Page 8 of You Had Me At Pumpkin Patch
And was it a mirage, or was there an old-fashioned typewriter in that small workspace beneath the bed? A collection of partly melted pillar candles huddled close to it and Rosie tried to blink away the vision of herself writing there, in the peaceful semi-darkness. She could almost hear her fingers tapping at the small round keys, her romantic novel unfolding itself like magic. Something inspired by nature, with a lake and a wooden hideaway, and a strong, dark hero. He’d be called something like Zain or Cain, and would have dark eyes and carry huge pumpkins on his muscular bare back, looking brooding and moody...
‘You all right?’
Agnes’s voice broke through her daydream, which was just as well. Her delinquent thoughts were about to steam up the windows.
‘Mmm hmm,’ she managed.
This whole place was like a hug on an autumn day, and goodness knew, Rosie could do with one – even if today she was particularly needy. She blew out a tense breath. Because with every passing minute, it was becoming worryingly more difficult to shake off the misunderstanding she’d been oddly acquiescing to.
‘The last employee, Krista, decorated the place,’ Agnes explained, thrusting the Thermos back at Rosie and motioning that she should drink up, as though she didn’t have all day. ‘Liked her home comforts but didn’t have room to take it all in her backpack. Buggered off travelling with no notice and left me in the lurch. That’s why I’m in a rush for someone to take over the wild swimming and get the place ready for the retreats this autumn. You know.’ She made a shushing noise and lowered her voice. ‘The pumpkin retreats.’ She mouthed the P word like it was something taboo.
Pumpkin retreats? Rosie scratched her head.
‘It’s been a heck of a job to find anyone to sort these retreats. Did Wilbur tell you about my roof?’ Agnes didn’t wait for an answer. ‘The house needs a new one before winter or never mind raining cats and dogs. It will be rainingonmy cats and dogs. My poor animal sanctuary will become a swimming pool. And cats don’t like to swim.’ She was wringing her hands now. ‘You’re our only hope of bringing in some money.’
Rosie could feel her story senses twitching. Something to fight for. The chance to be the heroine of her own life, rather than a forgettable minor character, always dumped or replaced. But no – that was beyond silly. And what on earth were pumpkin retreats anyway?
Rosie gulped. ‘I’m sure there are other ways.’ She tried to ignore the thought of drowning animals that was tugging at her heartstrings.
‘This is the best we’ve come up with,’ said Agnes. ‘We’ve got to use what we have to make that money. No question. Wilbur said you were an expert at planning wild retreats with a very limited budget.Extremely creative,he called you. Then he came up with the idea of using the pumpkins as our... what was it now... UFO? BRB?’ She huffed. ‘USP! That was it. Our Unique Selling Point. He says people are going wild for theseautumn vibesand pumpkin-spiced whatchamacallits. Photos in pumpkin fields and cooking marshmallows around campfires wearing pumpkin face packs and singing about the harvest moon.’ She waved a hand. ‘Or whatever. Your job to come up with something, you being the expert.’
‘I don’t really know about...’
But her unlikely host wasn’t letting her get too many words in. ‘It’s a miracle we found you. No time to waste.’
Agnes opened a cupboard and threw in Rosie’s holdall like it was a done deal. Rosie’s eyes widened. She tried not to think about the wooden lodge from that filmMisery. This woman made a lovely cup of sweet tea and was surely not a hammer-wielding kidnapper.
‘If we don’t get moving with the plans, I’m going to have to sell off the land.’ Agnes slumped backwards against the small copper sink. There was a hint of desperation in her eyes, and Rosie couldn’t help but feel for her. ‘The only buyer who’s shown the slightest interest is some tech giant who wants to tear the place up to build factories. They want to make robot cats. Robots replacing real pets? Whatever next?’
Rosie felt every hair on her body stand on end. ‘Whatever bloody next,’ she agreed, even though she’d just had a good eyeful of what could well benext. Robot girlfriends and chatbots that nicked your job.
‘There is one slight sticking point.’ Agnes cleared her throat. ‘Zain doesn’t yet know about the pumpkin UFO. I mean USP.’ She shook her head. ‘And let’s just say, he might not be over the harvest moon about it.’ She waved her arm towards the hut on the other side of the lake. Rosie found her errant eyes following. ‘He’s not fond of crowds or fuss, and he’s like a grizzly bear protecting its offspring if you try to get your hands near his big ones.’
Rosie blinked.
‘Or indeed his little lumpy ones,’ Agnes continued. ‘He’s very particular. Though I’m sure you youngsters could work it out. He’s got a good heart under those funny tattoos and that hair that needs a good chop.’
‘Tattoos,’ Rosie heard herself saying, as images etched themselves onto the rugged skin of the bookish hero she’d just been imagining. They suited him.
Agnes shot her a strange look and then lowered her voice, even though the Zain guy definitely couldn’t hear. ‘Though he’d be even moodier if I had to sell the land to a bunch of tech folk. He doesn’t even use a smartphone, and I can’t see Cyber Purrz caring about his kooky crops or his bats. Not that I’ve dared to mention the threat of selling yet.’ She shuddered. ‘So it’s in his interests for the pair of you to work together and not fight – even if the stubborn oaf doesn’t yet know it.’
Agnes straightened herself. ‘So, can I leave it with you? I trust Wilbur’s judgement, and you seem respectable. A wild retreat expert, no less. And your lake swimming experience will come in handy. In fact, you’d be wise to pretend to Zain that your retreats are all about wild dunks in the great outdoors, until you dare to mention his pumpkins.’ She gave Rosie another visual sweep. ‘Though you may want to dress down a bit. Think Krista left some spare wellies and other crap in one of the cupboards, if you get stuck.’
‘No, I...’ Rosie gulped. It was high time she stopped trying on this fantasy life and made her confessions. The longer she left it, the more ludicrous it would be. She knew nothing about swimming or pumpkins or planning retreats, especially witha very limited budget. She was an expert in precisely nothing, and she certainly wasn’t keen on bats, whateverthatwas all about.
None of this was her problem.
Yet she could feel a fizzing frustration at the thought of tech weirdness winning yet another battle. Then there were Agnes’s poor cats and dogs, and she did love all things autumn. And her traitorous eyes must have been staring longingly at the typewriter whilst thoughts danced, and fresh ideas about running writing retreats started to bloom, uninvited, even if she was sure she’d once imagined them in one of her daydreams. Stupid, of course. But Agnes pounced on her apparent interest in the typewriter.
‘Think Krista left some paper.’ Agnes began opening cupboards. ‘She used that thing to start typing up retreat plans. None of that Wi-Fi around here, you see. No outside world to trouble you. Pure peace. Though Wilbur said you were more into painting, not writing. I’m sure you could bring some of your artiness to the retreats too. Painting seasonal scenes and carving pumpkins around the lake.’ Agnes gave her a buoyant clap on the arm, like it was a brilliant plan.
Rosie spluttered up the tea she’d been sipping. ‘No! I mean, honestly, I don’t think I’m the person you were looking for.’ Enough was enough. She could not hang around here pretending to be a retreat-organising, wild-swim-conducting artist extraordinaire. She had none of those skills. What was she still doing here?
‘Oh. You’ve changed your mind? Don’t like the accommodation? The pay’s not great, but it’s enough to keep you alive and kicking. I’m not even fussy about proper references. Wilbur said you were good.’ There was a tinge of despair in Agnes’s voice.
‘Well, I’m not good. I’m...mediocre.’ Her ex-boss had said as much, and he hadn’t even witnessed her attempts at swimming or holding a paintbrush.
Agnes shrugged. ‘Aren’t we all. Look, you’re here now and I don’t have time to find anyone else. It was a struggle enough to find you – you’re our last chance. Just give it a go for a day or two. The swim ladies will be here on Wednesday, and I can’t get in the water with my impetigo.’ She scratched her leg, like it was an after-thought. ‘And you won’t catch Zain parading around the ladies in a pair of swim shorts.’
