Page 18 of Always Be My Pumpkin

9

‘Turnips.’

‘Sorry, what?’ I stare across the desk at Moll Stringer. I don’t easily lose my patience but that woman is driving me up the walls.

I’ve thrown myself into work these last few days to take my mind off the fact that Flynn’s sleeping underneath me every night. Well, not precisely underneath me, there’s a ceiling between us, but it’s all I can think about, and I’m strangely disappointed that he waits until I go to bed before he crashes. And by the time I come downstairs every morning, he’s already gone.

I wonder if he senses that I’m having feelings, horny feelings, and wants to make sure I don’t get any crazy ideas, like he might be feeling something back.

And Jamie’s due home this week, and I definitely don’t want to think about that. Although, it’s Thursday now, and there’s no sign of him. And now that I think of it, he’s barely entered my head since Sunday. I’ve been more than a little distracted by Flynn sitting across from me at dinner, or on that dusky pink couch in the evenings, sketching in his notebook, or leafing through a poetry book, while I curl up on the fireside chair and crochet endless mini pumpkins to keep myself calm.

And then at night, stretched out on that very same couch, with the covers kicked off, breathing softly like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Okay, full disclosure, I may have conveniently forgotten to take up a glass of water, more than once, and I may have taken a few peeks when I sneaked back down. I’m only human.

‘Turnips!’ Moll hisses, eyes bulging. Oops, I forgot she was there.

She points accusingly to the giant crochet pumpkin that I placed in the window of the children’s area this morning. ‘Those abominations are everywhere.’ She glares at my smiley pumpkin like she’s trying to scorch him to ashes with her eyes. ‘And not one proper jack-o’-lantern to be seen.’ She slaps her palm on the counter, scattering the flyers for our autumn poetry workshop. They land behind the desk, and I bend to pick them up.

‘It’s not right, all these foreign notions. Barty will have turnips ready any day now and he’ll give them to you for a good price.’

I take a deep breath as I set my bundle of flyers on the countertop. ‘It was Irish immigrants who introduced Halloween traditions to North America,’ I tell her. ‘So, it’s more of a fusion, really, a mingling of cultures.’

‘Well, I don’t abide by mingling. And I want my request noted in that book of yours.’

‘Okaay.’ I grab a stray scrap of paper and hold up my pen. ‘And what is it that you’re suggesting, exactly?’

‘That you get rid of those smiley pumpkin yokes and make proper scary stingy jacks. With Barty’s turnips.’ She swipes the paper from my fingers. ‘And I want that noted in that big red folder I saw you with yesterday. You’re not fobbing me off with scrips and scraps. You might turn other folks’ heads, but you don’t fool me, missy. I know you’re only trying to impress that Yankee lad.’

‘Sorry, who?’

‘The lad that used to live here. You know.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘That has the look of a young Robert Redford, back in the day.’

Oh, right. I would have said a young Johnny Flynn, but I get where she’s coming from.

‘He’s Irish.’ I throw my hands up because, honestly, I know I’m wasting my time. But I can’t help myself, so I add, ‘Okay, his dad’s American, and yes, they live there now, but Flynn’s Irish. He was born here.’ I sigh. ‘Anyway, we’re just friends, that’s all.’

I see by her sneer she doesn’t believe me, so I swerve back to vegetables. ‘But if you’d like to give us some turnips, that would be great. I was thinking of doing a workshop with the older children. I know they’d love to carve some scary lanterns.’ Maybe not quite the horrors Moll has in mind but no point telling her that. I just say, ‘Pat’s already offered to donate a pile of pumpkins, but turnips would be very welcome too.’

‘We’re not made of money.’ She sniffs. ‘You’ll have to pay something for them.’

I nod because there’s no point arguing with the woman. ‘I’ll check the petty cash and see what I can do.’

‘And that folder? Aren’t you going to put me in your book?’ She strides over to the lime green tub chair facing the desk, and sits, arms folded and jaw set.

‘Sorry, I left it at home. I’ll have to nip back at break.’

I was going over my notes in bed, when Flynn was asleep, and I forgot to bring it downstairs this morning. I was almost at the library when I remembered and ran back to get it. But when I opened the cottage door, Flynn was on the flagstones, doing push-ups in his shorts. He was facing away from me, with Chappell Roan blaring ‘Hot to Go!’, so I don’t think he heard me, but I darted back down the path before he could catch my flaming face.

That back. Those shoulders. Those muscles. I swear I’m going to have to start wearing that yellow concealer stuff. Ever since Flynn moved into Hazel Cottage, my cheeks, and other parts of my body, feel like they’re permanently on fire.

Moll looks up at the clock on the wall behind me, then over towards the stairs as Gertrude makes her way down. ‘Her ladyship’s back. I’ll wait here.’

Gertrude doesn’t look any happier than me to see Moll and she goes straight to her chair and stares at her screen.

‘I can’t wait all day,’ Moll grunts. ‘Ask the boss if you can take your break and go and get that book now.’

I sigh in frustration and Gertrude looks up with a scowl. But before I get to say anything, she stands and glares across at Moll. ‘Gracie doesn’t need to ask my permission. She’s due her break anyway. And she needs it.’ She arches her brows, still glaring at Moll. ‘That girl works too hard, and she puts up with far too much guff.’