Page 25 of Bea's Book Wagon
‘I still have the scar, see?’ said Bea, holding out her hand. He took it in his and brought it closer to his face.
‘There’s nothing there,’ he said, looking up at her sceptically.
‘Look! Right there,’ she said, jabbing a finger into her outstretched palm.
‘Hmmmmm…’ He traced the faint line with the gentlest of touches. Bea’s skin tingled at the contact, and she felt a flicker of surprise as her heart began to race and she sensed something unexpected, yet familiar.
A jolt of realization hit her, a surge of feelings reigniting, feelings she thought were long forgotten…
‘Anyway, I was saying,’ he blustered, dropping her hand. ‘Sorry, what was I saying? I can’t actually remember…’ he trailed off, shaking his head.
‘Bookcases?’ Bea whispered.
‘Oh, right, yeah,’ he babbled. ‘Well, we’ve got loads of wood lying around, I’m pretty sure I can build you some bookcases.’ He turned away, running a hand through his unruly mop of hair.
‘Seriously, Nate? I mean, that would be amazing… but I don’t want you to feel like you have to, though.’
‘Hey, it’s no problem. I’d enjoy it actually, it’s been ages since I’ve been able to get my chisels out,’ he said, laughing.
‘Well, if you’re sure… thank you. I’ve had some other ideas, too,’ said Bea, her imagination unleashed. ‘I was thinking about adding an awning to the front so I could have beanbags, or even deckchairs to make a little outdoor reading area. I want to put an arch of flowers around the door here,’ she explained, tracing it in the air, ‘and fairy lights everywhere. It’s going to look magical.’
‘A car battery could power those; easy to install, and cheap, too.’
‘Really? That sounds perfect.’
‘Why don’t you come in for a cuppa and you can tell me about some of your other ideas? You can catch up with Mum and Dad, too. Mum was baking when I left.’
‘Oooh, go on then. I’d kill for one of your mum’s scones, I’m starving.’
‘Come on, then,’ said Nathan, closing the wagon door and securing the bolt.
The weather outside had worsened, storm clouds had gathered and the rain had turned to hail. As Bea pulled up her hood, ready to dash towards the farmhouse, her mind was firmly fixed on the spark she had felt when Nathan took her hand.
Where the hell had that come from?
It had caught her completely off guard. She hadn’t thought of Nathan as anything more than a friend in years, but were emotions she thought long-buried awakening once more?
* * *
‘Wordsworth, stop, please!’ Bea groaned from underneath the duvet the following morning. ‘It’s too early.’ The little spaniel let out an ear-piercing bark. ‘Come here for a cuddle,’ she said, patting the pillow next to her. He hopped up on the bed and licked her face. ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ she said, throwing back the covers. ‘Okay, okay, I’m getting up.’
Yesterday’s rain had finally stopped and the sun was peering through the clouds at last. ‘Looks like we can go for a walk after all,’ she said, and the dog began bouncing around her heels excitedly. ‘All right, all right, let me get dressed first.’
They hadn’t even made it halfway along the footpath by the river but Bea had already skidded in the mud and landed flat on her back. The rain had turned the ground into a mudslide and she had totally misjudged her footwear.
‘This was a terrible idea. Here, boy!’ she called. Wordsworth, who was usually really obedient, darted off in the opposite direction, barking excitedly.
‘Wordsworth!’ Bea bellowed at the top of her lungs. ‘Come!’ He ignored her, sniffing and pawing at a patch of grass that was clearly more interesting. ‘That’s it,’ she huffed, jogging towards him as best she could in her flipflops. ‘Stop messing about.’ But, as she reached for his collar, he ran off again, this time directly towards the river.
Splash!
By the time Bea reached the bank, Wordsworth had swum to the opposite side of the river and was sat panting, looking pleased with himself. If he could talk, Bea was pretty sure he’d be saying, ‘I bet you didn’t know I could do that, did you?’
‘Come on, time to go home,’ she said, waving her arms and shaking his lead in the air. The dog didn’t budge. ‘Wordsworth, here boy!’ she called, her patience waning. ‘You got yourself over there, you can make it back,’ she said encouragingly, pulling a packet of treats out of her pocket and shaking them. ‘Wordsworth! Come!’
‘Are you okay?’ a voice called. Bea spun around to see a man further down the footpath jogging towards her.
‘It’s my dog,’ she said, pointing towards Wordsworth. ‘He’s swum across the river and is refusing to come back.’
