Читать книгу Sweet Home Summer: A heartwarming romcom perfect for curling up with - Michelle Vernal - Страница 12

Break-Free Haven Lodge

The last of the morning mist was hanging like a thin vapour stream over the meadow by the time Isla donned a floppy hat and ventured outside. She was a week into her stay at Break-Free and knew it wouldn’t be long before the sun broke through the mist – and then it would be hot. She’d inherited her gran’s olive skin, and dark eyes which Bridget always reckoned was a nod to her Irish Celtic ancestry. And, although she tanned easily, she was part of the Kiwi slip-slop-slap sunscreen generation and was wary of too much sun. This colouring had bypassed her mum much to Mary’s chagrin; she was a fair-skinned blonde with a penchant for spray tans.

As a moody teen, every time Isla had fallen out with her mum, she’d be sure to go and look at an old school photo that still hung in the halls of Bibury Area School. Gran had told her the story of how her mother, as a know it all fifteen-year-old had basted herself in cooking oil before lying out in the sun despite being told not to, to be tanned for her class photo. The sight of Mary Collins as she had been back then, lobster-like in the front row of the class of seventy-five, always made Isla snigger and put her life back into perspective.

Now, she pulled on the pair of gardening gloves she’d been given and headed over to the greenhouse. The first time she’d taken part in the vegetable garden therapy session, she’d felt vaguely resentful at the situation she found herself in. She’d been perched on the wooden side of one of six raised boxes in a sunny spot behind the main red barn building, half-heartedly thinning out a row of carrots. Why should she have to get her hands dirty when she was paying a small fortune to be here? It wasn’t as if she’d get to eat the fruits of her labour either because by the time these spindly baby carrot thingies grew to an edible length she’d be long gone.

Her father was a gardener; his veggie patch was his pride and joy. She started to understand what drove him as she planted out the beetroot seedlings. There was something satisfying in knowing that by doing what she was doing she’d be providing nourishing, organic food for future women in need passing through Break-Free. She’d been rostered on for last night’s meal too and had been surprised by how much she’d enjoyed the process of preparing food for others. She’d forgotten how much she loved cooking. Proper cooking, not the ripping open of a packet or opening a jar of sauce cooking that she’d been used to in the latter years of life in London. There’d never been enough time to prepare anything from scratch.

Today, she was working alongside Betsy who hailed from Texas; she was planting out baby lettuce. They made great companion plants, Betsy informed her, while setting about her task. She looked to be around the same age as Isla, but she already had the haunted, bruised look of someone who’d packed in a lot over the years and led a hard life.

Isla was enjoying the peaceful setting as she settled into a pluck-from-the-pot and pop-into-the-soil rhythm. It was beautiful here, she thought. There were only twelve women in residence at Break-Free at any given time. She’d been lucky that there’d been a cancellation, otherwise, she’d have had to go on a waiting list. Twelve women here as guests, or inmates as they liked to joke, and four staff who were also all women. The only male she’d seen since leaving LA was the driver, who’d met her at her hotel.

Perhaps that was the answer, she mused watching a bee buzz lazily past in search of nectar. Maybe she should set up an all-women Amazonian style sanctuary deep in the heart of New Zealand’s West Coast. They could be self-sufficient. She warmed to her theme. If anybody felt the need for any of that other business she’d sworn off for the foreseeable future, they could always pop into town and drag some young buck back from a local bar. She grinned. Where on earth did the word buck come from? It was like something her gran would say.

‘My mom’s boyfriend raped me when I was twelve.’

Isla’s grin was wiped from her face, and her hand froze over the little hole she’d been about to drop the beetroot seedling into. Betsy didn’t look at Isla as she continued her story in her soft Texan drawl, carrying on with her planting while she talked. Her mother hadn’t believed her when she’d gone to her and told her what happened. She hadn’t believed her or hadn’t wanted to believe, Betsy said, but either way she’d left home by the time she was fifteen as a result. By twenty-one, she’d had three kids to three different fathers and had lurched from one bad relationship straight into another until this year when she’d told herself, enough was enough. The only good things that had happened in her life to date were her kids, and that was why she’d come to Break-Free.

‘I’ve made some bad choices along the way, and I want to start making the right ones. I don’t want what that bastard did to me to shape the rest of our lives. He doesn’t deserve that kind of power.’

Isla wondered how as a single mum she could afford it here and Betsy must have sensed her curiosity.

‘My mom saw the light one day, and when she died last year, she left me her house. I sold it, bought a place for my kids and me, and here I am. I’ve gotta do my best here for their sake because they’re my world you know?’

Isla nodded. She didn’t know, but she could imagine. ‘Who’s looking after them? You must be missing them.’

‘Oh yeah, I am, but they’re fine. My friend Joanne, the kids call her Aunty Jo, she’s staying with them. She’s been like a sister to me. They’re in good hands. What about you, you’re a long way from home with that funny accent of yours. Why’re you here?’

‘Um, I’m kind of a work in progress, but I suppose the trigger point for me coming here was my last relationship. It wasn’t healthy. He didn’t abuse me or anything, well not physically anyway but he had this knack of making me feel like I wasn’t good enough without actually ever saying so.’ Isla glanced at her nails; they’d been chewed down to the quick when she left Toad but were starting to grow again now. ‘And since I’ve been here, listening to you and the other girls as well as talking to Rita, I’ve realized that he was very good at it.’

‘He was a bully.’

‘More of a control freak with manipulative tendencies.’ The two women smiled in mutual understanding at the counselor lingo. ‘He chipped away at my confidence in such a subtle way that I used to wonder if I was being overly sensitive and imagining it.’ Isla had realized while she’d been at Break-Free that she’d been on eggshells trying to please Tim. To be skinny enough, bright enough, funny enough for him, but never quite measuring up. All the while her work commitments were pushing and pulling at her until she’d reached snapping point.

‘Yeah, I know the type. I’ve been there, done that, and got three kids to prove it,’ Betsy said. ‘You don’t need to hit to hurt.’

Isla nodded her agreement with the sentiment before realizing it was time for her one-on-one session.

Half an hour later, Rita, the White Feather Programme Co-ordinator, was listening to Isla in her therapy session. ‘The wrong kind of man and career burnout are what pushed you to the edge sweetie-pie. I’m thinking you’re suffering from this thing called Rushing Woman’s Syndrome. It’s not something we normally see in a woman your age with no kids, but from what you’ve told me about your lifestyle, it fits.’

They were seated opposite each other, enveloped in the squidgy bean bags that you had to roll out of onto your hands and knees to stand up. From Isla’s vantage point she could see out of the open window to the sequoia forest. The room was not at all clinical, with a Navajo rug dominating the wooden floor space between the orange coloured bean bags. The walls were painted a neutral taupe colour, and a massive artwork dominated one of them. Rita told her it had been donated by a former guest

It depicted a peace lily with the giant Californian redwoods, or sequoia as was their first given name, that formed a backdrop to the land on which Break-Free sat illuminated in the background by an orange sunset. It was almost half past three, Isla saw, glancing at her watch. She’d never worn a wristwatch before but had purchased one in LA, as cell phones were banned at Break-Free. She’d handed hers in after a quick call to Maura to let her know she was doing okay. Isla liked to know what the time was. It gave her a modicum of control over her days.

It had been a light bulb moment sitting on that beanbag, to hear a label that did not involve the word nerves or breakdown. She didn’t get the Russian connection though. ‘Russian Woman’s Syndrome?’ The mind boggled.

Rita smiled, and Isla thought she had the kindest blue eyes. She also noticed that there wasn’t a single grey hair in amongst her blonde mane. So much for a steel grey smart haircut stereotype.

‘R-U-S-H-I-N-G honey, Rushing Woman’s Syndrome. Dr. Libby Weaver, she’s a Nutritional Biochemist who hails from your part of the world and has written a book on the subject. She believes it’s a modern-day scourge for women, and so do I.’

Isla listened as Rita filled her in on the ins and outs of the condition, mentally ticking off all the things she could relate to. Yes, she was always in a mad rush to get the job done whatever it may be. Yes, there were never enough hours in the day. Yes, she’d gone off sex in the latter months of her relationship with Tim and had to keep pretending he was Hugh Jackman to get the job done. Yes, she did feel wired most of the time but strangely fatigued too. Yes, she felt bloated and sick on occasion. Yes, around that time of the month she could happily wreak havoc on anyone who crossed her path. Yes, she’d lie in bed at night finding herself unable to switch off. The list went on, but Rita was ready to summarise. ‘Basically honey, your body has been running on adrenaline and not much else. It’s telling you it’s had enough.’

Okay, so now that she knew what was wrong with her, Isla wanted to know how she was going to make it all better? It was time for Rita to produce her magic counseling wand and fix everything. The next thing Rita said, however, was not, ‘Abracadabra, so this is what you’re going to do now Isla,’ but rather:

‘So what’re you going to do now Isla?’

Isla looked at her, startled. That wasn’t in the contract. ‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. I want you to tell me what I should do next.’

Rita laughed. ‘Oh, that’s not for me to say, sweetie, but I think it might be time for you to re–evaluate exactly what it is you want from life. The pace hasn’t always been that hectic for you so why don’t you start by telling me about the town you grew up in?’ Rita looked at her in that counselor way of hers, inviting her to elaborate without actually asking out loud, and so Isla did.

For Isla, at eighteen Bibury had become unbearably claustrophobic. It was a town so tiny it didn’t even get a mention on most maps. The closest thing to a cultural experience it offered was karaoke at the Pit on the first Saturday of the month. So as soon as she finished school, she broke things off with her boyfriend Ben, packed her bags and left town so fast she wouldn’t have been surprised if there had been smoke coming off her heels.

Her mum and dad had thought they understood her need to go and broaden her horizons. The world, Mary had said wisely upon hearing her daughter’s news, was a wonderful place. Her parents had just come back from visiting Isla’s older brother, Ryan. He’d gone to work in the mining industry just outside of Emerald in Queensland, and Mary was feeling not only worldly after visiting Australia but magnanimous too.

It was her gran who’d been hit hardest by the news that Isla was leaving to set up home two and a half hours away in Christchurch . Poor Gran, she couldn’t relate to her granddaughter’s burning need for more. She tried to placate her by telling her she was only going to the big smoke to study and that she’d be home every other weekend. Looking into those wily dark eyes reminiscent of her own though, she’d felt uncomfortable. They both knew she was lying. Gran had always known when she wasn’t telling the truth. Bridget had some grandmotherly super-power, Isla was sure of it.

Christchurch was small so far as cities on the world stage go but after Bibury, population two hundred thousand, it had been a culture shock. Isla had stuck it out though and completed a design course at Polytech while living in a draughty, old weatherboard house in the student suburb of Riccarton with three others. It was a stone’s throw from the city centre, and despite lean student times, there’d been plenty of good times too. It had been hard breaking things off with Ben, though.

‘Why don’t you tell me about this Ben?’ Rita interrupted. ‘You sound like you were fond of him.’

Isla smiled, she always smiled when she thought about Ben. ‘I was yes. He was a friend of my brother’s. I’d known him most of my life, and I’d never thought of him in any other way than as just another of Ryan’s annoying mates. But then one day he put a packet of potato chips down on the conveyor when I was working on the till at the local Four Square supermarket and asked me out. I could tell he was nervous as he stood waiting for me to scan the chips through, but I was still hesitant about saying yes.’

‘Why?’

Isla shrugged. ‘I knew I’d be leaving Bibury at the end of the year when I finished school, and I knew Ben wouldn’t.’

‘But you said yes?’

‘I didn’t want to embarrass him by saying no,’ she said smiling. ‘And besides, so far as Ryan’s annoying mates went, he was one of the nicer ones and definitely the cutest.’ She thought back to their first date, it had been to the movies over in Greymouth, and he’d taken her to a pizza restaurant afterward. The movie had been rubbish but later, as his hand reached over to wipe the dangle of mozzarella from her chin, she felt a fluttering in her stomach. He was good-looking with his gentle blue-green eyes and shock of blond hair, and she wondered why she’d never noticed him in that way before.

‘We went out together for the rest of the year, and I fell for him hard. I still broke things off when I moved to Christchurch to study, though.’ Her eyes welled up, even now all these years later at the painful memory. ‘We were just too young, and I wasn’t right for him.’

‘Why not, Isla?’

‘Because I was scared of my feelings for him. I loved him too much.’

‘Earth to Isla, earth to Isla.’ Annie waved a hand in front of Isla’s face.

‘Sorry I was somewhere else.’ Isla blinked, becoming aware that she was sitting at a table in the Kea Tearooms and not on a beanbag at Break-Free. She flashed an apologetic grin at Annie. ‘Where you stayed in Crete sounds wonderful, and home-grown vegetables do taste different to store bought. I love to cook, I’d forgotten how much until recently. I’m not a bad baker either if I do say so myself, but then I was taught by the best.’ She wriggled her fingers. ‘She taught me to tell by touch what the mix needed.’

Annie raised an eyebrow. ‘And who would that be?’

‘My gran, Bridget Collins. I’m staying with her.’

‘Oh, I’ve met Bridget! She’s lovely, her and Aunty Noeline are good friends. So, that must mean your mum is Mary from the pharmacy?’

Isla nodded.

‘Mary pops in most mornings for a coffee and something to eat. She always brightens my morning up.’

‘Uh-huh, I bet she does, with that glowing face of hers.’

Annie laughed. ‘She does have a good tan. But honestly, I look forward to my morning chat with your mum because it’s so dead in here a lot of the time. I think Aunty Noeline’s just given up on this place. She pretty much leaves the running of it to me,’ she said gesturing around her. ‘It frustrates me because Bibury is such a thoroughfare through to Greymouth and the rest of the Coast. This place could be a real goldmine if it was done up and the menu was brought up to date.’

Isla’s mind began to whir at the mention of goldmine; it was the mine bit that got her going. ‘I’m an interior designer, and an unemployed one for the minute so maybe I could put some ideas together for you to show Noeline? I think you’re right that this place could be a real goldmine given the right makeover.’ She held her breath hoping she wasn’t pushing in and overstepping the mark but it would be a way to check she still had her design mojo. She needn’t have worried.

Annie clapped her hands. ‘Really? That’d be amazing.’

‘I’d love to,’ Isla said without hesitation. She left the Kea with a spring in her step. She’d made a new friend, and she had work to be getting on with. It felt good to have a purpose.