But what it was wasn’t good enough, any more. Not for the likes of Ruth and Selena Archer. Not for Anna Yardley. Not for Carrie.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Nate told himself that what he needed was a long, hot shower and an evening drinking whisky with a good book. When his mobile rang, he almost ignored it. But it was probably Gran, with some sort of minor emergency. And he couldn’t ignore his gran, now, could he?
But when he looked, the display showed a London number, and then it was his curiosity that wouldn’t let him ignore it.
“Nate Green,” he said, trying to sound as if he didn’t care who was on the other end.
“TV Wow’s Hunkiest Gardener, two years running. I may swoon.” The husky voice was achingly familiar, and Nate stepped away from the flowerbed to drop onto the wooden bench placed there to make the most of the spring blooms. He really would need a whisky after this conversation.
“Melody. How...strange to hear from you.” He didn’t add, after you fired me, or even, after you dumped me. He figured they were sort of implicit.
“It’s been two years, Nate. I missed you.” Which sounded highly unlikely.
“In which capacity? Hunky TV gardener, or part-time boyfriend?” Nate tried to make it sound like a joke, but he wasn’t really sure he succeeded.
Either way, Melody was suddenly all business. “The former, actually. Listen, I was wondering if you could come down to London this week, talk about the possibility of a new show?”
Nate wondered how much the Avalon Inn, and Carrie, would fall apart if he disappeared for a day or two. Probably quite a lot. “I’ve got a lot on up here, Mel. I don’t think I can.”
“Turning down the chance to be a TV star all over again?” Mel sounded faintly incredulous. “What happened to the fame-hungry Nate ‘the Singing Gardener’ Green who made grandmothers across the country faint into their rice pudding?”
“He came north to look after his own grandmother. And do the sort of gardening he wanted to do, without having to sing for his supper.” Nate leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes against the weak autumn sunlight. “Besides, how do you know I haven’t put on ten stone eating my gran’s cooking?” Mel had never met his gran, let alone sampled her attempts at fine cuisine. She didn’t like to travel north of Watford Gap.
“With your stature and work ethic? Never.” Mel blew a breath down the phone line, and Nate knew he was about to hear why she was really calling. “Look, Nate, I’ve got a new programme in the works, and my star gardener’s had some sort of breakdown and refuses to even have a telly in his house, let alone appear on it. I think he might have made himself a tinfoil hat. I thought gardening was supposed to reduce stress?”
“Well, is it stress stress, or drugs and alcohol stress?”
“Apparently, just overwork.” Mel sighed again. “Regardless, I’m down a gardening genius. And I thought to myself, where do you find one of those lazing around, wasting their talent?”
“And you thought of me,” Nate finished.
“And I thought of you.” Mel paused for a moment, then said, “What do you say? It’s proper gardening, Nate. Not just sticking some pots on gravel in between songs.”
“Not city gardens?” Nate had thought he’d go crazy, doing up designer gardens for professionals who didn’t actually want to touch soil or anything. Not to mention the obligatory tune, stuck in between gardening tips. He’d wished for years he’d never been to that karaoke bar with Melody back when they were still planning the programme. But when he’d suggested they move on to something a bit wider, something with some scope to grow and change and evolve... Well. That was when Mel had decided his preferred sort of gardening didn’t mesh with the production company’s ethos.
And when he’d walked away from The Singing Gardener, it was clear their needs and wants didn’t mesh any more, either.
“Country estates,” Mel said, her voice tempting and husky again. “Miles of green grass and empty borders needing vision and design. Herb gardens, vegetable plots, rose gardens...anything you fancy.”
It would be so easy to say yes. To leave Carrie to do whatever she needed to save the Avalon Inn. To get back to how his life had been, before Granddad died and he’d come to keep an eye on Gran for a couple of weeks, decided this was the kind of life he wanted, and headed back to London full of new ideas to be shot down. When the Avalon Inn was just a place he’d spent one summer, as a kid.
But... “I can’t, Mel. Really. They need me here. I have…responsibilities.” At least, until Carrie sold the land out from under him.
Mel sighed, and Nate felt just as he had every time he’d said something stupid at a TV people party. “Look, we don’t start filming for another few months. Think about it, and call me.”
“Sure,” Nate said, eager for the conversation to be over. He could just say no again in a fortnight.
But apparently he wasn’t convincing enough, because Mel said, “I’ll call you, then. Seriously, Nate, think about it. It’s a great opportunity. For both of us.” She hung up, leaving Nate staring at the phone.
It was a great opportunity. But Nate wasn’t sure if it could trump everything the Avalon Inn had already given him. Or what he owed to Nancy.
Nate looked around his garden, trying to imagine which bit of it he could bear to part with and failing. Which section would Carrie want to get rid of? The woods, with their bluebell walks and wildlife, or the fountain, or the rose garden, or the pagoda or...? It didn’t matter. He couldn’t lose any part of it.
Which meant he’d just have to find a way to make every inch of the gardens earn their keep. Then Carrie would see how important they were.
She had to. Or he couldn’t stay.
A phone call from Ruth was a highlight of a normal day but the last thing Carrie wanted to deal with after telling Nate to brace himself for losing half his gardens. Her heart clenched at the number on her mobile-phone screen. Would this call be the one to say the wedding was off? She didn’t want to know. But, she knew she had to answer it. After all, Ruth was family. And even if she weren’t, her wedding might be the only thing that could save, not only the gardens, but the whole inn.
“Hi, Ruthie,” she said, making an effort to sound cheery. “How are things there?”
“Carrie, I’m so sorry. We’ve got a problem.” Ruth wasn’t one to beat around the bush.
Carrie dropped into the chair behind Nancy’s desk. “Tell me.”
“Graeme can’t make the next show round either.” Ruth sounded thoroughly fed up. Carrie really didn’t blame her.
“Then we’ll change the date. When can he do?”
“That’s the problem. The only date he can do between now and the wedding is a week on Thursday.”
Which was cutting it very fine for a Christmas wedding. Carrie saw her carefully plotted schedules collapsing before her. But if that was what it took to make this wedding happen... “Then that’s when we’ll do it.”
“Are you sure? It won’t screw up your plans?”
“It’ll be fine,” Carrie promised, and hoped she wasn’t lying.
Ruth sighed. “Great.