I will leave this place, never to see Highbury House again. I risked my livelihood and my life here, and I may pay the consequences for years to come.
? EMMA ?
SEPTEMBER 2021
Emma wiped her palms against the fabric of her black pencil skirt. It had been chilly that morning in Highbury when she’d forsaken her regular gardening clothes and put on the skirt and a thin, three-quarter-length cashmere jumper she’d set out the night before. On went a pair of black patent leather heels—just high enough to have a bit of polish but not so high that she teetered. Now she was glad she’d left her maroon coat in her car. She would be sweltering in it.
As she sat in the reception area of the Royal Botanical Heritage Society’s building, she fiddled with the strap of her handbag. She’d gone back and forth about this interview so many times. If she got the job, it would mean selling Turning Back Thyme and working in an office job for the first time in her life. It would mean stability and security. She would have a regular salary, a bonus, private health care. She’d never have to handle another client and their demands. She could make plans for holidays. She could take holidays—when was the last time she’d done that?
But mostly it would mean less stress. She’d shouldered an entire business on her own for six years. She was exhausted.
But who said you had to do it on your own?
A message from Charlie pinged her phone:
Mulch delivery is short 40 bags. Don’t worry. I already called and sorted it. Enjoy your day off!
She stared at the phone until an older woman in a twin set and buff-colored slacks approached from the elevator bank. “Miss Lovell?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Mr. Rotheby’s assistant, Amy. Will you come with me?”
Emma clicked her phone to silent, slid it into her bag, and followed Amy to her interview.
* * *
Emma pulled up to the small car park on the side of the road in a village called Cropredy and killed the ignition. She opened the back door and sat on the seat to swap her heels for mud-splattered wellies. Then she hid her purse under the driver’s seat, locked up, and set off across the bridge to the canal side.
She walked for about ten minutes over the dusty ground until a familiar yellow-and-blue stern with Darling Mae painted in white came into view.
“Ahoy, Captain!” she called up, shielding her eyes from the low-hanging sun.
Charlie, who was sitting on a deck chair with a glass of wine in his hand, looked down. “Look at you all dressed up. Date?”
“Since when have I been able to keep a date from you?” she asked.
He laughed, the gold light from the sunset catching the highlights of his brown skin as he threw his head back. “Better question: When was the last time you had a date?”
“Oh, thanks. May I come aboard?”
“Can you climb aboard in that skirt?” he asked.
She gave it a try, succeeding on her second attempt after hiking the skirt halfway up her thigh.
“You’re going to have the entire canal gossiping about me by sundown,” he said as she settled into the other deck chair. “Wine?”
“Please, but just the one. I drove over.”
“From where?”
She arched a brow. “You didn’t ask why when I told you I was taking the day off.”
“I was giving you space. Hold on.” He ducked down into the cabin and reemerged with a wineglass. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” She took a long sip. “I was in London.”
Her friend let the silence stretch until finally he said, “Are you going to make me ask?”
She took a deep breath. “I had a job offer.”
“You’re not really dressed like a gardener today,” he pointed out.
The head of conservancy position… it didn’t really feel like a job for a gardener. She would have a team—not a crew. She would set policy for the Royal Botanical Heritage Society. She would consult on high-profile, special projects and have some media responsibilities. She would need to speak to donors.
She sat there in William Rotheby’s office listening to him speak enthusiastically about the guidance her real-world experience could bring to the organization and the conservation education program they wanted to start for small garden-design businesses like Turning Back Thyme. She could mentor members of staff, even teaching some of the professional courses herself if she liked. There would be a generous salary, perks, and benefits.
But she wouldn’t be a gardener any longer.
“I was at the Royal Botanical Heritage Society.”