When she finally saw Jim strolling up the path, armed with a bunch of pink roses, Greta flung open the door. She ran to meet him, throwing her arms around his neck. As they melted into an embrace, his breath tickled her hair. She relished the warmth of his skin, the quiet rise and fall of his chest. It felt good to hold him close again and she lost herself in his familiar scent.
‘Hey,’ Jim said, pulling back to meet her eyes. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’
‘You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,’ Greta said, her voice shaky with emotion, speaking more to her husband in Longmill than the man standing in front of her.
Jim passed the bouquet to her, kissing the end of her nose. ‘And I missed you, too.’
Greta felt like she was floating. The last time he’d bought her roses was a couple of years ago, when she’d fallen off a stepladder while trying to place an angel on top of the Christmas tree, twisting her ankle in the process. She’d been stuck on the sofa for days while it healed. Jim had bought her a straggly bunch from the supermarket with the price sticker still attached. She’d told herself it was the thought that counted, but deep down, she’d been disappointed.
Now she took a moment to admire her bouquet. ‘Thank you.’ She sighed happily. She quickly arranged the flowers in a vase before rejoining Jim by the garden gate.
He offered her the crook of his elbow. ‘Care to accompany me into town?’
‘Yes, let’s go.’
Greta held on to his arm as they walked, to assure herself he was really here. When she made conversation about the colour of the sky, the coffee morning, and her acting class, Jim gazed at her like she was the most fascinating person in the world. It made her feel lit from within.
They stopped outside a small shop she hadn’t noticed before with a window full of brightly painted pottery.
‘I’ve planned our whole date,’ Jim said. ‘I thought we could start with painting something together.’
Greta glanced at him in surprise. Painting pottery wasn’t something she’d expected, but the thoughtfulness of his gesture earned him ten gold stars. He’d never been much of a romantic before.
After filming their first-ever Maple Gold commercial together, Jim had invited her to his local pub for a pint of cider and a game of darts to celebrate. They’d shared a fish and chip supper on the way home and ended up kissing in the doorway of a shop, their lips tasting of salt and vinegar. Later dates had included cinema outings (with Jim splashing out on the plusher seats and popcorn) and the occasional fancy restaurant, but nothing as creative as this.
The store owner greeted them like old friends and led them to a workspace at the back of the shop. He looked like an archetypical artist, with a pencil-thin moustache, a black beret, and a paint-spattered overall. ‘You can choose from a selection of vases, cups, and plates to paint,’ he said, gesturing to the shelves.
Greta chose a vase and painted a picture inspired by Jim’s bouquet. Her art usually resembled an explosion in a paint factory, but in Mapleville she was a budding Georgia O’Keeffe. Her blobs of pink petals and yellow centres were surprisingly lifelike.
‘This shows a lot of artistic potential,’ the store owner said, nodding his approval. ‘Well done.’
Meanwhile, Jim focused intently on a cup, closely guarding his design. When he finally revealed it, Greta saw he’d painted a large pink heart surrounded by smaller ones. Their names were painted on either side. ‘I hope you like it,’ he said eagerly.
After months of tension between them in Longmill, his keenness and attention felt intoxicating. ‘It’s wonderful,’ she said, turning her vase to show him. ‘Andthisis for you.’
Jim’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, Greta, it’s a masterpiece.’
She let out a laugh. ‘That might be pushing it, but I’ll take it.’
‘I’ll fire your pieces for you later,’ the store owner added, carefully placing their work on a shelf.
When they left the shop, Jim squeezed Greta’s hand. ‘Let’s go this way,’ he said, leading her toward the park.
She looked around her. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Wait and see. I told you, I’ve planned everything.’
Jim gestured toward a small rowing boat moored on the lake. It rocked slightly as they both climbed in.
‘Let’s take an oar each. It’ll be fun,’ Greta said.
Jim shook his head, taking hold of both. ‘Let me do this for you. I’m an expert sailor.’
Greta tried not to laugh. The last time Jim had been on a boat, he’d turned green during a cruise around Greece. He’d spent most of the trip hanging over the side. She remembered that a couple of old Maple Gold commercials had featured couples on romantic rowing boat dates. It seemed to be a thing.
She gave Jim the benefit of the doubt and settled back in her seat to watch light sparkling on the surface of the lake. The rhythmic swish of the oars slicing through the water filled her with a sense of calm. The woman who fretted over bills, longed for her husband’s touch, and scrambled for acting work felt like a distant memory—almost someone else entirely. Greta’s limbs loosened, and she trailed her fingers through the cool water.
They moored up at a small island in the centre of the lake, where a picnic lay waiting on a blanket on the shiny grass. Jim opened a wicker basket packed full of goodies and poured cups of Maple Gold from a Thermos. The spread included fresh strawberries, dainty sandwiches, and cupcakes sprinkled with silver balls. Greta sampled everything, closing her eyes in pleasure as the flavours exploded on her taste buds. ‘This is all absolutely delicious,’ she said. ‘The best food I’ve ever tasted.’
