Sunrise at Strawberry Farm

by Kellie Hailes

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

'Light hearted and a perfect read for a summer holiday - you can almost taste the strawberries' NetGalley reviewer First love can be as sweet as strawberries... Hannah Beety never thought she'd be back working at her family's strawberry farm, but when her mother falls ill, she knows it's time to go home. Returning to help in time for the summer harvest, Hannah's forced to face up to the broken hearts she left behind... After a decade, Grey Walker cannot believe that the woman he had planned to marry, start a family and live a cosy life with is back. Working side by side with Hannah as they prepare for the annual Strawberry Festival brings back all the memories of his first love he'd tried to bury. But as the summer days lengthen, could letting her in mean losing his heart, again? As delightfully delicious as strawberries and cream in the sunshine. This is the perfect summer romance to indulge in, perfect for fans of Katie Fforde, Jane Linfoot and Cressida McLaughlin. ' Just what I needed to read in these strange times, light hearted, great characters and good story line. An escapism read.' NetGalley Reviewer 'really lovely reading and a fabulous ending' NetGalley Reviewer Readers love Kellie Hailes's gorgeous summer romances : 'Great characters, easy read, uplifting, funny, romantic and charming...the perfect summer read.' Beanie, NetGalley reviewer 'Kellie Hailes knocked it out of the park.' Carrie, NetGalley reviewer 'Such a sweet love story, that your heart just melts!' Debbie, NetGalley reviewer 'A fun and charming read that I couldn't put down. ... I need to find more books by Kellie Hailes.' Vikkie, NetGalley reviewer

Release date: May 25, 2020

Publisher: Orion Dash

Print pages: 209

Sample

One deep breath, one inhalation of that aromatic, sweet scent underpinned with the heady pungency of fruit on the verge of fermentation, and Hannah was transported back a decade.

Her platinum, straightened shoulder-skimming hair morphed into a length of untamed sandy-blonde waves. Her crisp, white shirt dress replaced with sensible cotton shorts that finished at the knee and a fitted grey T-shirt that she wore so often it may as well have been her official work uniform. Her fake-tanned, nude-polished pedicured feet, currently sporting strappy red sandals, gave way to feet browned with dust and a summer spent working outside.

Her gaze was drawn to the clumps of green foliage in the fields ahead, where fruit the same vibrant colour as her sandals huddled. Line after line, raised just above the ground, nestled in barley straw, bursting with plump, ripe, juicy strawberries, which dribbled down your chin once bitten into. Delicious. Moreish. The taste of home. Once upon a time.

‘Your father said you’d be coming. Didn’t believe him.’

The voice had deepened with age, but was no less well modulated, even. You could even call it cosy, if the person it belonged to didn’t have every reason to hate you with every fibre of their being. As was the current case.

Hannah closed her eyes, focused on the beat of her heart. Commanded it to keep its regular pace, to not skitter or race. She counted to three, and opened her eyes as she turned to face the man she’d left over a decade ago.

Left without a word. Or a note. Refusing to give him a chance to try and convince her to remain in the one place she was determined to escape. Refusing to give him the chance to push her concerns away, as he’d done so obliviously but no less hurtfully time and time again in the years they’d known each other.

‘Grey. It’s been a long time.’

His lip lifted in a half-sneer. ‘Not long enough.’

The lines that radiated from his green eyes, even at the age of nineteen, had deepened with years spent in the sun, out in the open, working in the fields. She’d thought them attractive then, now they were downright sexy. Rudely so. His gold-flecked chestnut-coloured hair was the same as ever – trimmed short around the sides with a little more length on top, but time had seen his body further fill out, and his broad shoulders and well-muscled upper chest and arms were emphasised by a slim-cut navy T-shirt.

She dropped her gaze, aware that staring at his upper body was only adding to the nerves, building and buzzing in her veins.

If agreeing to return to Strawberry Farm was her first mistake, dropping her gaze was her second.

Olive green cargo drill shorts fell down to the knees, to reveal tanned legs with calves that could have been cut from stone.

She softly inhaled once more. She’d always been a sucker for a good pair of legs, and Grey’s were some of the best.

Some of the best?

More like the best. The product of hard work, not a gym workout. Calves that led up to thick, toned thighs…

A wave of heat hit her face. Peppering her temples in sweat.

‘Hot out here.’ She swiped the moisture away with the back of her hand, and mustered up a smile. She was only going to be here for a while. A few weeks at most. And as Grey was the assistant manager of her family’s farm, she was going to have to be polite. Not only because guilt lay thick and heavy in her gut, but also because she would have to work with him and she didn’t want the working environment to be any more strained than it had to be.

Current level of strain? Thicker than the homemade jam they sold at the farm shop. And easily tarter.

‘Well, I’d better go inside.’ Hannah gripped the handle of her turquoise-coloured hard-shell suitcase and turned her attention to the farmhouse.

It was the complete opposite of her modernised flat on the ground floor of a Victorian conversion in London. A functional, small space, where she slept, showered and sometimes ate. Technically, it was home, but it had none of the niceties of a proper home. Sure, it had your basic furniture along with cushions and throws, but there were no knickknacks. No meaningful art. No photos of friends and family dotted about the place.

The granite two-storey building in front of her was a place filled with warmth, laughter and love. Where evenings were spent around the massive oak dining table catching up on the day’s events. Followed by card or board games until bedtime. Her parents, and her grandparents who lived with them, weren’t big on television, preferring quality family time, the comfort of a good book or hours spent out in the fields.

‘Are you going to just stand there and stare? Or are you going to let your family know you’re here?’

Hannah startled, realising how ridiculous she must’ve looked gawping at a place that she should be able to just walk into and make herself comfortable. Instead she wanted to dive back into her rental car and escape the past. Run from the present.

She straightened up and turned her best attempt at an unconcerned face towards Grey. The same expression she used on famous clients when doing their makeup for the first time. The one that said, ‘I don’t care how important you think you are, we’re here to do a job, so let’s just get on with it and have a nice time, shall we?’

As no-nonsense as it was easy-going, it was an expression that had made her one of the most trusted, most requested, makeup artists in London. Some would say in the world. Her clients choosing her over others as they knew her focus was on making them appear their best. That she wouldn’t send them out looking like clowns, or overly enhanced versions of themselves that would see their faces plastered under ‘plastic surgery gone wrong’ tabloid headlines.

She gave a well-practised nonchalant shrug. ‘Just taking it in. It’s been some time. And yet it hasn’t changed. Not a bit.’ She tossed a smile in Grey’s direction, then – pulling her suitcase behind her – made her way up the box-hedged path.

Deep breaths, Hannah. Deep breaths.

She shook her head as her hand curled into a fist and rose to knock on the white-painted front door. What was she doing? This was where she grew up. Her home. Knocking on her own front door? Who even did that?

Who even did that, indeed? Only a person who hadn’t returned home for more than the odd obligatory flying visit at Christmas since she left ten years ago.

She unfurled her hand, placed it on the door handle and pushed down.

‘Hello?’ She poked her head in and waited for her mother’s enthusiastic footsteps.

None came. Which she ought to have expected.

There was only one place her mother would be right now, and that was tucked up in bed upstairs where she was recuperating from a violent bacterial infection that had kept her bedridden for well over a week, with the doctor advising she take things easy for the next few weeks.

Hannah set her suitcase to the side of the door and made her way up the stairs, trying to ignore the sense of doom that darkened her spirit with every step.

Her father had sounded so panicked on the phone. At a loss. So unlike the stoic man that he was. The final line in their brief chat lassoing the guilt she’d pushed deep down, tied in chains and boxed up.

‘Your mum needs you.’

Not ‘we’ need you, want you. But Hannah knew well enough not to expect her father to ask for her help, for her to be of any use to him, but then their father/daughter relationship was miles away from the close and cosy one she shared with her mother.

So here she was, Hannah Beety, makeup artist to the stars, trudging up the stairs she’d once fled down, preparing to swap her lipsticks for ladles, her primers for punnets, setting sprays for all the strawberries she could scoff.

Someone, somewhere, was having a great laugh at her expense.

Probably Grey.

She paused just outside her parents’ room. ‘Mum? It’s Hannah.’

The door was open just a crack, and through it all she could see was the end of her parents’ bed. The spare throw blanket that was usually tossed aside in summer was spread out over the aquamarine duvet.

Taking a deep breath in, she slowly pushed the door open, giving her mother, or anyone else in the room, time to call out if they didn’t want to be bothered.

When no ‘stop’ or ‘hold on a second’ came, Hannah inched over the threshold. The breath she’d been holding rushing out as she was faced with just how ill her mother was.

The plump cheeks that lifted so readily in a smile were sunken. Dark shadows under her closed eyes created even more of a lifeless appearance. Her lips thin, parched. And what skin she could see was slack. Like the life had been sucked from her.

‘Oh, Mum,’ she whispered, as she made her way to the chair placed at her mother’s side.

She settled onto it and reached for her mother’s frail hand. The veins bulged beneath her brittle skin.

Pain gripped Hannah’s chest as she fought the tears that rose. Not once in all her years had she seen her mother look like this. Jill Beety was the poster girl for good health and vitality. Never complaining of aching joints or pulled muscles, despite hours spent hunched over picking strawberries or preparing crops for the coming growing season. Always ready to go for a walk through the fields, whatever the weather. Up at the crack without complaint. Staying up to all hours chatting with friends and family without even the hint of a yawn.

To see her so… withered, with no colour in her cheeks, deathly pale lips and a chest that rose and fell unevenly…

Hannah wanted to bundle her into her arms. Whisper soothing words. Tell her she’d be better soon. The same way her mother had done to her when she was sick as a girl.

‘Hannah, you’re here. Oh, sweet pea, it’s so good to see you.’

Hannah startled at her grandmother’s voice.

She turned to see her dad’s mother, Sylvia, leaning against the wall. The marionette lines bracketing either side of her mouth deeper than usual; mirroring the lines that ran between her eyebrows.

Hannah stood and crossed the room, opening her arms to receive the hug her grandmother offered.

‘I’ve missed you, my girl.’ The words were hot against her ear. Fierce. ‘You’re looking too thin. We’ll have to make sure we feed you while you’re here.’

Hannah closed her eyes as she breathed in her grandmother’s minty scent, caused by her love of humbugs. The sweets always tucked away in one of her pockets.

‘I’ve missed you too, Gran.’ Hannah squeezed her grandmother extra tight then let her go and stepped back. ‘And I’m not too thin. This is me. This is how my body is.’

Sylvia clucked her tongue and shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it. We’ll see what happens once I get a few roast dinners and some scones into you.’

An image of golden, light and fluffy scones, cut in half and piled with strawberry jam and dollops of cream, rose in Hannah’s mind, triggering a gurgle from her stomach.

‘Looks like your stomach’s in agreement.’ Sylvia raised her greying eyebrows.

‘Just too busy driving to eat today, Gran. No big deal.’ Too busy driving? More like her stomach had been so knotted up with nerves and worry that the thought of imbibing anything more than sips of water had sent waves of nausea rolling through her.

‘Is that our Hannah? Has our grandchild finally decided to grace us with her presence?’

Her grandfather’s booming voice filled the hallway, nearly as loudly as the clomping footsteps he took.

Sylvia rolled her eyes in a ‘what can you do, he’s never going to change’ way at Hannah, and made space in the doorway for her husband of fifty-one years.

‘Peter, how many times have I told you to keep it down. We don’t want to wake Jill. The doctor told us she needs to rest.’ Sylvia reached up and mock-zipped Peter’s lips.

‘Does she sleep much?’ Hannah glanced over at her mother. Felt the pull to her bedside. To take her hand. To stroke it. Send her strength.

‘Most of the day. She tends to wake for a bit after dinner. I like to think it’s my delicious cooking that rouses her.’ Sylvia ushered them out into the hallway, then herded them down the stairs and into the kitchen.

‘Do they know what caused it?’ Despite asking, Hannah hadn’t been able to get in-depth details from her father, who had kept their conversation quick and monosyllabic in the usual way of talking he reserved for her.

Sylvia shrugged as she went to the bench, grabbed the kettle, filled it with water and flicked it on. ‘The doctor suspects it was a virus that went bacterial. Chest infection, he reckoned. I don’t know. I’ve had a few chest infections in my time but nothing has ever knocked me around like that. Part of me thinks he’s as flummoxed as we are, but he has to put it down to something to save face.’ She pulled three mugs down from the cupboard, set them on the bench and popped a teabag in each. ‘Still, what do I know? I’m just a strawberry grower. The antibiotics worked though. Knocked the worst of it on the head. She just needs to get her strength back now.’

‘Terrible timing, but.’ Peter pulled out a chair and sank into it. ‘Right at the height of the season when we need all hands on deck.’

Hannah tried not to let her grandfather’s comment feel like a barb. Refused to let it get its hook into and under her skin. So she’d not been around for the last nine seasons. She’d been busy forging a career. Doing her own thing. Proving to the world that which she’d not been able to prove to her own father – that she was worth having around. That she was capable of meeting expectations. Of surpassing them.

Guilt tugged at her heart as it always did when she was forced to acknowledge that her leaving to find her place in the world had the potential to eventually bring the family farm to a standstill. That her inability to be a good enough strawberry farmer meant one day – with no siblings to take her spot, and aunts, uncles and cousins who had long since left their tiny blip-on-the-map part of Cornwall to live their lives and make their fortunes elsewhere – the Beety family’s land would belong to another.

‘Now, Peter, that’s unfair,’ Sylvia admonished her husband as she poured hot water into the mugs followed by drops of milk. ‘You know as well as I do that Jill didn’t ask to get sick. And if we’re looking for a silver lining, we have one right here.’ Sylvia set a mug of tea, the perfect shade of dark beige, in front of Hannah. ‘Our girl’s home. For three whole weeks.’

Hannah clasped the mug, focused on the liquid inside and tried not to squirm at her grandmother’s tone. Light, bright, and a touch fake there at the end. Like she didn’t think Hannah would handle being on the farm all that time. Like she thought Hannah would leave the moment things got tough.

Hannah took a sip of tea through gritted teeth. Not going to happen.

She was here for her mum. To help the family. As for finding things tough? She’d never found farm work hard. She’d revelled in it, fed off the ebb and flow of seasons, of working the land, creating a product adored by many. If anything, her love for the farm had made leaving that much harder.

But that was back then; these days country life wasn’t for her. She’d come to prefer the hustle and bustle, the engine fumes and honking horns, the variety and excitement of the city to the Cornish countryside’s slow and measured pace.

At least that’s what she’d told herself. What she’d continue to tell herself every time the urge to risk rejection by returning home and attempting to take her rightful place on the farm bubbled up.

She forced her eyes up from the tea and pasted a smile to her face. ‘Three weeks indeed. Then it’s back to the real world. I’m lucky my clients were so understanding when I cancelled their bookings.’ Hannah hoped the fear that had eddied low in her stomach since she’d made the cancellations didn’t show in her face. Her industry was competitive with bright, new, talented makeup artists coming onto the scene all the time. In the interest of her clients she’d given them the numbers of the makeup artists she trusted, whose work she admired. But part of her worried that if they took a shine to a new artist she’d lose her position; all her hard work would be for nothing. She’d be unwanted once more. And then what?

She’d be able to add second-rate makeup artist to her CV alongside failed strawberry farmer.

Was she being dramatic? Probably. But if there was a worst-case scenario, that was it.

A plate of biscuits was set in front of her. Homemade, of course. Bourbon biscuits and ginger biscuits. Just like when Hannah was a young girl. Coming home from school absolutely ravenous and diving into a plate of her grandmother’s treats while she did her homework, before being allowed to head outside and play with Grey, was the best part of her day.

Her life had been so good back then. So simple.

If only all the effort she’d put into filling those big work boots of the Beety men who’d run the farm before her had been good enough in her father’s eyes. If only he’d seen her worth. Trusted her…

‘You need to get up earlier, Hannah.’ ‘That strawberry is a second. Can’t you see that?’ ‘Those newfangled ways of doing things aren’t how we do things, Hannah. You’re best not to think about them.’

…Perhaps then her life would still be simple rather than a hectic race from appointment to appointment, keeping up with trends, maintaining your brand, ensuring you never missed a step, a trick, a beat.

Her grandfather glanced up at the clock above the windowsill. ‘Your dad will be here soon. Grey too. Never ones to miss afternoon tea.’

Hannah pushed the plate away. The gingery, sugary aromas no longer so appetising.

Sylvia slipped into the chair beside her and patted her hand reassuringly. ‘You’ll be fine. Your dad’s glad you’ve come home to help. Really. You’re his daughter. He loves you. He’s accepted the way things are. Besides, after you’ve gone he’ll still have Grey to help him. And, Lord knows, that young man’s never leaving.’

What should have made Hannah’s swirling stomach settle only served to further roil it up. Her grandmother was right. Grey was never leaving. Hannah wouldn’t be surprised if one day he put in an offer to buy the farm and take it over. Make it his.

At least if he did, when he did, she’d have one less thing to fret about. Her family selling the farm – as much as it hurt her to think about it – would mean she’d never have to spend her visits home trying to keep out of Grey’s way. Keeping herself to herself so as not to feel his dislike. His disdain. His pain.

She went to stand and excuse herself but stopped as the back door opened and two tall, broad-shouldered figures bowled in, toed off their work boots and went to the kitchen sink to wash their hands.

Hannah sank back down into her chair and kept her hands under the table so no one could see how they held each other tight, how her knuckles strained white against her skin.

Her father grabbed the hand towel off the bench and turned, his eyes narrowing as he registered her presence.

‘Hannah. You’re here.’

She nodded. ‘I am.’

A long pause followed. Hannah waited for her father to tell her it was good to see her or that she was looking well. No words came.

He finished drying his hands, passed the towel to Grey who hadn’t once glanced in her direction, and made his way to the kitchen table, pulled out a seat and sat down.

‘Have those city ways of yours made you forget how to work on the farm?’ His eyes didn’t meet hers as he reached for a biscuit and accepted a cup of tea from Sylvia.

Hannah bristled at the implication that she didn’t know how to work hard. That she flitted about from place to place slapping makeup on face after face. ‘I’m often up at the crack of dawn, Dad. On my feet until late into the night too. I may not have dirt under my nails but it doesn’t mean I don’t know the meaning of hard work.’

‘Duncan, Hannah’s just arrived. Give her a moment to catch her breath. Eat your biscuit, drink your tea.’ Sylvia’s words were gent. . .