been to.”
“Well, come with me and I’ll show you!”
“I haven’t got time.” Carrie shook her head. “Look, it’s not a firm decision, yet. Just something to look into.”
Trying to keep a firm rein on his temper, Nate looked away. “Yeah, well. Look into it all you want. I still have control of these gardens, for as long as I want it, remember?”
“Uncle Patrick wants to look into the legality of that, too,” Carrie said, and her soft voice just made him angrier. “Either way, I still own the land.”
“And you want to sell it out from under me. Got tired of waiting for me to leave, huh?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Fine. Be sure to let me know what you and your uncle decide about my future.”
He walked away before Carrie had a chance to call him back. Not least because he wasn’t sure if she would.
* * * *
The bulbs were going to come up crooked, Nate knew. That was what he got for planting when angry. They were probably pointing in all sorts of weird directions, and who knew what he’d even put where, or how deep?
He sighed. The poor things didn’t stand a chance. Much like the rest of his gardens.
Nancy had received an offer two years earlier to buy the stretch of gardens that ran out to the western edge of the property. Far enough away that nobody could tell from the inn itself, especially since mostly only the kitchens faced out that way. It had been a good offer. The sort of offer that would enable Carrie to fix most of the things she wanted. He could easily imagine Uncle Patrick finding someone willing to make a similar offer. Even in these times of recession, somebody always wanted to build something over gardens.
Nancy had dismissed the offer out of hand. She’d said she refused to even consider parting with an inch of her property. She’d said the gardens were the most important part of the inn. Of course, she’d added “after the bar” shortly afterwards, but, still, Nate had felt reassured. His retreat was intact. He was safe there.
Apparently Nancy’s granddaughter didn’t feel so strongly about the land.
Nate tossed his trowel into his empty bulb bucket, stood up and stretched. That wasn’t fair, he knew. Carrie’s financial situation was a lot more precarious, even without Uncle Patrick on her back. Two years ago, before Nancy got sick, the inn had been doing reasonably well. And no one expected it to be a designer wedding venue. Guests were happy with the floral wallpaper and green and purple carpets. The Avalon was what it was, and people liked that.
But what it was wasn’t good enough, any more. Not for the likes of Ruth and Selena Archer. Not for Anna Yardley. Not for Carrie.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Nate told himself that what he needed was a long, hot shower and an evening drinking whisky with a good book. When his mobile rang, he almost ignored it. But it was probably Gran, with some sort of minor emergency. And he couldn’t ignore his gran, now, could he?
But when he looked, the display showed a London number, and then it was his curiosity that wouldn’t let him ignore it.
“Nate Green,” he said, trying to sound as if he didn’t care who was on the other end.
“TV Wow’s Hunkiest Gardener, two years running. I may swoon.” The husky voice was achingly familiar, and Nate stepped away from the flowerbed to drop onto the wooden bench placed there to make the most of the spring blooms. He really would need a whisky after this conversation.
“Melody. How...strange to hear from you.” He didn’t add, after you fired me, or even, after you dumped me. He figured they were sort of implicit.
“It’s been two years, Nate. I missed you.” Which sounded highly unlikely.
“In which capacity? Hunky TV gardener, or part-time boyfriend?” Nate tried to make it sound like a joke, but he wasn’t really sure he succeeded.
Either way, Melody was suddenly all business. “The former, actually. Listen, I was wondering if you could come down to London this week, talk about the possibility of a new show?”
Nate wondered how much the Avalon Inn, and Carrie, would fall apart if he disappeared for a day or two. Probably quite a lot. “I’ve got a lot on up here, Mel. I don’t think I can.”
“Turning down the chance to be a TV star all over again?” Mel sounded faintly incredulous. “What happened to the fame-hungry Nate ‘the Singing Gardener’ Green who made grandmothers across the country faint into their rice pudding?”
“He came north to look after his own grandmother. And do the sort of gardening he wanted to do, without having to sing for his supper.” Nate leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes against the weak autumn sunlight. “Besides, how do you know I haven’t put on ten stone eating my gran’s cooking?” Mel had never met his gran, let alone sampled her attempts at fine cuisine. She didn’t like to travel north of Watford Gap.
“With your stature and work ethic? Never.” Mel blew a breath down the phone line, and Nate knew he was about to hear why she was really calling. “Look, Nate, I’ve got a new programme in the works, and my star gardener’s had some sort of breakdown and refuses to even have a telly in his house, let alone appear on it. I think he might have made himself a tinfoil hat. I thought gardening was supposed to reduce stress?”
“Well, is it stress stress, or drugs and alcohol stress?”
“Apparently, just overwork.” Mel sighed again. “Regardless, I’m down a gardening genius. And I thought to myself, where do you find one of those lazing around, wasting their talent?”
“And you thought of me,” Nate finished.
“And I thought of you.” Mel paused for a moment, then said, “What do you say? It’s proper gardening, Nate. Not just sticking some pots on gravel in between songs.”
“Not city gardens?” Nate had thought he’d go crazy, doing up designer gardens for professionals who didn’t actually want to touch soil or anything. Not to mention the obligatory tune, stuck in between gardening tips. He’d wished for years he’d never been to that karaoke bar with Melody back when they were still planning the programme. But when he’d suggested they move on to something a bit wider, something with some scope to grow and change and evolve... Well. That was when Mel had decided his preferred sort of gardening didn’t mesh with the production company’s ethos.
And when he’d walked away from The Singing Gardener, it was clear their needs and wants didn’t mesh any more, either.
“Country estates,” Mel said, her voice tempting and husky again. “Miles of green grass and empty borders needing vision and design. Herb gardens, vegetable plots, rose gardens...anything you fancy.”
It would be so easy to say yes. To leave Carrie to do whatever she needed to save the Avalon Inn. To get back to how his life had been, before Granddad died and he’d come to keep an eye on Gran for a couple of weeks, decided this was the kind of life he wanted, and headed back to London full of new ideas to be shot down. When the Avalon Inn was just a place he’d spent one summer, as a kid.
But... “I can’t, Mel. Really. They need me here. I have…responsibilities.” At least, until
