Читать книгу The Memories of Us: The best feel-good romance to take with you on your summer holidays in 2018 - Vanessa Carnevale, Vanessa Carnevale - Страница 13

Woodend, a small country village in the centre of the Victorian Macedon Ranges, comes into view after an hour’s train ride from Melbourne’s Southern Cross station. As I stroll down the quiet street to the nearest bus stop, the scent of freshly baked pastries wafts from the bakery but is quickly overpowered by the smell of coffee from the café next door.

‘Just in time, love,’ says the bus driver, as I haul my suitcase up the steps.

‘Are you heading to Daylesford?’ I ask.

‘Sure am.’

‘Could you let me know once we’ve arrived?’ I request, before taking a seat. He salutes in response, before telling me we should be there in around forty-five minutes.

The bus rattles away as we pass through a large avenue lined with English oaks, and travel past frost-dusted paddocks and restored homesteads. Puffs of smoke billow from chimneys while a light fog slowly lifts in the distance.

Eventually, we reach the heart of Daylesford, which has come to life under the mid-morning sun. ‘This’ll be your stop,’ calls the bus driver, opening the doors for me. I thank him and tug my luggage off the step, pulling it behind me over the bumpy asphalt, while I try to work out which direction to step in. I tap the door, which opens for me almost immediately. ‘Um, by any chance would you happen to know where Summerhill is? It used to be a flower farm.’

The driver rubs his chin and points ahead. ‘You’ll need to walk all the way down there and turn right once you reach the directional signs for the lake. Once you’re there, ask for more directions. It shouldn’t be far off.’

An eclectic array of shops throng the main street—a large bakehouse, a bookstore, various gift shops, upmarket clothing stores, and a wine bar whose entry is manned by two wooden barrels with fistfuls of paper daisies cascading over their edges. Couples of varying ages spill in and out of the cafés on either side of the road, emerging with takeaway cups of steaming coffee. It’s no wonder everyone looks relaxed here. Originally a gold-mining town, the spot is now a haven for day-spa retreats, pampering and romantic weekend getaways.

At the end of the main street, the shops peter out, replaced by picket fences and Victorian-style cottages, including B&Bs sporting ‘No Vacancy’ signs, even though it’s midwinter. I continue down the road, following the directions pointing me to Lake Daylesford.

Further ahead lies a roadside stand where the street widens. A man wearing fingerless gloves, an oversized coat and a tweed cap is selling roasted chestnuts, the smoky aroma reminding me that I skipped breakfast completely. I breathe in the earthy scent of eucalyptus and sprawling countryside and wait as the man shovels a scoop-full of chestnuts into a brown paper cone and hands them to a customer, while another one, a male, probably around my age, leans against the stall, popping chestnuts into his mouth as he chats to the vendor. He watches me approach, lifts his eyebrows and smiles at me.

‘That’ll be four dollars,’ says the vendor to a customer. ‘And for you, Miss, what’ll it be?’

‘I’m just looking for directions,’ I say, digging into my pocket for the property listing.

‘The lake’s that way,’ he says, nodding to his left.

‘Well, actually, I’m looking for 495 Darlinghurst Way? Otherwise known as Summerhill.’

The guy standing beside the stall perks to attention. ‘You want to know where Summerhill is?’ His eyes meet mine, where they settle for a second.

‘Uh, yeah. I’m pretty sure it’s close by, but …’ I flick my eyes to the piece of paper. ‘Well, I’m not entirely sure.’

‘Nobody lives there, so—’

‘I live there,’ I say, wondering if he’s noticed the hint of irritation in my voice.

‘It’s a little hard to find.’

He waits for me to reply, but when I don’t respond, he continues. ‘But if you look beyond those gum trees, you’ll see it right up there,’ he says, pointing across the road to a cottage on the hill directly in front of the chestnut stall.

The trees, with their hundred-year-old limbs, obscure the house almost completely. I squint, trying to get a better view.

‘I hope your electricity’s running.’ He pops a chestnut into his mouth. ‘Cold snap,’ he says, raising his eyebrows. He rolls up the collar of his grey herringbone coat and I can feel his eyes lingering on me as I hand the vendor some change in exchange for a paper cone.

‘Everything is in order,’ I mutter. I can’t believe I’ve stupidly overlooked this detail. Maybe Scarlett was right about this not being a good idea. She’d asked me not to leave until she had a chance to help me sort out a few things and now I know this is what she meant. Raising the handle of the suitcase, I take a few steps towards the road and call out over my shoulder, ‘Thanks for the directions.’

Before I have a chance to get very far, the guy’s beside me, his jog slowing to a walk. ‘Hey, uh, I’m sorry if I said something to upset you.’

I’m not in the mood to explain that the only person I’m really irritated with is myself. My silence does little to shrug him off.

He flashes me a smile, which I ignore, even if it is of the slightly charming variety. I take another step forward, but he extends a hand just as I move, knocking the paper cone out of my hand.

‘I’m Flynn,’ he says, as my chestnuts spill to the ground. He runs a hand through the natural waves of his unruly blond hair. ‘Uh, not usually this clumsy, I can assure you.’ He looks down at the chestnuts, then back at me, his mouth twisting into an amused smile.

Despite his handsome looks—large marine-blue eyes, a strong jaw line, light scruff, and two smile-enhancing dimples that make it almost impossible to not smile back, I’m starting to find this guy increasingly exasperating. I eye off my lunch, which is now scattered around my feet. My stomach growls.

‘Nice meeting you, Flynn,’ I reply, just before I cross the road.

I tug my suitcase up the gravel-lined driveway, my heart sinking with each step. The garden beds out front are in dire need of attention, the dormant roses desperately needing a winter prune. Bare branches of wisteria snake over one side of the white weatherboard façade, tendrils curling through the fretwork, and the overstuffed letterbox is spewing yellowed, soggy newspapers, which I dislodge and tuck under one arm before ramming my hip against the gate to open it.

I’m overwhelmed by a woody, musty smell the moment I push open the sage-green front door, but despite the cold and minimal furnishings of the cottage, there’s an element of warmth here. It feels as if my mother could emerge from the kitchen at any moment; oven mitts on, pulling a steaming hot apple pie from the oil-fired Rayburn. A pair of kitchen scales sits beside a stack of recipe books that have gathered a layer of dust. There’s a modest-sized living room with a double-sided fireplace and an armchair positioned in a reading nook, the wall partially covered with bookshelves. Are any of the books mine? Did my mother ever hold me on her lap and read to me when I was a child?

Most of the contents of the cottage have long ago been boxed up, and according to Scarlett, were sold off or donated to charity last spring. But some things remain, like the furniture, drawers filled with kitchen utensils and crockery, some linen, and most of the appliances. After spending some time exploring the two-bedroom cottage, taking in my new surroundings, dusting surfaces and nudging windows open to allow some fresh air inside, I venture outside to explore. There’s a large wooden barn with a gable rooftop and sliding door located around a hundred metres away from the cottage itself. A silver Volkswagen is parked in front of it, a car I didn’t notice on my arrival. I approach with caution and call out before poking my head inside.