Page 14 of The Last Casterglass
Seph’s cheeks went pink as she looked away. “I’m not sure how much more there is to get to know,” she replied, which Oliver thought was disingenuous. Surely he’d barely scratched the surface.
Outside it had already gone dark, the village cloaked in blackness as he went around to open the passenger door for her. She mumbled something about him not needing to, before offering a belated thanks, and then they were driving through the village, even quieter now that the sun had set, through fells that were no more than humps in the darkness, back to Casterglass.
Oliver was uncomfortably aware that he’d scarpered off for most of the afternoon, having left Althea only a note. At least he’d done all the filing. Still, it wasn’t the best look, to disappear on only your second day of work. So, while Seph headed to her workshop, he went to beard Althea in her den.
“Oliver, this is marvellous!” she exclaimed as he came into the little office. “You’ve done it all—I thought it would take you days. You are remarkably efficient.”
“Well.” He shrugged modestly, relieved she wasn’t annoyed he’d taken off for the end of the afternoon. Besides, filing wasn’t exactly rocket science, was it?
“Right, what next? At this rate you’ll have the whole place in shape before Christmas.”
“I thought perhaps I could sort the orchard out?” Oliver suggested, a bit hesitant to offer his own ideas to the fearsome Althea. “I know I can’t prune the trees until winter, but I could clear the nettles and brambles out while they’ve died down, I think? Make it ready for spring?” He’d learned that last part from YouTube.
“That sounds like a wonderful project,” Althea replied, “but don’t you want experience in all the areas?”
“Yes—” He’d also wanted something he could think of as his own, something he could show his uncle that he’d done alone, but perhaps he was being presumptuous.
“I know,” Althea suggested, “why don’t you work on the orchard in the mornings, and in the afternoons, you could look into developing it online?” Althea’s face was alight with the idea. “We’d need to add it onto our website, do the marketing, run the numbers to see if it’s feasible to run pick-your-own. Or cider making, perhaps?” She threw her arms wide. “The world’s your oyster, or at least the orchard is.”
Oliver’s stomach flared with excitement. Handling a project like that would surely impress his uncle, more than filing papers or tinkering with a spreadsheet, anyway. He could show him how he’d managed it from start to finish, and how it could work at Pembury. It would be brilliant. Well, it could be. Maybe.
“That would be amazing, Althea,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Trust me, you’re the one who is doing me a favour, not the other way around,” she replied. “Now, you know about tomorrow night?”
He tried not to look too blank. “Tomorrow night?”
“We’re having a trial run of one of our proposed winter evenings—sherry, mince pies, that sort of thing, for all the locals. If it works, we’ll offer them once a week. I’d love to hear your ideas about the whole concept, of course, but if you could help serve tomorrow night, that would be wonderful.”
Serve mince pies? So he went from project manager of Casterglass Orchards to being a waiter at a family party? Oliver swallowed down any twinge of resentment he felt, because he knew it wasn’t really about tomorrow night. He was remembering all the family occasions he’d been relegated to a similar status—staying home to watch his aunt’s dogs, who apparently couldn’t be left alone, while they went out for Jack’s birthday dinner. Christmases where Jack opened a dozen presents and Oliver had one. All right, he hadn’t actually been counting, he didn’t even care, but he’d stillfeltit. In a thousand little ways, each one making him feel bitter, and then petty for feeling so.
“Oliver? Will that be okay?” Althea’s tone had turned the tiniest bit strident.
“Sure, of course,” he said quickly, smiling easily, as always. “Absolutely no problem at all. I’ll love it.” Okay, that was definitely a bit much. He knew he was not going to love it.
“Great.” She looked relieved, and with a smile Oliver excused himself. He knew he didn’t really mind about serving at the party. It was just little things like that brought up all the old resentment that he tried to forget, that he didn’t want to feel, because then it made him wonder how on earth he might ever be allowed to keep hold of Pembury Farm.
If Jack found out what he was hoping for, he’d probably be furious, or scornful, or both.As if you’d ever get Pembury, he’d tell Oliver, laughing at the sheer absurdity of it. Maybe his uncle was laughing at him. Maybe he’d suggested Oliver get some experience just as a way to fob him off. It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered such a thing, and it made him feel deeply depressed. If this was all nothing more than a futile fool’s errand, utterly hopeless…
But at least, he told himself, he’d met Seph. Not that he was expecting it to go anywhere, not that he even wanted it to, but he really had enjoyed getting to know her. He’d meant what he said about getting to know her more—because there definitely was more to get to know, no matter what she’d said, and he really hoped she’d let him find out.
Chapter Seven
“You can’t wearthat.”
Olivia stood in the doorway of Seph’s bedroom, her hands on her hips, her expression caught between laughter and horror.
“What?” Seph demanded, reverting to sullenness, as usual. Some habits were hard to break. She glanced down at her baggy jeans and loose jumper. “This is fine.”
“Seph, this is meant to be something of a special occasion,” Olivia said, a hint of laughter in her voice. “Those jeans look like you fished them out of a charity bin. You really should wear a dress, or at least a pair of tailored trousers.” She pursed her lips, eyeing her critically, making Seph fidget.
“I don’t own a dress,” she told Olivia. “And I’d look ridiculous in one, anyway.” She did not do dress up. Ever.
“You wouldn’t, you know.” Olivia’s tone gentled. “You’ve got a knockout figure, and you should show it off, at least a little.”
“I don’t want to.” She had never, ever wanted to draw attention to herself, which she supposed was a bit ironic, considering how much she had always craved someone to notice her. To care. The human heart was a mass of contradictions, Seph supposed with an inward sigh. At least hers was. It was twenty-four hours since her coffee with Oliver, and she hadn’t seen him once since, something that had both disappointed and relieved her—as usual. She hadn’t known what she would say when she saw him, but she realised she’d wanted the chance to saysomething. When, after he’d missed lunch, she’d asked Althea what he was doing, in the most offhand manner she could manage, her sister had immediately looked beady.
“He’s up working in the orchard. Why?”