Love In Between, page 1
Love in Between
A Bellethorpe Novella
Leanne Lovegrove
Love in Between © 2022 by Leanne Lovegrove
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All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except fo the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Cover Design by Emma Powell
Created with Vellum
Love in Between
Love in Between by Leanne Lovegrove
Finding community, and love, in the most unexpected place.
Caleb Stirling has never had it easy, but he’s worked hard and is a stellar chef of his own five-star restaurant in Sydney. Over one fateful week his world crumbles around him and he finds himself in an outback country town where everything he’s ever known is threatened.
Bridie Finch is the lifeblood of Bellethorpe. Need something done? Give it to Bridie. She’s so busy looking after the community, her father and their strawberry farm, she fails to care for herself.
Now, Caleb must care for his orphaned niece. But Bridie needs a chef for the annual Bastille Day Festival and, unwillingly, he lands the role. But there’s no place to hide in town and soon the locals discover who he really is. Instead of rejecting him, they rally with support and quickly both Bellethorpe and Bridie get under his skin.
A sweet small-town story of community, being accepted and finding love in the most unexpected of places.
Contents
Love in Between
Leanne Lovegrove
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
About the Author
Her Outback Home
Love in Between
Leanne Lovegrove
This story was always dedicated to Sue, my friend, a fellow writer. But quite ironically, in a cruel twist of fate, since I wrote this novella, we lost her unexpectedly and too soon. This book is dedicated to her and our friendship.
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Leanne Lovegrove
1
Caleb Stirling watched the whirlybird of dust spiral past and thought he must have arrived on the set of a crime show. The squeaking school gate, swinging to and fro, added to the effect.
A cascade of goosebumps erupted across his skin.
Inside the gate, the head mistress of Bellethorpe Primary School, whom he’d successfully avoided the last three mornings in a row, frowned in his direction. Her gaze so intent that he felt trapped like fruit in jelly.
If he avoided her eye, could he slink past unscathed? He’d try.
Taking great interest in Sybella walking beside him, he reached for her tiny hand. In a traitorous move, she dodged his touch and raced away to her friends gathered near the adventure playground. The children’s mothers nattered to each other and stared at him too, just like every other day. In time he’d talk to them, but not today. A presence stepped beside him and his heart sank. His luck had run out. He’d avoided contact with anyone at the school, hell, the entire town since he’d arrived in the backwater that was Bellethorpe. Not for the first time he wondered why his sister had lived in the small country town, which on first glance, had little to offer. And in the midst of winter, it was bloody cold.
‘Sybella says she hasn’t eaten breakfast these last few mornings,’ Mrs Ackhurst addressed him. She leaned in as she spoke and then recoiled with her nose in the air. For some reason, he expected her to have grey, permed hair and a chain with glasses around her neck. Prim and proper and sensibly dressed, yes, but she wasn’t as old as he’d imagine. Her voice was stern though, and she clasped her hands together as she waited for his reply to a question she hadn’t asked.
He thought for a moment trying to remember. He’d seen the kid eat, hadn’t he?
‘Nor has she had any lunch,’ Mrs Ackhurst continued.
‘You don’t provide lunch?’ he enquired.
‘There’s a tuckshop, Mr Stirling, but she needs money to purchase food.’
Caleb felt his pockets and blew out a sigh of relief as he extracted a couple of gold coins.
‘And you need to pre-order.’
Ah. He fondled the coins in his hand.
‘Let me escort you. And, on this occasion only, we’ll accept a late order. Orders must be in by midday the day before.’
She couldn’t be serious. He glanced across at Sybella; each time he looked at the diminutive fragile girl, his heart melted into a pool in his hollow chest. Those black curls, dark eyes; it was like looking at his sister. Sybella sat with a grim expression while her friends laughed and chatted. They were like clones in the identical uniform except their hair was tied into two plaits that ran the length of their tiny backs, their school dresses uncreased and their black shoes, polished. Sybella wore runners with the laces undone and carried a lightweight backpack. It was pink with unicorns on it. The other girls had similar bags but theirs bulged with drink bottles and books.
Darn, Mrs Ackhurst drew him back to the present. Couldn’t she let it rest? ‘This way, Mr Stirling,’ and like the children she taught, Caleb obeyed and followed behind as she strode ahead. She said good morning to each child she passed and their parents. Caleb pulled his cap down lower and hands in his pockets, focused on his shoes
It was only a short walk to the canteen where a bright red sign welcomed you to Bite Right Inn. He cringed.
‘Oh, thank goodness, Mrs Ackhurst. Mrs Bingham hasn’t arrived, and the food preparation isn’t complete…’
Mrs Ackhurst held up her flat palm. ‘Calm down, Kathleen.’
Kathleen took a deep breath and wiped her hands down her black apron.
‘I have the perfect solution. Mr Stirling,’ she turned and pointed at him, ‘is a chef new to the community. He’ll help out, won’t you, Mr Stirling?’
What? Uh ah, she had the wrong culprit. He glanced at the basic stainless-steel kitchen with two women hovering near benchtops, knives and other utensils in their hands. ‘Don’t you simply heat up sausage rolls and make hot dogs and give out lolly bags?’
His words were steady, but his heart hammered fast and his throat constricted. He now regretted that bottle of whiskey last night.
Kathleen smirked and the head teacher replied. ‘Perhaps when you were at school, Mr Stirling, but today, it’s all about Smart Choices and healthy eating and drinking.’
Kathleen bounced on her toes and jumped in. ‘There’re categories, you see, there’s a poster on the wall over there explaining the details. The top and most important is the green category which is foods you can enjoy in abundance. The amber category is food to select very carefully and the red, well, is occasional only.’
What the hell? Someone was pulling his leg.
A nearby door slammed and brought with it a gust of wind down the narrow corridor. Heels clacked on the linoleum floor and broke the silence. The women on both sides of him broke into broad smiles.
He followed their gazes and watched another lady approach. Where were all the men in this town? This woman was different to others he’d met so far. She wore pink heeled boots compared to Mrs Ackhurst’s sensible brogues in a muted camel colour. Dark blue jeans matched a bright pink collared tee which featured a large, ripe strawberry on her left breast. She was well-groomed with make-up and long, luscious mahogany locks that curled in slight waves and sat in perfect strands on each side of her face, coming to rest below her shoulders
‘Good morning Bridie,’ Mrs Ackhurst greeted her. ‘How are you today?’
‘Fabulous, thank you, Roberta. Hi Kathleen,’ she matched their beaming welcome. She paused and stared at him, her smile faltering. He was getting lots of that, too. Were the rumours about small towns true? She threw a quick peek at the two women before asking, ‘Is everything all right?’ Her smile dropped and her eyes scanned him, starting at his shoes and moving at a leisurely pace until it stalled on his right arm. Most people did that, too. The length of his right arm, commencing at the wrist up to pretty much his shoulder, was covered in art. Black ink.
Caleb removed his cap and ran his hands through his hair and dragged them across his stubble-covered cheeks. God, he must look a sight. He’d been wearing these clothes for days and had slept in them too. At least the black jeans didn’t crease but his ratty t-shirt with the portrait of some singer he couldn’t even name, hadn’t faired so well.
An obnoxious chorus of music blared out through invisible speakers, jolting his thoughts. Mrs Ackhurst let it finish before speaking again. ‘That’s the start of the school day. I must be off. Mr Stirling, as I was saying, it would be of great help to the school if you could provide some assistance today. It won’t take long. We’re short and the children need to eat.’
Did she think he was some Jamie Oliver celebrity chef cooking up school dinners? ‘I’m sorry that isn’t possible. Can she do it?’ He pointed at the beautiful brunette, Bridie they said. It was a low act, he knew.
‘Are you short, Kathleen? Where’s Polly?’
‘I don’t know, but she’s not here and we aren’t to expect her.’
As Bridie listened, she was already removing her co
Mrs Ackhurst observed him again. ‘Well, this is timely, Bridie. This is Caleb Stirling, new to town and Sybella’s…um… Yes, well, he’s a city chef just arrived in Bellethorpe who’s sure to help with the festival.’
This time he quickly raised his hand as if that would quell the conversation, but the women ignored him and disbursed. Bridie gripped his wrist, ‘C’mon, I’ll show you the ropes and we’ll get this done in no time. We can chat about the festival too.’
He glanced at his wrist in her grasp. Her fingernails were short but flamingo pink. This woman was a pink powderpuff, all feminine and light and pretty. She was enticing him in all sorts of ways, and his body stirred at the sight of her, but really, all he wanted was to sink back onto the couch and sleep the next few hours away. Forget for a little longer.
Instead, he followed suit, doing what he was told for the second time this morning. In the kitchen she handed him an apron and he robotically placed it over his head and tied the knot at the back; something he’d done a thousand times before. But not since… not in this kitchen either.
‘I’m not cooking,’ he said, his words harsh and lost on Bridie who was busy gathering lettuces from the fridge and placing them on the bench in front of him. Someone lit the gas stovetop and he jumped at the ignition sound. Bridie paused, her hand on the bench next to his fisted knuckle. Her chest inflated with an intake of breath and her eyes squinted. She moved away to rummage in her handbag before extracting a box. She grabbed a glass of water and collected an apple from the fruit bowl. Without saying a word, she popped out two tiny white tablets, placed them in her palm, waited until he took them and he’d swallowed with a large gulp. When he was finished, she handed him the apple.
How did she know?
2
Well, what a surprise; that wasn’t how she’d expected her morning to proceed, it had been a little exciting. First the disaster at school; how could she not pitch in? It had been a rush of prepping salad rolls and fruit cups and baking banana and choc chip muffins. She made a mental note to check on Polly. She might need a homemade lasagne.
Then there was the setback for the festival but what a relief there was a newcomer in town. He’d help. How had she not met him already? He’d been here three whole days. Perhaps they should organise a welcome dinner? Given he’s a chef that might not work. A cocktail night or wine tasting at one of their prestigious vineyards? Bridie was sure he’d fall in love with their local produce. Bridie remembered his arm of tattoos and shivered. She hoped he wasn’t trouble. Sybella needed him, and the last thing the town wanted was a bad influence. But then, his eyes, they’d seemed sad, his whole demeanour sorrowful and melancholy. But of course, it would be, wouldn’t it? She remembered his condition this morning and her guts churned, but instead of judging him she’d turn her mind to how she might help.
But now arriving home, she felt edgy and behind schedule. Always so much to do.
Bridie creaked open the front door, hoping beyond hope that she didn’t need to be quiet. But before the door was ajar to reveal their humble living area, she heard the soft snoring.
Her heart sank like a leaden lump to her stomach, and she braced, breathing deeply to calm herself. Taking tiny steps, she entered the room and clicked the door shut. Her father sat hunched over in the armchair he’d slept in last night. She guessed if she was a better daughter, she’d have hauled him into bed and made him comfortable. But really? The man weighed a tonne and for sure her back would ache for days after. There were limits, after all.
Pausing in front of him, she took in his haggard features and sunken skin, the grey whiskers lining his chin. She moved closer, recoiling at the stench of him. Gently, she removed one boot, then the other. Yanking the crocheted rug from the couch, she placed it across his lap and legs. It was cool in this room where the winter sun didn’t quite reach through the flimsy curtains.
In the kitchen she put the kettle on to boil and whipped up a batch of her father’s favourite cookies. He’d wake later and be ravenous. She wondered if their new celebrity chef baked as well as he cooked. How did she know he was famous? Roberta hadn’t said, someone else must have told her but she couldn’t remember who. He was certainly an enigma. A tall dark, moody stranger arriving in their town; it was like a scene from a book and Bridie smiled. Her smile slipped as she remembered he’d hardly spoken at the tuckshop as they worked side by side. She’d tried, maybe she talked too much, probably had; she usually did.
In between sips of tea, she placed the tray of biscuits into the oven before filling a glass of water and popping out more paracetamol and placing them on the coffee table to her father’s left. She’d place the cookies next to them. A proper meal would have to wait until dinner.
En route back to the kitchen she passed her study. It was a mistake, but she entered and fingered the corners of the manuscript on her desk. Bridie was immersed in this story; she could feel its brilliance and knew it would be successful. You could always tell. She was so excited to be a part of its production. Could she do a little now? Her toes crunched up and she leaned forward, as if the manuscript had a force of its own, dragging her towards it. Oh, she wanted to, couldn’t wait to get back into the lives of those characters, live in the world of the words, the French verbs and the joy of translating paragraph after paragraph.
It was mid-week and time to perform her ‘day’ job. That had always been the agreement. She worked in the farm shop with its assortment of strawberry flavoured produce on the weekends and during the week was her time to work.
But with her father out of action again, the farm beckoned, she could hear it whispering to her. It was being neglected and it was up to her. Bridie glanced out the window. She loved that view, a clear path to the patches of bright red strawberries, row after row. The years had dwindled their patch. In some ways it was a mercy, they could hardly manage what they had. As always, duty called first. It was ironic though, because whilst the berry patch was her first priority, it was the French translation of manuscripts that kept them afloat. And kept her working almost twenty-four seven. No point whinging. With a heavy sigh, she left the room.
The timer on the oven binged and she savoured the aroma of home-baking. Like a real home, a real family.
Brusque knocking roused Caleb. He shifted his head and groaned as shooting pain raced up his neck. That’d teach him for crashing on the couch. The knocking continued, and he rose out of his chair and laboured towards the door, bleary-eyed and groggy from his deep slumber.
‘Well, hello there.’
The voice was too high-pitched, the woman’s smile too bright with extra white teeth and flashing eyes.
He squinted at the assault to his senses.
‘I’m Jacqueline Kennedy,’ she laughed, ‘yes, just like the first lady, I’m the first lady of Bellethorpe. The mayor, that is. Welcome to town,’ and she handed over a tray of chocolate brownies, the plate still warm.
She bustled past him without an invitation and headed straight for the kitchen where Caleb heard the rattle of cups and the rush of the tap and the incessant talking. ‘I can’t thank you enough for helping out at school this morning. That’s what it’s like around here, we all pitch in. But all the better that you’re actually a chef. Well, I fancy! Too good for the canteen of course, but the thing is, poor Polly is out for the week, sick, you see, with a stomach bug. We’re always stretched to get the help we need, and given you’ve recently arrived, and I assume you haven’t made many arrangements yet, can you help this week? Here’s the roster.’
