Laurel settled for something in the middle. Nate narrowed his eyes at her, dropping his chin slightly in what she was coming to know as his ‘thinking stance’. Although what there was to think about, she had no idea. This wasn’t work, so of course she wouldn’t behave like she was at work.
‘Do you have a drink?’ she asked, politely.
Nate glanced around the well-worn and loved living room.
‘Somewhere,’ he muttered.
‘I’ll get you one.’ Any excuse to go and see her ‘best friend’ and thank her for the heads up that Nate fucking Daley was joining them for Fletcher Family Sunday Dinner.
‘Oh and,’ he said, and she turned back to look at him. ‘I’m sorry about your mum.’
Huh. The kids must have told him about the Grandma Helena they’d never met. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
‘Okay.’ She nodded, a little taken aback at his oddly intimate comment.
Nate
Nate groaned internally. Was it weird that he brought up her dead mother? Or would it have been weird if hedidn’tbring it up, given that he had just been in her childhood bedroom with the picture of her mum on the bedside table and My Little Ponies standing neatly on the shelves.
But when he’d seen the picture of the woman who was an older version of Laurel, he’d had to ask the twins who she was. They told him that Grandma Helena had died when Daddy (Jack) was sixteen, which would have made Laurel fourteen and Robin around four.
It all fell into place.
Laurel must have taken on her mother’s role in looking after Robin, ensuring they had clean clothes, making meals. Jack would have been on the farm with his dad and Robin, well, Robin would only have hazy memories of his mum. Laurel would have been the only mother figure he would have ever known.
Farming is a hard life, long hours, no holiday, no break. People did it because they loved it, because it was in their blood, and certainly not because it made a lot of money.
The passion and drive to make the farm a success made sense. Really, Laurel and Jack were an excellent team.
Of course, Bill, their father, was still around and it was easy to see where the boys got their Fletcher looks from, but Jack obviously did most of the heavy lifting around the place now. Besides, Bill had two gorgeous little monster grandchildren to enjoy.
Nate felt like a pink fluffy cushion on a tractor (i.e. completely useless) standing in the living room by himself, so he followed Laurel into the kitchen, all cream painted wood and scuffed slate floors. It was a huge room, taking up the entire rear of the house. French doors to the garden stood open by the laid dining table, and the kitchen area filled the other side of the room.
Laurel was hissing at Rebecca in one corner, no doubt about having him there. The kids were shrieking outside as Robin squirted them with a water pistol, Jack and Bill looking on indulgently with bottles of beer in their hands.
‘Sorry, I just...’ Nate started, gesturing to where the Fletcher men stood.
Rebecca turned a smile on him that must have made teenage Jack’s heart skitter.
‘Nate, here you are.’ She pulled the bottle of beer that Laurel had clenched in her hands and handed it to him.
‘I’m going t—’ Rebecca became distracted by something. ‘Robin, no, don’t,’ she called, as though Robin could hear her from the other end of the carefully curated wild garden.
Rebecca dashed out of the back door.
‘Jack asked me the other day,’ he blurted. ‘I assumed someone would have mentioned it.’ Perhapsheshould have mentioned it.
He had really, really, wanted to be involved in a proper big, cosy, family dinner and didn’t want Laurel to put an abrupt end to that dream. The bunkhouse was awful and lonely on the weekends. The students had their own lives and he didn’t fancy hanging out with them. Not that he’d expected to be invited to spend the weekend with his students. Besides, Jack had told him that Rebecca’s lamb gave life meaning, so he couldn’t pass up that.
‘Yeah, well, Fletchers aren’t known for their communication,’ she muttered, lifting saucepan lids off to check whatever was bubbling away on the hob.
No shit.
He thought he’d been getting on a somewhat friendly keel with Laurel, but maybe not. Nate scowled at her. Laurel Fletcher was hard frigging work sometimes.
Rebecca reappeared, dusting her hands together.
‘Can someone get the extra chair from the cupboard under the stairs please,’ she said, peeling back the tin foil on the resting lamb.
