Page 20 of Strawberry Kisses

Chapter Ten

Patrick

It was nearly five by the time we reached my parents’ house, having spent an hour queueing on the M5 near Bristol because there’d been some sort of accident.

My parents lived on an old farm between the rolling wilds of Dartmoor and the south coast. Once upon a time, it had been a dairy farm, then my father and my uncle had started training racehorses together, turning the whole thing into a small but well-oiled racing yard. They did a lot less of the training now since they were both in their seventies. Or about to be. These days, Cara and her husband ran most of the operation, and they’d had quite a lot of success over recent years.

The farm also had several holiday cottages of varying size dotted across it, from little two-bedroom hideaways to sprawling old barns that slept about twenty. They were always fully booked, and they were all far enough away from the yard not to cause problems for the horses or for the grooms to disturb the guests when they all turned up at seven each morning.

I’d grown up having free run of the place. It was a loving childhood but a bit of a lonely one. My sisters had all been too old to play with me when I’d wanted someone to play with, and I was expected to entertain myself when I wasn’t helping out.

My father had wanted me to become a jockey, but even though I loved horses and enjoyed riding, it had never been for me. Besides, I didn’t exactly have the body type for it. I’d preferred to spend my days in the farmhouse kitchen with my mum while she taught me to make soda bread and barmbrack. By the time I was nine, I was happily making cakes, unsupervised. Everything I made got put in the tack room in a tin by the kettle, and it was always empty at the end of the day.

When I was sixteen, I’d gotten my first job in the village pub and spent as much time as possible with Jean and Val, the old ladies who ran the kitchen a couple of nights a week and made all the puddings. They’d given me their recipes to take home and try on my family and the stable lads, who ate everything I put in front of them. I don’t think anyone had been surprised when I’d said I wanted to be a pastry chef.

I think my family had thought I’d stay local and maybe get a job in one of the pubs here, but then I’d met Aaron during one of my placements. He’d introduced me to Ben, and one night over pizza and cider they’d told me about their plans to open an upscale pub-style restaurant. They’d needed a pastry chef, and I’d jumped at the chance.

Their original plan was to set up somewhere in Yorkshire where Ben and Aaron had grown up, but then a chef friend of a friend of Aaron’s had mentioned he was giving up the lease on the pub he ran in a village on the outskirts of Nottingham and wanted someone to take it over. He owned the building and had told Ben and Aaron they could pretty much do what they wanted as long as the food was good. And that had been that. The Pear Tree had opened six months after we’d finished school, and I’d never looked back. And I’d never moved home.

Considering all my sisters still lived either on the farm, in the village, or in Plymouth, and spent pretty much every weekend at my parents’, I wondered if that made me a disappointment to my family. They’d never said anything out loud, but sometimes there was a wistful note in my mum’s voice that made me think she wished things were different.

I pulled the car into the driveway between the old metal farm gates, past Cara’s house at the top of the drive and down the wide strip of tarmac that led towards the farm under the shade of some trees. Ahead, I could see the cottage my parents called home and the stables and barns of the yard. Behind the hedges I saw fields with a couple of horses out grazing in the early July sunshine.

“Wow, it’s so pretty,” Connor said, peering out the window at the rough, rolling valleys and old stone walls. “You grew up here?”

“Yeah.” I drove slowly around the cottage, watching out for any stray farm cats, and into a space next to a battered Land Rover and a couple of small cars. It didn’t look like my whole family was here yet. “Are you ready?”

“I guess so.” He reached over the console and squeezed my hand. “Thanks for driving, by the way. And for never complaining about my music choices.”

“It could’ve been worse. You should hear what Oli and Antoni play in the pot wash sometimes.”

“Are you ready?” Connor asked, squeezing my hand again and giving me a soft smile. Something bubbled in my stomach, and for the first time since we’d concocted this hare-brained scheme, I worried that I was doing the wrong thing. I mean it was one thing to let my family believe Connor and I were dating, but it was another to straight up lie to their faces.

“I think so.” I sighed. “It’s a bit late now if not.”

“No chance to turn back now.”

“Let’s go say hi then,” I said. Not adding before I lose my nerve.

I got out of the car and waited for Connor to follow, then I headed for the back door of the house. I was about two steps away from the car when I felt something warm brush against my hand. I froze. Then Connor’s fingers slipped into mine, squeezing my hand tightly. I glanced down at him, wondering if he’d meant to do that, but he was looking out across the fields.

“Come on,” he said. “They’re going to think we’re just sitting in the car making out.” He turned to look at me and wiggled his eyebrows dramatically. I snorted, shaking my head as I pulled him towards the house.

“Hello,” I called out as I opened the door into the little utility room that then opened into the wide, farmhouse kitchen. I smelled something baking, and it warmed me from the inside out and made me feel like a child all over again.

“Patrick? Is that you?” My mum’s lilting Irish brogue responded, accompanied by the barking of dogs as three terriers rushed through the door towards us. I chuckled, letting go of Connor’s hand for a moment to brush one of them off my knees.

“Yeah, it’s me and Connor.” I stepped into the kitchen, still fending off dogs. Mum was pulling something out of the oven. Her long, honey curls were streaked through with grey, but she looked exactly the same as the last time I’d seen her.

“I was starting to wonder where you’d gotten to!” She put the cake tin on the side, then swept over to me and pulled me into a fierce hug. Then she stepped back to give me an appraising look. “You look tired, my love.”

“It was a long drive.” Mum glanced over my shoulder, and I realised I’d pretty much abandoned Connor to the mercy of the dogs. But when I looked around, he stood by the door, trying to scratch all three of them at once, a wide grin on his face. “Mum, this is Connor. Connor, this is my mum.”

Connor straightened and shot Mum one of his beautiful smiles. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Evans.”

“Oh please, call me Aoife. Everyone does.” She swept him up into a hug. “We’re so pleased you could make it. I can’t believe Patrick waited this long to tell us.” She released Connor and looked at me again, her grey eyes twinkling. “Why didn’t you tell me he was so gorgeous, Patrick? None of the photographs do him justice at all.”

I flushed because that was not what I’d expected her to say. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

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