Page 13 of You Had Me At Pumpkin Patch
‘Live simply,’ she heard herself say. She looked down at the basket again, noticing it was filled with croissants, fresh bread and those little pots of jam that you got with a hotel breakfast. ‘And stop talking to baked goods.’
Zain must have brought the food over from the main house, unless he was a secret artisan baker as well as a speciality pumpkin farmer. She was touched he’d brought it to her door, even though he’d probably wanted to hurl the crusty rolls at her head and shout,‘Get off my patch.’
‘You have a beating heart under that firm torso, huh?’ she whispered. And this time she wasn’t speaking to the pastries.
When she’d thrown together a quick breakfast, she cosied back into her writing cubby. She hadn’t been meaning to write that morning. But even a fleeting glance of Zain was enough to make her creative mind twitch, and before she knew it, she was deep in the flow.
‘You in there?’ The loud voice and sharp knock pulled Rosie from her writing alchemy. It was Agnes.
How long had she been typing? Rosie jumped up and pulled her hair into a wonky bun, smoothing down her pyjamas like that would make Snoopy and Woodstock so much tidier. Why hadn’t she even dressed yet? She rushed to open the door.
‘Oh gosh, I’m all behind,’ Rosie explained as Agnes bustled her way in. Rosie scooped bits of leftover breakfast back into the basket, realising she’d left the kitchen in a crummy state.
Now was meant to be the part when Rosie gathered her things and insisted she wasn’t a good fit after all. Thathadbeen the plan. Yet with every moment she spent here, it became harder to peel herself away.
‘Sorry about the muddle,’ Rosie heard herself saying, while her logical brain screeched:screw the mess – tellher you can’t take the job!
‘Tsssk, woman,’ Agnes chided. ‘I’m not one to judge.’ She held her hands out and Rosie noticed she had her jumper on backwards under her patched-up wax jacket, and she was sure that was strawberry jam on her cheek. ‘And if you think I’m scruffy, wait until you clap eyes on Steve.’ She held her sides as she laughed.
Who was Steve?
‘And when you meet Mags and the swim ladies, that quirky bunch will make you feel right at home.’
At home. It was outlandish to entertain the idea, though part of her was terrified about leaving, just as her precious new story was coming to life.
‘I take it you’re staying,’ said Agnes, in a way that did not sound like a question. ‘The swim lot are coming tomorrow, and I’ll never find anyone else to coordinate before then.’
Rosie gulped. She could swim a few metres and like most things in her life, she could just about tread water. But she’d never dared to swim in a fresh lake, where the depth wasn’t clear and there were no handrails. Her mind was reeling. And that could be the only reason that her errant mouth decided to take over.
‘I’ll stick around.’ Wait, what? When exactly had that been decided? ‘I mean, just for a week, to see how it goes.’ Yes, that was more sensible. She’d get the essence of her story down before the whole thing slipped away, then she’d be out of there. Because stories were delicate like that. You couldn’t disturb them when they were settling in. ‘As long as I don’t need to be a lifeguard, or anything. I’m limping at the moment, so I shouldn’t be in charge of anyone’s safety.’
‘Don’t be daft. You’re not David Hasselhoff.’ Agnes did a slow-motion running impression. ‘They’re seasoned swimmers, and they’ll show you the ropes. There’s tow floats and spare kit. And make sure you put on a good show in case Zain’s watching. If he thinks you’re all about the swimming, it’ll give you chance to charm him before he realises you’ve got designs on his big, bulging squash.’
‘I’m pretty sure Zain is not for charming, and I may not be here long enough to get a grip on anyone’s...’
Agnes waved a hand. ‘Give it a week and you’ll never want to leave. This place gets under your skin.’
That wasnotgoing to happen. It was a pumpkin farm, not a parasitic infection.
And yet, therewassomething about this place. The freedom of it. The enchantment of waking up to the sound of nothing but birdsong. Pure darkness, other than the solar lights reflecting on the lake. The distant glow of the pumpkin fields, warm and almost mesmerising – even if she hadn’t dared venture there yet, for fear of being impaled on a certain farmer’s pitchfork. Autumn Meadows was a riot of everything she loved about her favourite season. Itwouldmake the perfect backdrop for all sorts of retreats – theoretically. Not that she’d be the one stupid enough to brave it.
Agnes straightened herself and checked her watch. Rosie had no idea what she was always in a rush for, unless disappearing in haste was her canny method of getting her own way before Rosie could organise her thoughts.
‘Just a week,’ Rosie repeated firmly, hoping her message was loud and clear.
Rosie had spent her whole life winging it. She could surely style this charade out for another week without making any preposterous mistakes or blowing her own cover.
11
So that was who Steve was.
Rosie was sitting on the edge of the wooden platform that jutted out into the lake, when the hairless, three-legged cat approached her. She’d never quite seen anything like him. He was like a grey, bony bag of skin with the greenestwhat are you looking at?eyes. Someone had fashioned him a denim jacket out of what looked like a coat for a trendy baby, but with the arms yanked off. He hopped towards her and sat down, the silver name tag on his collar catching the cool September sun.
‘So you’re the one Agnes mentioned yesterday. Well, I’m pleased to meet you.’ Rosie would have shaken his paw, although with his back leg already missing, that might have toppled him over.
She looked down at her own bare feet, which were dangling from the edge of the platform, one set of toes still blue-green from having dropped Cassius’s vase on it just two days before. What a difference two days made. ‘At least I only came away with an injured soul and a few bruises. Our wounds are what make us real though, aren’t they?’ she said, stroking a cheek that was warm enough to prove he wasn’t a Cyber Purrz robot pet. Perhaps he was another of Agnes’s waifs and strays, which Rosie had seen skulking around, as if conspiring to make her feel guilty enough to stay and fight for their new roof.
Rosie had no idea why she was confiding in a cat with no hair, as she sat by the lake in a slightly too small swimming costume she’d found in the spare kit box, with a towel wrapped around her shoulders. It was beautiful out here, with the brightness bouncing off the water and taking the chill from the air. Her plan was to brave a practice dip before the morning’s swimmers descended, but so far, it wasn’t happening.
