A Home at Honeysuckle Farm: A gorgeous and heartwarming summer read

‘I could get used to this.’

Grace began to run the hot water while I browsed through the thick booklet she’d handed me. ‘Wow! Good photo of you there,’ I cooed, incredibly proud of her. ‘Just think where it all started, in a little village dance school.’

‘I know, two superstars from the same community.’ She flashed me a grin, placing the dishes on the drainer.

This was my opportunity to come clean, to tell Grace I’d never made it on to the stage, I’d never passed an audition or even got a call back. My face would never be printed in a programme. But I didn’t tell her. Instead I kept quiet, not wanting anyone’s pity. I didn’t want people to know how badly I’d failed, so I brushed over it once more, hiding the fact that I was a disappointment.

Turning the pages casually, I knew at any second Sam Reid would once again be staring back at me, and there he was on page twelve, making the hairs on the back on my neck stand to attention.

Grace must have noticed I’d gone quiet and glanced over my shoulder.

‘Sam Reid, Birmingham Hippodrome’s favourite heart throb.’ Grace pressed her lips together then whistled softly.

‘Which I’m assuming is undisputed.’ I knew I was staring gormlessly at his picture. ‘It’s a hard job but someone has to do it,’ I murmured, still not able to tear my eyes away from the page.

‘Absolutely.’

‘Will Sam Reid be joining us in the pub tonight?’ I bit down on my lip to stop my smile from escaping.

‘No, afraid not, but I’m sure it’s more than likely you’ll bump into him very soon.’

‘It’s a pity he’s not out tonight.’

‘You’re staring!’

‘His eyes are mesmerising. There’s something about Sam Reid.’

‘Which is?’ Grace quizzed.

‘Very photogenic.’ I paused. ‘What’s the relationship status of this man?’

With a wide grin Grace smiled in my direction, ‘That’ll be single!’

Chapter 7 (#ulink_f4e15f78-fb8c-5ac3-b163-acfbc4b7e4ff)

After a quick shower, I hung up my clothes in the wardrobe and chose an unassuming outfit of white skinny jeans, accompanied by a light-blue stripy blouse before sitting at the dressing table. I used a couple of wands of mascara and a dab of nude shiny lip gloss, brushed through my hair, squirted my perfume and declared myself ready.

The jetlag was beginning to kick in now, but if I could manage to keep going for a few more hours, I’d hopefully fall quite easily into the UK time zone.

Grace rapped on the door. ‘You still awake?’ she asked, leaning against the doorframe.

‘Just about,’ I said, standing up and slipping my comfy battered pumps on my feet. ‘You have permission to flick my ears if I fall asleep on you.’

‘Ha! You’ll be fine. Once you’re there you’ll get a second wind … just shout up as soon as you want to come back,’ Grace said with a smile. ‘The pub is only five minutes’ walk away, if that.’

‘Which one are we going to?’ I asked, grabbing my bag and a cardigan.

‘The Malt Shovel, the one on the high street.’

As Grace and I set off up the lane with our arms linked and the warmth of the evening sun on our faces, a sense of contentment flooded my veins as the pub grew close. This was the pub Grandie and I used to sit outside regularly … happy memories from a time before everything changed.

The outside benches were already jam-packed with drinkers chatting and laughing while enjoying the weather. Grace led the way through the heavy oak door then pushed through the thirsty customers and waved towards the barman. I was taken aback by the charm of the place; as a child, I’d never really noticed. It was so different from the rooftop bar overlooking Manhattan. The quintessential low ceiling held aloft by wooden beams, the stone floors and the fireplaces gave the whole place a cosy feel. The mahogany shelving in the corner was littered with bric-a-brac and books. From the flashing fruit machine in the corner came a clatter of falling money as a man stood and scooped up his winnings.

Grace stopped in a space and I lingered behind her. As soon as he finished serving the girl at the side of us, the barman turned towards Grace with a full-on beam.

‘Good evening, do you remember Alice?’ Grace gestured towards me.

I smiled. His face looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite picture him. ‘Hi,’ I said, narrowing my eyes and scrutinising him.

‘That’s not a local accent … American?’ He scrunched up his face and bit down on his lip.

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ chuckled Grace. ‘Definitely an American accent.’

He studied my face.

‘Lived around these parts until she was ten. My mum works at the farm owned by her grandfather …’

As the penny dropped his face changed from a look of confusion back to a grin. ‘You’re kidding me … Alice … Alice Parker.’

‘The one and only,’ Grace responded whilst glancing back in my direction.

I smiled at him even though I was none the wiser who he was.

‘This is Henry Carter. You must remember Henry, Ben’s younger brother.’

‘Alice Parker …’ he took a breath, ‘the one who broke my brother’s heart when you moved to New York.’ He thrust his hand over the bar and I heartily shook it.

‘My God, Henry! You’ve grown!’ I said, amazed. His curly blond hair fell across his golden skin and his blue eyes flashed instant warmth.

‘That’s what normally happens,’ he goofily grinned.

‘I didn’t really break his heart, did I?’ I quickly added.

‘He never got over it.’ Grace winked at Henry.

‘Stop teasing, the pair of you!’ I smiled. ‘How is he?’

‘He’ll be in later, ask him yourself. He’ll be made up to see you, no doubt. Now, what can I get you both to drink?’

‘Gin and tonic please,’ I piped up.

‘I’ll have the same,’ answered Grace.

‘These are on the house, welcome home Alice! Go and grab a table and I’ll bring them over.’

‘Thank you,’ we both said in unison.

‘What a lovely welcome. If I’d known it was this friendly I would have been back sooner!’ I pulled out a chair and settled down at the table.