corrects me.

  ‘Sorry, what did I say?’

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘It’s Jacques,’ she says again.

  Of course it is.

  ‘Maybe your family just isn’t supposed to be here, Lily. We’re a tight-knit community and you only need to look over the Marram Bay Facebook group page to see that you’re just not wanted.’

  ‘Can I join this group?’ I ask, undefeated.

  ‘Well, it’s for locals only,’ she says quickly.

  ‘I’m local now,’ I point out with a smile.

  Avril thinks for a moment.

  ‘I’ll have to ask the group. Apple Blossom Cottage sits just outside the main town, and the group is for the main town only. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Oh, I understand,’ I reply.

  ‘Perhaps it’s best to bow out now, before more upset is caused. You said it yourself, your son isn’t fitting in. And, well, our children are smart. They can tell we’re upset and if they know you’re to blame, your poor son is going to be collateral damage. Perhaps you need to put your son first – we always put our children first, it’s so important.’

  I purse my lips, lest a ‘go duck yourself’ escapes from between them.

  Right on cue, the school bell goes and all the little acorns come charging out of the door.

  ‘See you around, ladies,’ I say, before walking off to meet Frankie.

  After the horde of kids, my own finally appears, all alone, without the gleeful smile or the urgency the others showed. Oh no, it must have been a bad day again.

  ‘Hey, kiddo,’ I say brightly. ‘She try to starve you to death today or did my threats work?’

  Frankie laughs, just a little.

  ‘Good day?’

  He shrugs.

  I usher him towards the car and strap him in.

  ‘I know we’re off to a bit of a rocky start, and that it feels like we’re not fitting in, but we’ve only been here two days,’ I assure him. ‘Things will get better.’

  ‘No one likes us,’ he says, sounding dejected.

  ‘No one knows us,’ I remind him. ‘Let’s just give it a bit longer, OK? I will if you will.’

  Frankie nods. He really is an amazing little man, which is probably why this is making me so mad. He should be so happy here and it’s not fair that the Mumsnet brigade are making him ‘collateral damage’ – well, I won’t have it. We will be happy here, and they will accept us. I’ll make sure of it.

  Out of nowhere a quad bike flies past us at a junction. I stop my car and breathe for a second. First the locals ask us to leave, now it’s like they’re literally trying to drive us out of town. Well, they’re going to have to try harder than that.

  Chapter 10

  I’m the first person to hold my hands up and say that I’m clumsy. I make awkward jokes at inappropriate times. I know some words that sailors don’t, but I’m working on all of the above. I can identify my shortcomings, and I think that’s something we all should be able to do.

  Similarly, I know my strengths, and one of those strengths is coming up with plans to try and achieve the things I need to do. So last night I sat down – I was going to write in my as yet untouched diary, but I’d rather wait and start it when I have much nicer things to say – grabbed my laptop and figured out a plan of attack, to get the locals on board with the deli. I made a list of ideas, all of which I think could make a real difference, and then went to bed happy, ready to start the following day with a plan of action that would bring me results.

  Yep, today was going to be a great day, until thirty seconds ago when I pulled up outside the deli to meet Mike.

  ‘Oh sh—’

  ‘Exactly,’ he laughs. ‘Cow, I’d guess.’

  ‘But…how?’

  We stand together at the front of the deli, staring at what used to be a beautifully clean stone wall. Today, however, it’s covered in cow dung.

  ‘And you thought the drains smelled bad,’ Mike laughs.

  ‘Mike, it isn’t funny,’ I insist. ‘You know someone has done this on purpose, right?’

  ‘No?’ he replies. ‘Surely not…’

  ‘Well, unless a herd of cows just happened to pass by last night – cows who have perfected their aim, and the art of synchronised sh…sitting.’

  I’m quick to correct myself. Just because Frankie isn’t here, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.

  ‘I was thinking maybe it was just because of a malfunctioned tractor or something – that’s pretty effed up,’ Mike replies, rubbing his stubbly chin. I can’t help but notice he edited himself there, which means he’s obviously picking up on my efforts. ‘The locals really don’t want this deli to open, do they?’

  ‘They don’t. You know they’ve got some little town Facebook group where they talk about us, right?’

  ‘Is that so?’ he asks. ‘I’ll have to tell the lads they’re famous. Might make them slow down though, if it goes to their heads.’

  I like having Mike around, with his positive attitude and his cheeky chappy cockney accent. I don’t know what I’ll do when the fitting is finished and the lads pack up and go home.

  ‘You come up with a name for it yet?’ he asks.

  ‘Not yet,’ I reply. ‘I was thinking Main Street Deli, but I don’t think that’s going to cut it now. They’ll probably begrudge us using their street name.’

  ‘What about Cow Crap Deli?’ Mike suggests. ‘Given the latest addition to the walls.’

  ‘Or No-One-Is-Going-To-Come-Here-So-We-Might-As-Well-Give-Up Deli,’ I suggest.

  Mike thinks for a moment.

  ‘Nah, that’s a bit long,’ he says with a laugh.

  I can’t even think about giving the place a name right now, not when it seems so pointless.

  I hear the hum of an engine coming from behind us. Curious, I turn around and see a man sitting on a quad bike. He’s wearing a helmet, so I can’t see his face, but I recognise his bike as the one that sped past me yesterday. It’s bright red, with a ‘Westwood Farm’ logo on the front.

  ‘You,’ I yell. ‘You did this.’

  As fast as he appeared, the man on the bike speeds off.

  ‘How do you know he’s our man?’ Mike asks.

  ‘I saw him yesterday. I was driving along and he drove past me, kind of dangerously. Also, he’s a farmer. Who else do you know with an unlimited supply of crap?’

  ‘Good point,’ he replies. ‘So, what are you going to do?’

  I exhale deeply.

  ‘I suppose I’ll give Eric a call, fill him in on everything that’s going on. Then, I don’t know, I’ll see what he says and try to figure it out from there.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss,’ Mike says as he heads back inside. He hovers in the doorway for a second. ‘I suppose you want me to get rid of the mess…’

  ‘Please. If you don’t mind,’ I reply. ‘I don’t know where to begin.’

  Chapter 11

  I have never, in my entire adult working life, been so delighted and relieved to make it to Saturday before. Sure, I’ve had long weeks, difficult weeks, tiring weeks – but nothing like this week.

  Hurdle after hurdle has popped up at the deli and, I don’t even feel like I’m clearing them, I’m just carelessly running through them and hoping I don’t get disqualified. And then there’s the situation at school. Poor Frankie still doesn’t have any friends, and after playgroup bully mum Avril let me have it, she and her little clique have left me
alone, other than the occasional dirty look. I actually believe Avril thought if she laid it all out on the line for me, that I would just bow out. Like I could, even if I wanted to because, as they keep pointing out, we’re a chain. Even if they do drive me out of town, my bosses will just replace me. For a group so intent on sabotage, I don’t feel like they’ve really thought it through. I’m not sure how much they’ve thought any of it through, to be honest. I really can’t wrap my head around their outrage. Sure, if we were opening a competing business, or a supermarket that was going to put all the little guys out of business, but we’re a deli, and Marram Bay doesn’t have a deli. A café, a local shop, things like butchers, bakers and greengrocers – the only things they have in multiple is restaurants (and even they all seem to be a vastly different to one another) and bed and breakfasts.

  I understand that it is a small town with very few businesses, and that the locals want to keep it unique and beautiful, but I really don’t feel like a little deli will threaten that. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that a place as fantastic as a YumYum Deli will only add to the appeal of the place.

  I had a glorious lie-in this morning. Then I got up and had breakfast with Frankie before he went to play in the garden and I made myself comfortable on the sofa. I have my notebook, ready to try and get some of my thoughts down, a large pot of tea and a box of something special my bosses sent me from one of their delis. If they think a box of treats will go even a little bit of the way to making me feel better, well, they would be right. The bright green box (that arrived all beautifully tied up with straw) is full of cannoli – a Sicilian dessert that is basically deep-fried pastry tubes filled with sweet ricotta and chocolate chips. Each end of the tube overflows with the filling, just a little, and is garnished with a piece of candied orange peel. They are absolutely delicious, and something that we frequently sell out of in all branches of the delis – so popular, in fact, that we had signs made apologising for being sold out.

  I lift the lid, practically drooling with excitement as I reach to lift one out, only to be disturbed by a knock on the door. How typical that the second I relax, someone interrupts me.

  I close the lid and head over to the door, adjusting the pink tracksuit I wear for lounging about the house just before I open it, because the trackies always seem to ride up a little too high when I sit around in them. I’m also wearing my glasses – something I don’t like to do outside the house because I feel like they make me look dorky. I’m aware that sometimes my eyes need a break from the contact lenses, so I do that when I know I’m not going anywhere or expecting company.

  ‘Hello,’ I say to the stranger.

  ‘Hi,’ the man replies.

  He’s tall – well over six-feet tall. In fact when I opened the door, I tried to make eye contact with his chest. I’d guess he’s in his mid to late thirties because he’s got that kind of ‘young but starting to look a little older’ look that looks oh-so sexy on men. When we women notice it on ourselves, we start Googling ‘botox’, but on men we think it’s amazing, which is a bizarre double standard – what a time to be alive, eh? Our predecessors fought for our right to vote, and we can’t even make a case for growing old gracefully. His dark brown hair is long on top and, as he lowers his gaze to look down at me, it falls forward a little – something he quickly fixes by running a hand through his hair. Backlit by the sun, I can’t help but notice the curve of his bicep, something that reminds me how long it’s been since I had a man. I mentally tick myself off for checking out the random man at my door, even if he does look like Josh Hartnett, with his smouldering brown eyes and his thick eyebrows. I remember watching Pearl Harbor when it came out and being obsessed with Josh Hartnett for a while – I even had posters of him on my bedroom walls. I might not have had Daniel Craig trimming my bushes, but a dead ringer for my teenage crush knocking on my door is a great consolation prize.

  ‘I think I have something of yours,’ he says, his North Yorkshire accent much weaker than anyone else’s that I’ve encountered here so far.

  ‘Of mine?’ I ask, my mind racing. What on earth could he have of mine?!

  The giant man steps to one side, to reveal my tiny son hiding behind him.

  ‘Frankie!’ I squeak, grabbing him and hugging him. I feel the backpack on his back and go cold.

  ‘I found him on my farm, up the road,’ the man explains. ‘Told me he was running away from home. I reckon he would’ve got further if he’d ever seen an alpaca before, lad was mesmerised.’

  The farmer laughs, and I’m sure it was a funny sight, but my child tried to run away from home and I was too busy stuffing my face on the sofa to notice.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I tell him, until I notice something behind him that changes my tone immediately. ‘Kiddo, I’m so sorry you felt like you had to do this. Go wait in your room, I’ll just thank the nice man and I’ll come see you and we’ll figure this out, OK?’

  ‘OK, Mum,’ he says with a sigh so deep it breaks my heart. He looks like he feels awful and I’m not sure if he’s embarrassed about trying to run away, or disappointed that someone stopped him.

  ‘He’s a good lad,’ the man says as Frankie shuffles off.

  ‘And you’re an idiot,’ I reply.

  The man looks immediately taken aback.

  ‘Erm…’ he starts, before laughing awkwardly.

  ‘I know who you are,’ I inform him, pointing at his Range Rover, parked outside the cottage. On the door there’s a ‘Westwood Farm’ logo, just like the one I saw on the quad bike of my stalker. ‘You’re the man who drives a quad bike.’

  ‘And you’re the woman who drives around in a Brussels sprout – what’s the problem?’ he laughs.

  ‘You tried to run me off the road a couple of days ago, and yesterday, you were outside the deli, admiring your handiwork,’ I say accusingly. ‘The cow dung…’

  ‘I was in a hurry, so I might have sped past you a little fast – I apologise, but I wasn’t trying to run you off the road,’ he explains. ‘And I’m not your manure guy.’

  ‘You’re a farmer, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not really,’ he replies with a laugh.

  ‘So why were you there yesterday?’

  ‘Well, Officer,’ he mocks, ‘I was on my way home from Fruitopia, if you must know.’

  ‘You just desperately needed some jam?’ I ask, not buying his story.

  ‘No,’ he replies. ‘I make it. I make it and Fruitopia sells it.’

  ‘Oh,’ I blurt.

  The man brushes his hair from his face again.

  ‘Can I come in?’ he asks. ‘I want to talk about your kid, I’m not going to burn your house down.’

  I think for a moment.

  ‘OK, yeah,’ I reply, not sounding like I mean it. ‘I’m Lily, by the way. I just made some tea, would you like a cup?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve never said no to a brew,’ he replies, rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m Alfie. Alfie Barton, from the farm up the road. I suppose we’re next-door neighbours.’

  ‘I suppose we are,’ I reply.

  ‘I found Frankie in one of my fields, having a staring competition with an alpaca. Soon as I heard his accent I figured he’d never seen one before.’

  ‘And if he hadn’t got distracted, God knows where he would’ve ended up,’ I say quietly.

  ‘London was his goal,’ he tells me. ‘We had a quick chat on the way back here, he said he was going to stay with someone called Viv?’

  ‘My mum,’ I reply. ‘His gran – long story.’

  I feel the need to clarify their relationship, given that he calls his grandma by her first name.

  ‘I know who you are,’ Alfie confesses, not that it comes as a surprise. ‘I’d meant to come round sooner, actually.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I reply sarcastically. ‘To threaten me? Kill me? Put an alpaca’s head in my bed? Would you like a cannoli?’

  Alfie is taken aback by my shift in tone once again. He laughs, confused.

&n
bsp; I open the box and offer the contents to Alfie.

  ‘They look nice,’ he says, taking one. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘They’re from the evil deli, just to warn you. I don’t know if that’s going to stop you eating it. Oh, so are the Assam teabags.’

  Alfie raises his eyebrows and I realise I’m ranting.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say softly, taking a cannoli from the box and putting it in my mouth before I can say anything else.

  Alfie finishes his in seconds, washing it down with his tea.

  ‘I’m not sure what I’m eating or drinking, but I’m really enjoying it.’

  ‘Tell your friends,’ I joke.

  Alfie sits back on the sofa, making himself more comfortable.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to come and see you, because I’ve been you,’ he explains. ‘I grew up here, on Westwood Farm, with my dad. He was a dairy farmer, and he made it pretty clear he wanted me to follow in his footsteps, even though I made it just as clear that I didn’t want to. I left home when I went to uni and I’d been living in Manchester until five years ago, when my dad died and left me the farm.’

  ‘So you came back?’ I ask curiously, pulling my legs up on to the sofa.

  ‘I’m not saying that dairy farms are cruel places – in fact, I’d say my dad cared more about his cows than he did me. His ladies, that’s what he used to call them. When I was a kid, I was a bit like your son, just in awe of the animals, thinking they were all my pets. So when my dad died, and I inherited the farm I decided to move back, but to change the way we did business. I sold off all the dairy equipment and decided I’d make a living off our apple trees instead.’

  ‘That sounds like a lovely thing to do,’ I reply.

  ‘Ah, well, what I actually started doing was making and selling fruit infused alcohol, which the locals were not happy about at all. Sure, some of them remembered me from when I was a kid, but I hadn’t lived here for ten years and then I just came back and closed down the local dairy farm. To sell alcohol,’ he points out again.