I want to defend Reece, tell them he’s not the villain they think he is, but I don’t want to reveal too much. Besides, there’s still something he’s not telling me, and until I understand what that is, I’m not sure what there is to defend.
‘Here we go, dear.’ Madge returns the now full shopping basket to my hands and Lettie goes back behind the counter to run it through the till. They’ve carefully chosen everything that was on my list, along with a box of locally made salted caramel and hazelnut chocolates, and a bottle of local wine.
‘Do you charge extra for the service?’ I ask as a joke to cover the fact I feel guilty for standing here while a little old lady did my shopping for me, even though I know that’s exactly the way they intended it.
‘Not at all, but we hope whoever it’s for will appreciate the effort.’ Madge pats my arm as I pay and stuff everything into a bag. ‘And make sure to ply him with the wine. It’s a perfect pie accompaniment and enough of it makes for loose lips, if you know what we mean?’
I assume she means sharing info, but my mind goes tootherthings you do with lips, and even Wilma giggles at how red my cheeks have gone. I hurry away as fast as possible, amid promises to keep them updated, but it’s hard not to be impressed by their persistence and the fact they care about their pub so much that they fully support getting the builder drunk and taking advantage… Even thoughIwish I could get Reece to open up of his own accord.
13
That afternoon, I’m back in the yellow van with my ingredients spread across the tiny kitchen counter, trying to work out the logistics of making a lemon meringue pie in such a small space. Everything is miniature in the van. I have a one-shelf oven, a two-shelf fridge with an icebox at the top, and a one-ring hob. The part I didn’t tell Reece is that, while I remember my grandma making this recipe when I was younger, I’ve never actually attempted it myself, and I’ve never bakedanythingin a kitchen this size before.
It’s almost guaranteed to go horribly wrong and leave us both disappointed, but as I start measuring out flour, salt, sugar and butter for the pie crust, I get lost in the familiar ritual of baking. Making pastry is something I’ve done thousands of times. The way the ingredients come together between my fingers, the familiar rhythm of mixing and measuring. It’s like an anchor connecting me to who I used to be before everything went sideways, and I’m starting to realise thatthathappened a long time before last Tuesday.
I haven’t done much baking lately. It was something Jared considered a waste of time when you could buy better from a bakery, and I’d let his disinterest put me off. I hadn’t realised how unhappy it made me that something I loved had meant nothing to him. Looking back now, I wonder why I ignored the signs for so long rather than rocking the boat. I knew I needed a change, and Vickie and I got caught up in planning and dreaming about The Nostalgia Café – the décor we’d have and the customers we’d wow, but the actual baking I would do there had taken a backseat. I’m taking a leaf out of Reece’s showtune book and humming ‘Defying Gravity’ as I roll out pastry on the van’s fold-down tabletop that fits over the sink, lulled by the sound of drilling filtering down the hill from the pub. Most people would hate having a building site for a neighbour, but there’s something comforting about hearing Reece work.
I’m not exactly a domestic goddess in the van’s ridiculously small kitchen area. I keep banging my elbows and there’s definite swearing when I accidentally turn the hob on and burn my finger on it, and Campervan rocks as if she’s laughing at me.
Or maybe she’s laughingwithme? It might be a bit of an adjustment, but there’s something cosy about the space limitation. Everything I need is within arm’s reach, pulling out the table in the seating area adds extra space, and as I work, my mindset changes from thinking it’s cramped to it feeling pleasantly intimate.
As I wait for the pastry case to blind-bake and then start on the lemon curd, I find myself looking around with affection. The cheerful yellow exterior suits the van somehow and makes it feel bright, warm and more like a home than stolen property. The sharp scent of lemon zest fills the van as I stir egg yolks and lemon juice over the gentle heat of the hob, I realise this is starting to feel like somewhere I belong. The thought should probably worry me more than it does. No matter what itfeelslike, I can’t stay here forever, in someone’s else’s van, in another someone else’s car park, but as the scent of baking fills the small space and the afternoon light streams through the windows, it feels more right than anything has in months, and I find my mind drifting towards the abandoned tearoom in the village again, like tendrils reaching out towards it, trying to grasp onto a thought that hasn’t fully formed yet. This is a new start that I didn’t realise I needed until the moment I took it, and I’ve inadvertently ended up in a village that’s missing a tearoom. I don’t know how it fits together yet, but it’s starting to feel like I’m exactly where I need to be.
* * *
I’ve got the back windows open so the smell drifts out, and I can’t stop the grin when I spot Reece hobbling down the steps. We’ve got into a routine where he comes down about 6p.m. every evening, and I’ve timed it so I’m just spooning the lemon filling into the pie crust before it goes into the oven.
A few walkers have given me curious looks, sniffing the air with interest, and a couple of big buzzy bees have come to make sure the campervan isn’t a giant yellow flower, but otherwise, I’ve been free to get lost in the baking this afternoon, and I can’t remember the last time I did that. My grandma would’velovedthis – both the baking and being in Thimblenouth again.
‘Something smells amazing.’ Reece knocks on the open door of the van and leans on it with an arm raised and the weight kept tellingly off his leg. ‘If that’s the lemon meringue pie you promised me, I might have to kiss you.’
It takes a few moments for him to realise what he’s said and backpedal quickly. ‘I mean… um… No, that would be weird, wouldn’t it? Obviously I wouldn’t kiss someone who hadn’t made me think they wanted to be kissed, I… Oh dear, this sentence has gone horribly wrong. Can we pretend I didn’t say that? Let’s start over.’ He takes a deep breath and knocks on the side of the campervan again. ‘Good evening, Dolly, that smells like a very nice pie you’re making.’
I can’t help grinning, partially because of how red his face has gone, and partially because I get so stuck on the thought of kissing him that my brain sputters to a halt and doesn’t know where to go from there. Awkward laughter is the only solution.
He steps up into the van and comes to look over my shoulder as I slather meringue on top of the warm lemon filling. ‘I’m watching an artist at work.’
I laugh out loud. The only artistry involved is spooning, spreading and trying to fork a few peaks up in the gooey white meringue. My baking is never fancy – it’s old-fashioned and exactly as my grandma taught me, and with The Nostalgia Café, I was hoping to find people who’d appreciate that.
His tall presence behind me is comforting, and the scent of his bright and tropical aftershave briefly manages to outdo the smell of baking and I breathe it in and relax, because there’s something so nice about him being here.
‘Right, all done,’ I announce after a few more minutes of trying to give the meringue a pretty finish, and he moves away to give me the space to open the mini-oven’s door and slide it in.
Reece takes his usual place on the bench seat. He stretches his injured leg out on the table and sinks back in the seat with a long sigh, sounding like it’s the first time he’s sat down all day. He’s wearing a soft blue jumper that makes his eyes look bluer, and black lounge trousers with tiny white alien faces all over them.
‘Very demure.’ I nod to his legs as I get the first aid kit out. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in pyjama trousers thataren’tvisible from space.
I kneel down beside him, pull his trouser leg up to the knee and unwrap the bandage. His skin is warm under my fingers, and the wound is healing well. It probably doesn’t need any further dressing, but I keep doing it, because I like him having an excuse to come down here, and an excuse to touch him, and I think he might like it too. ‘How’s the building work going?’
His lips quirk up like he knows I’m not going to get a straight answer. ‘Fine.’
‘It sounded like a good day. Lots of drilling. No yelping.’
‘Trying to take off the broken rendering around the doors.’
I spray wound sanitiser onto his leg and it still makes him wince.
‘How long have you been working on the pub-to-house conversion?’ I sit back to let it dry and look up to catch his eyes, determined to wheedle some answers out of him, somehow.
