She decants wine into my empty glass and goes to sit down on Dad’s left.
Although the chairs have been spaced out along the table, the gap between me and Sheryl and Bailey is much wider than the gap between them and Dad.
A feeling comes over me of being out on my own, separate from this part of my family, as if I’m not really a part of this family at all.
I can’t help withdrawing into myself after that. I’m not sure anyone notices—Bailey and Sheryl keep the conversation flowing, as they always do.
Sheryl and Dadare having their Opening Day on Saturday, so I spend the next few days helping to get the farm ready for its first customers.
The previous owners had a shop inside the black barn. Everything came included with the sale, from the cash register to the scales for weighing the fruit and even the large stack of wicker baskets that customers use to carry their produce from tree to barn.
I set about giving the interior of the barn a good clean. I sweep the floor, de-cobweb the wooden walls, and dust and wash the shelves and countertops. I wipe down the baskets and I also attack the cash register with a sponge and disinfectant.
It’s Thursday and I’ve been here a week. It’s not panning out to be the most relaxing holiday of all time, but I’ve liked keeping busy and going to bed with aching muscles and tired eyes. I keep hoping that all the hard work will help me switch off at night, because ever since Sunday, I’ve taken to lying awake in bed, thinking about Scott.
After our roast dinner, I asked Bailey if she was planning on taking any leftovers home to Casey and she remarked that I’d make a better married woman than she does.
Sheryl noticed me wincing and chided Bailey for beinginsensitive, but it took my half sister a moment to realize how she’d offended me. Once the penny dropped, she apologized, but that night, the pain of losing Scott felt fresh and raw.
The last time I visited America, he came with me and I’d never felt less alone. He was on my side, in my corner, squeezing my knee or surreptitiously raising an eyebrow whenever Sheryl drove me round the bend. It was during that holiday that I realized he was someone I could spend my life with, someone I could depend on. It’s still sinking in that he’ll never be with me again when I come to visit this side of my family.
And then, yesterday, I got a call from our florist, chasing me for the deposit for our wedding flowers. Scott promised he’d take care of canceling everything and I took him up on the offer, figuring it would hurt him less than it would hurt me. I handed over my wedding planning folder and left him to it, but forgot to add the florist’s details. Having to endure her pity when she learned the nuptials had fallen through was like suffering a physical blow.
I’ve walked past that florist in Bury St. Edmunds countless times. Before I came away, it had a big bucket of sunflowers sitting on the ground outside. The memory of them prompts a flashback to our camper van holiday through France, Spain, and Portugal last summer.
Scott and I were in France, driving alongside a field of sunflowers. All the blooms in the field were facing away from us except one, and I noticed this at the same moment as Scott, who turned to me, letting go of the wheel for a couple of seconds to do jazz hands at me.
I cracked up laughing at his impression of that flower.
I’m smiling now too, but then I remember that Nadine gets to laugh at his jokes these days, not me.
9
The next morning, I have an idea to put up bunting and festoon lights inside the barn. Dad and Sheryl love the suggestion, but they’re busy preparing party food for the Opening Day event tomorrow, so, with Dad’s car and credit card at my disposal, I head into town.
East of the square, in an area of town I haven’t ventured into yet, I’m pleasantly surprised to find a couple of independent stores and a cozy-looking café, as well as a party store. When I reach for my door handle to get out of the car, I’m taken aback to find Jonas sitting in the dusty black truck that’s parked right beside me. I’ve been keeping my eyes peeled for him ever since Anders admitted he was worried, but this is the first time I’ve seen him all week.
I pause for a moment. He’s staring at the grocery store next to the party shop and when I peer closer, I realize that there’s a woman at the checkout counter in his line of vision. She’s around his age—mid-to-late thirties—and is attractive, with dark hair tied up in a high, messy bun. She’s holding the hand of a small, curly-haired boy.
I return my attention to Jonas. He looks miserable. I’m wondering whether I should go and ask if he’s all right when hestarts up his engine and reverses out onto the road, driving back toward the farm.
Well,thatwas curious.
Curious, but none of my business.
The party store comes up trumps and I return to Wetherill with plenty of festoon lights and bunting. The design is a bit “country kitchen” for my personal taste: a variety of prints, from florals to polka dots, and all in pastel colors. But it will suit the inside of the barn, so, with a long ladder and a staple gun, I set about fixing it to the walls.
“That’s looking good!” Dad exclaims when he comes into the barn later.
“Thanks. I’m almost done,” I tell him, securing the last string. “I don’t think this will be strong enough for the festoon lights,” I say as I climb back down the ladder and hand him the staple gun.
He peers up at the high ceiling. “You planning to crisscross them from the rafters?”
“That’s what I thought, but what you do you think?”
“That would work well. Let me go get some nails and a hammer.”
I hop up onto the counter and wait for him, watching the bunting flutter in the breeze that’s coming in through the barn’s large double doors. It’s cooler than it was yesterday.
