‘You’re still sleeping in a tent.’ Then she shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s okay when it’s not raining.’ It had been a very wet spring.
‘Are you suggesting this spell of good weather is unlikely to last?’ he asked, with just a touch of irony in his voice to match the infinitesimal lift of one eyebrow.
‘This good weather has lasted all of a week so far, which, for this summer, is a record.’ Then she relented. ‘But according to the forecast you should be safe for a day or two.’
He glanced up at the cloudless sky for a moment. ‘Let’s hope so.’
‘Mummeeeeee!’
‘They’re getting impatient.’ She tossed the ball over the wall. ‘I’ll try to keep it on our side of wall from now on.’
‘It’s not a problem, really.’
Maybe not, but she had one. Getting over the wall with what remained of her dignity intact while he stood there and looked at her winter-white legs. Winter-white splashed with the forget-me-not-blue gloss that she’d finished the door with. And a scraping of brick dust. And squishy green plant juice on her knees from her expedition into the strawberry bed.
She looked at the strawberries in her hand and wished she left them for the slugs. Now she would have to get over the wall with one hand, or throw them away.
‘Can I help?’ he offered. Again.
She thought about those big hands lifting her, or giving her a push from behind. ‘Er…’ This was getting ridiculous. She was heading at what seemed like break-neck speed towards thirty. She had two children. Blushing was for girls... ‘Perhaps if you hold the strawberries while I climb up?’ she suggested.
He made no move to take them; instead he linked his hands together and offered them as a foothold. She felt a momentary stab of disappointment, then quickly placed her battered tennis shoe into the cup of his palms, and as he lifted her, she grabbed for the wall and was deposited on the top without the usual ungainly knee-skinning scramble.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘My pleasure,’ he replied, grinning broadly as she swung her legs over to the other side. ‘Drop in any time.’
She pretended not to hear, sliding down into her own garden and finishing off the foxgloves in her hurry. And not doing the strawberries much good, either. Despite the lift over the wall, she had still managed to squash them into a juicy mush.
Nash Gallagher watched as his new neighbour swung her lovely legs over the wall and quickly disappeared. She’d been decorating, he’d noticed. There were streaks of blue paint on her thighs and clothes and her fingers, as she’d cupped the strawberries protectively in her hand, still had paint embedded around her nails. Did she just enjoy doing it herself?
With Daddy in heaven, it would seem she had little choice.
Stacey was mashing the strawberries to mix with ice cream for Clover and Rosie’s tea when the abandoned door handle, still dangling by one partly driven screw, gave up the unequal struggle with gravity and fell noisily to the floor.
Clover, finishing off her baked beans, glanced at it. Then she said, ‘What this house needs is a capable man.’ Stacey took her plate and replaced it with the ice cream. ‘Or one with plenty of money.’
‘Clover!’
‘It’s true,’ Rosie added, helpfully. ‘Aunt Dee said so.’
Dee was undoubtedly right, but she wished her sister would keep her thoughts to herself. Or at least not voice them in front of the girls.
Fat chance. Her sister was hell-bent on fixing her up with a new husband, someone who fitted Dee’s idea of what was suitable for a little sister who couldn’t be trusted to choose someone for herself. Someone steady. Someone who wouldn’t, under any circumstances, ride a motorcycle.
An accountant, perhaps. Or, even better, an actuary, like her own husband. A man genetically programmed not to take unacceptable risks.
Unfortunately, much as she liked her brother-in-law, Stacey just couldn’t get terribly excited at the thought of being married to his clone. Her thoughts strayed to the stranger camping on the far side of her garden and she found herself smiling. There were some things that money couldn’t ever compensate for.
But as Stacey handed her younger daughter her ice cream, she promised herself she would have that door repainted, with its furniture in place and working when her sister came to lunch on Saturday. If it killed her.
Actually, though, her encounter with Nash Gallagher had given her an idea. Well, more than one, but she was a realist. Sex among the strawberries was fine when you were young and fancy-free but mothers had responsibilities. Mothers had to be sensible.
She let the tempting thought slip away and concentrated on the sensible one. Her house might not be fit for a feature in one of those ‘beautiful homes’ magazines, and it might not appeal to fussy buyers with a world of houses to choose from, but it was habitable. And she had a spare bedroom. Two, if she included the attic. Nash might be happy to sleep in a tent, but there were plenty of other people who would rather have hot water and clean sheets. Maybe she could let the rooms to a couple of students.
At her present rate of progress it would be a while before she could lick the house into shape and two students would make quite a difference when it came to paying the bills. And if they were a couple of willing lads, or girls, the kind who knew one end of a screwdriver from the other, it would be even better. In return for a little home cooking, they might achieve the same purpose as a capable man without all the disadvantages that went with the kind of husband a widow approaching thirty, with two little girls to bring up, could hope to attract.
Nash found himself grinning as he cleared away the broken glass, smiling as he remembered the way Stacey had coloured up when he’d caught her with her hand in the strawberry patch. He’d have sworn modern women had forgotten how to blush.
He should be feeling guilty for embarrassing her like that: a young widow with two little girls. Thoroughly ashamed of himself. Hell, he was ashamed, but that blush had been worth it.
Then the smile faded as he looked about him.
Industrial units.
Landscaped, low-rise industrial units. On paper it hadn’t sounded so bad. Standing here with the gentle slope of the wheatfield rising to a spinney that broke up the smooth line of the earth against the sky and with the peach trees basking against the centuries-old wall, it wasn’t quite so easy to be dismissive of the destruction.
On paper the choice had looked simple. Putting down roots had no appeal to him. He wasn’t sentimental about the past. His childhood hadn’t been the kind to get sentimental over.
But standing there, surrounded by the few good memories, it wasn’t quite so easy to dismiss.
‘You’re not getting any younger and children are a high-cost luxury.’
‘Make a record, Dee; it’ll save the wear and tear on your vocal cords,’ Stacey said, without rancour. She knew her sister meant well.
‘I would if I thought you’d listen to
