‘Hi, Dad,’ Blake said as we walked towards him.
Blake’s father was an older version of his son – the same height and build with greying hair but similar dark eyes – and the slow smile that spread across his face, showing dimples, made him almost identical. He wore glasses and trousers instead of the shorts Blake had on but they were very much alike.
‘Blake?’ He phrased it as a question as if he couldn’t quite believe it.
‘Yeah. This is Daisy. We’re staying together at Birch Tree Farm with my old friend Dylan and her cousin,’ he said, gesturing to me. ‘How are you?’
‘How am I?’ Blake’s dad hurried out from behind the counter and pulled Blake into a warm hug. ‘It’s been too long, son. I thought you’d never… Anyway, it’s so good to see you.’ He glanced at me behind Blake’s back. ‘And nice to meet you, Daisy. You kept this quiet, Blake. What about…? Never mind.’ He pulled back and grinned at his son. Then he held out his hand to me.
‘It’s nice to meet you too, Mr Daniels.’
He snorted. ‘That makes me feel ancient, and I don’t need more help with that, Daisy. Call me Bill, please. Let’s close up and go and see Bronte.’
‘We can wait until your lunch break,’ Blake said.
‘I’ll take it now. It’s quiet, as you can see. She’ll be over the moon you’re back.’
‘Will she?’ Blake asked with a frown.
Bill sighed. ‘Of course she will. We’ve both missed you. And she’ll want to meet Daisy. Come on, you two.’ He grabbed his keys and was walking out of the shop before we could argue any further. I looked at Blake, who shrugged with a wry smile so, with a laugh, I followed them. Neither of us had stopped Blake’s dad from assuming we were together but I knew we’d have to say something at some point. My family knew the truth; it would feel wrong to lie to Blake’s family.
Bill hopped into Blake’s car, which drove us out of the High Street, a few minutes outside town, and then down a bumpy lane to a pretty house with a lot of land around it. It was painted white and had rose bushes outside it like back in town. Behind the house, I could see a field and a barn with a sign outside saying,Daniels’ Riding School. There were four horses grazing in the field. I assumed one of them belonged to Blake.
It was an idyllic place, not unlike Willow’s farm, and the contrast between it and Blake’s current city life felt stark. I wondered which one he felt he belonged in. I was beginning to see that I’d never fit in the city, not like I did around here.
The door opened and out walked a tall, slim woman with the same light-brown hair as Blake. She stopped to watch the car pull onto the gravel driveway. She looked as stunned as her dad when Blake parked and climbed out of the car.
‘Blake?’
‘Hey, sis.’
She let out a shriek, bounded over and jumped into his arms.
I watched Blake’s face. He looked shocked then happy as he grinned and hugged his sister tightly. I saw their dad duck his head and wipe at his eyes. And I had to swallow a lump in my throat as I turned away with a relieved smile.
* * *
Being in the Daniels’ house was similar to how I had felt in my childhood home, and how it felt being on Birch Tree Farm: warm, familiar and comfortable. Bronte and her father lived there along with Bronte’s husband and their two kids, the four horses and three Labrador dogs. It was a large home and filled with things like in their antiques shop: cosy corners with armchairs, lots of books, soft rugs, lamps of all shapes and sizes, and a grandfather clock which they informed me was always exactly one hour and seven minutes slow no matter how many times they tried to fix it.
When we arrived, Bronte’s kids were at school and her husband was out buying supplies for their business so we sat down to lunch as a foursome, choosing to go outside as it was so warm. The garden made me gasp when I stepped out from the French doors in the lounge. It stretched out into the field where the horses were and behind it were hills that appeared to touch the sky.
But it was the flowers in the garden that took my breath away. Hanging baskets with pink and red flowers hung along the side of the house. There was a decking area with a table and chairs. Above it, was a gazebo covered in climbing flowers that formed a pretty arch. Bordering the garden were roses of all different varieties that looked stunning and smelled amazing.
‘My mother would have loved to see this,’ I said as I took it all in. It was clearly carefully kept but also looked wild, as if the flowers had just sprung up in perfect bloom like they had always meant to be there. ‘It’s gorgeous.’
Blake was watching me. He smiled. ‘Bronte’s pride and joy.’
‘Any chance I get, I’m out here,’ she said from behind us as she carried out a jug of lemonade.
‘I don’t blame you.’
‘Your mother is a gardener too?’ she asked as she gestured for us to sit down at the table.
‘She was a florist; she had her own flower shop. But she loved the small garden we had at home too. I think about that garden sometimes,’ I replied wistfully.
Bronte frowned at me in concern.
‘I lost my parents a few years ago.’
