Page 52 of Love At First Fright

T he day before the interview, Rosemary had landed in Atlanta airport. She’d spent a large chunk of her flight intermittently looking into how to move to the UK as an American citizen and watching horror movies.

The idea of telling Ellis she loved him and that she wanted to move to the UK—not for him, but he was certainly a factor—had energised her.

Her whole body felt lighter. This must be what love feels like.

As excited as she was to see her dad and visit the home she’d grown up in, a big part of her was just as excited for when she was on the return trip to London.

It wasn’t just Ellis; she’d given more thought to moving there in general.

To be closer to Dina and Immy, especially as Immy’s twins grew up.

To build a life for herself in a place that she loved with people she loved.

She’d have to break the news to her dad, of course, and she didn’t relish that conversation, but she planned to put it off until after Christmas.

With only two days to go, Atlanta airport was dressed to the nines with Christmas decorations. After the more sparse festive decorations in the UK, she’d forgotten how hardcore Christmas was taken back home.

Rosemary spotted her dad waiting by the arrivals barrier, holding a single yellow tulip that she knew he’d picked for her himself the same day.

“Hey, sweetpea,” he said, pulling her into a bear hug.

Rosemary knew she’d inherited her dad’s exceptional hugging abilities, as Immy and Dina had told her on numerous occasions that a “Rosemary hug” was aggressively elite.

She liked being on the receiving end of one, though, feeling all-encompassed.

Her dad’s earthy scent combined with the flower’s, and she sighed, feeling the softening in her bones that a person can only get when they get a hug from their parents.

“Hey, Dad, missed you.” She blinked away tears, looking up at him.

Russell Shaw was tall and wiry where Rosemary had inherited her mother’s short stature.

But in addition to her great hugging ability, Rosemary had gotten her dad’s complexion, the two of them pale with ginger hair, though her dad’s forearms and face were speckled with many more freckles, since he spent so much time in the sun.

The last time she’d been home was six months ago, and so much had happened since then.

“Did you have a good flight? How’s the filming going?”

“Good, watched a lot of movies. And filming is great, Ellis is perfect as Alfred”— oh, how opinions change—“ and the director is fantastic.” She had told him over text that she was dating Ellis, but she’d skimped on the details.

Thankfully, her dad hadn’t asked too many questions, though she suspected he was holding back a barrage of them right this moment.

“Ah, and would that be Ellis Finch, the movie star?” Her dad arched an eyebrow, tugging on his faded baseball cap with a free hand.

It was dark green, with the logo for the Shaw Flower and Fruit Farm: a sunflower.

It was the first cap her parents had produced as merchandise for the business, more of a prototype really.

Her mother had hand-sewn the name and flowers on it, a little wonky and misshapen.

Rosemary remembered that when they had professionally printed the first set of caps, her mom had tried to give her dad a new one, but he’d refused.

Said his old one was perfect already. Later that evening, Rosemary had been reading on the porch when she spotted her parents out slow-dancing in the sunflower field, celebrating their successful harvest. There was no music playing, but they’d swayed to a beat that only the two of them could hear, surrounded by shoulder-height yellow petals.

“Yes, the movie star. Don’t be weird about it, Dad.”

“I won’t be. Will I get to meet him eventually, give him the old talking-to?”

“What am I, sixteen?”

“You’re always going to be my baby girl, sweetpea,” he said, looping an arm around Rosemary’s shoulder and pressing a kiss to her temple. “Got a surprise in the car for you.”

“You already got me flowers, Dad.”

“Well, she wouldn’t leave me alone, so I had to bring her.”

“She?” Rosemary peered ahead at her dad’s Chevy truck, just ahead of them in the airport parking lot.

She couldn’t see any woman sitting in the car.

But as she approached she noticed a little ginger head with pointed, tufty ears poking just above the base of the passenger-side window.

A sign on the car’s internal screen showed the temperature set to pet control and a little sign read, “My owner is coming back for me soon.” And meowing like her life depended on it was a scrawny ginger kitten with the roundest eyes Rosemary had ever seen.

“Oh my goodness, is she one of the litter you found in the barn?” she asked, as her dad threw Rosemary’s suitcase in the back.

“Yeah. She’s the runt, though, I’m pretty sure. The only ginger one, too, the rest are all black-and-white.”

“Did you ever find their mama?”

Her dad’s smile dropped. “I did. She didn’t make it. I buried her out in the sunflower field. I think she was a stray, must have found the barn and thought it was a good place to give birth. When I spoke to a vet, they said she’d probably been too old for another litter.”

“That’s so sad. Are the other kittens still at the house?”

“Yeah, I made them a little bed in the living room. Not that one, though.” He nodded at the ginger kitten through the window. “She’s a menace and refuses to sleep anywhere but the pillow of your old bed, so I hope you don’t mind sharing.”

He said it in that grumpy way that made Rosemary secretly suspect that he doted on the small kitten and had probably been the one to place her in Rosemary’s bed in the first place, not that he’d ever admit it.

He popped the lock and Rosemary slipped into the seat, the kitten jumping all over her immediately, her tiny sharp claws digging into her legs.

“Aren’t you the cutest,” she cooed, lifting the kitten against her chest. Immediately, the kitten started kneading miniature biscuits into Rosemary’s forearms, nuzzling her head into Rosemary’s chest.

“See, I told you,” her dad said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “A menace.”

“What did you name her? She’s so tiny.”

“Tiny but feisty. Reminds me of you.” He chuckled. “I’ve been calling her Little Bee, because I found her sleeping inside your old black-and-yellow-striped rubber boots.”

“Bee. I like that, it suits her.”

Bee was clearly exhausted from making such a racket and all the excitement of the drive, and promptly fell asleep in the crook of Rosemary’s arm. It was significantly warmer here than it had been in England, but Rosemary was still wrapped up warm, covering Bee with her scarf like a little blanket.

She chatted with her dad on and off for the next hour as they left Atlanta and began the three-hour drive to Blossom Ridge.

Her dad turned on the radio, and hummed along to old country songs, and her mind slowed as she took in the wide empty roads.

She must have dozed off, because next time she woke up they were pulling left into the driveway of her home, the grand old oak tree, dripping with Spanish moss, that had been there longer than her family had, bending down crookedly over the mailbox and driveway.

Rosemary’s family home was a classic one-floor farmhouse with a wraparound white-decked porch and dark green shutters.

Tall trees shaded the house from the worst of the heat in summer, and cocooned it in winter.

Behind the house, currently obstructed from view, were the acres of flower and pumpkin fields, all lying dormant until spring.

The flower hothouses were a little to the east of the house, right at the edge of their property.

And right in the centre of their land, the old cherry tree.

Her mama’s favourite place, and where they’d buried her.

Rosemary looked at the pair of empty chairs on the porch, and for a moment she half expected to see her mom sitting in her favourite spot. A blanket had been haphazardly tossed on one of them, and she could almost imagine that Mama had just stepped inside for a moment to make a batch of tea.

She’d always smelt like sweet tea and cherry blossoms, and for a moment Rosemary swore she heard her mother’s cackling laugh carrying on the air.

But it had been twelve years. She’d looked for a spirit, even a remnant, but there was nothing.

It was as Cecilia had said; there was a place after this, full of quiet peace, and that’s where her mama had gone. “You alright?”

She looked over at her dad. “Just miss her, you know.”

He squeezed her hand. “I know. So do I.”

They got out of the truck, her dad grabbing her suitcase as Rosemary carried the snoozing Bee, swaddled in her scarf, inside.

Rosemary sent Ellis a message to let him know she’d arrived safe and sound, along with a picture of Bee. He replied with a photo of him and Fig in the garden.

Rosemary pushed open the front door with its familiar creak, and was greeted by the scent of her childhood home: the ginger tea her dad drank, clean clothes drying on the radiators, and the sharp tang of woodworking varnish from the garage.

Everything looked the same, too, from her nana’s handmade quilt that rested across the back of the sofa in the lounge, to the family photos on the wall and the shabby red rug that travelled down the hall to the kitchen.

Christmas wasn’t a big deal in her house, but her dad had hung two stockings above the fireplace, and there was a stubby tree, ribboned with colourful lights, in the corner.

She hadn’t expected to be ambushed by four black-and-white kittens, tangling around her feet and meowing for attention. Bee decided that that was the time to wake up and stake her claim on Rosemary, digging her little claws into her arm and yowling up a racket.