“Because I wasn’t sure that someone like you would be interested in someone like me.”
“What? Why?” She laughed. “I’m nobody . . .”
Duncan put his finger to her lips. “Don’t do that,” he said. “You always put yourself down. You are fascinating. You only ever have to be told a thing once and you understand it and remember it like you’ve known it for years. You’re kind and you’re always thinking about other people, putting yourself in their place and seeing things from their perspective. Nothing fazes you. Not even giant fainting men. You laugh all the time, and it sounds like sunshine, and when you smile the freckles at the edge of your right eye line up to form a leaf shape.”
No one had ever said anything like that to her before. She tried to speak around the finger pressed to her mouth but found she had no words.
“You have become somebody very special to me, Star North,” he said. And he kissed her again.
They left the pyre to manage itself, and after a cup of strong sweet tea each, Star and Duncan took each other on their first official date, to the Stag and Hound.
33
Verity was holding court in the greengrocer’s. Last night she had performed as a singing pomegranate in the school play, and the praise had gone to her head. It had also marked the last day of school, which only added to her high spirits. She was more than happy to recite her lines this Saturday afternoon for any customers who confessed they hadn’t been fortunate enough to see her play.
“Aunty Simone, what did you like best about the play?”
Maggie had asked her not to indulge her daughter’s ego, but Simone couldn’t resist. Why shouldn’t Verity be proud of herself?
“Definitely your pomegranate scenes. I have never heard such an eloquent fruit.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. Verity smiled, satisfied, and continued making multicolored pom-poms from the basket of wool donated to the cause by the Cussing Crocheters. As she finished each one, she dropped them into a box at Simone’s feet. She was grateful that her niece was so open to embracing her presence.
Simone was perched on a crate, tying pine cones, pom-poms, and crochet poinsettia flowers into long garlands of twisted spruce and ivy. The church flower association had kindly made the garlands yesterday, and Anita and Sonja had dropped them into Maggie’s shop this morning for embellishments, ready for the marquee to go up on Monday. They took up a third of the shop’s floor space, coiled like giant green anacondas, so Maggie had to keep stepping over them to reach her produce.
“How many of these are there?” Simone looked at the snaking pile, wondering if she was going to give herself a repetitive strain injury from tying knots.
“About seventy,” Maggie said, sitting on a crate next to her and picking up a garland. “They’ve got to stretch widthwise along the length of the marquee.”
“Shit the bed!” she exclaimed. “We’ll be at this till kingdom come.”
“Uh! That’s a swear! Mama, Aunty Simone said ‘shit’！”
“Thank you, Verity.”
“Sorry, Verity,” said Simone humbly. “I meant poop the bed.”
The bell jangled, and Doreen blustered in carrying a large cardboard box, which she dropped next to the garlands.
“There’s a load more pom-poms for you,” she said. “I see young Verity is doing a cracking job of making them as well.”
Verity looked pleased. “Did you see my school play?”
“I did. Never was there a more holy pomegranate in all of Rowan Thorp.”
Verity beamed.
“Thanks for those, Doreen. The garlands are going to look great.” Simone was surprising herself with her amiability.
“Ellen’s going to drop in another batch of poinsettia in a bit. We’re working at full capacity to get the rest of the decorations ready for Monday.”
“Thank you so much!” Maggie gushed.
“Well, we all benefit from the festival. The decorations will last, the crochet ones at least, and we can add to what we’ve got year on year. This year is only the start. Just saw your boy with Harini’s granddaughter, by the way. What’s going on there, then?”
“Oh, they’re just—” But Maggie was interrupted by her daughter’s loud tutting.
“Patrick is well stupid around her, and his cheeks go all red when she laughs.” Verity rolled her eyes as she continued to wrap wool around her plastic pom-pom disks.
“Is that so?” Doreen had the look of a woman who had just banked some excellent gossip. “Might as well get a few bits for tomorrow’s roast while I’m here.”
Maggie left the decorations to serve her just as Kev from the Stag and Hound walked in with his signature broad smile.
“Baked orange slices for the garlands,” he said, putting the box carefully down beside Simone. “Having twelve ovens in the cookery school has come in very handy this morning; the whole pub smells like Christmas. Your sister’s in there with Duncan, enjoying a cozy candlelit lunch for two,” he said. Doreen squeaked out a yip of delight, which she tried to smother with her hands—more first-rate gossip. “Afternoon, Doreen.” Kev smiled knowingly.
“Kevin, lovely to see you. How’s that handsome husband of yours?” she asked.
“Would you believe he’s making salt dough angels to hang from ribbons in the marquee?”
“I would. I’ve always thought he was the crafty sort,” said Doreen.
Kev smiled fondly. “I’ll be sure to let Ryan know.”
“These are brilliant. Thanks, Kev,” said Maggie, picking up an orange slice and sniffing it.
“No worries. I’ll take some more portobello mushrooms while I’m here. Kat’s doing stuffed mushrooms for the veggie roast tomorrow.”
“Ooh, that sounds good. I might pop in,” said Simone.
“Maybe we all should,” Maggie suggested. “I can’t remember the last time I ate out.”
“We’d love to see you. Now while I’ve got you, Simone, I’ve got this shoulder, just needs a tweak . . .”
Oh, for goodness’ sake! “Honestly, I’d like to help you, but there are certain protocols . . .”
“Tell you what, let’s not even mention your professional credentials and just call this one friend lending another her expertise. Five minutes of your time. Miss Radley described you as having sorcerer’s fingers.”
“Good god. I’d forgotten what it was like living here,” Simone grumbled. The audacity levels in Rowan Thorp were far higher than in Greenwich.
Maggie laughed. Kev was already taking his jacket off.
“You can use the storeroom,” she called.
“Lovely jubbly!” said Kev.
Seven minutes later they emerged from the storeroom. Kev was windmilling his left arm delightedly.
“Old Miss Radley wasn’t wrong. You’ve got a gift. All your dinners are on me tomorrow. I’ll book you in for three p.m.,” he called over his shoulder as he left the shop, swiftly followed by Doreen, who waved energetic goodbyes.
“I am going to start pimping out your ‘sorcerer’s fingers,’？” Maggie chortled. “I wonder what else I could get for free?”