A Taste of Home by Heidi Swain (the beginning after the end read novel TXT) 📕

‘At the end of the week,’ I told her. ‘I’ll book a flight for Friday.’

She nodded and reached for my other hand, and just like that the course of my life completely changed direction.

Chapter 2

My worldly goods didn’t amount to all that much and when I sorted through Mum’s things it transpired that she had amassed even less. Aside from her bangles, her other possessions were staying at the farm and I packed the little I needed to take with me into my capacious rucksack and carry-on bag. Materially, I didn’t have a lot to show for twenty-eight years of living, but my heart had always been full and that was all that mattered to me.

‘I don’t understand why you’re taking so much,’ Marco sulked the morning I was set to leave, even though he could clearly see I was taking very little. ‘It’s not as if you won’t be coming back, is it?’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, pulling him into a hug. ‘You’re not getting rid of me for good.’

‘I should hope not,’ he said, squeezing me tight. ‘The season starts soon and you need to be here to organise the troops. That’s still your job, you know?’

Inspired by how Mum had worked on various farms around the world to fund her happy-go-lucky lifestyle, the Rossi farm was set up to welcome travellers who wanted to stay and immerse themselves in local life for a while, rather than whizz through, barely taking in the sights before moving on.

Everyone worked and lived together over the summer months and even though each year welcomed a different mix of people, the atmosphere was always the same – inclusive and a lot of fun. From mid-May to late October the farm buzzed and we all preferred it to the quieter months of winter.

‘I know it is,’ I smiled, amused that Marco was using my role at the farm to mask how much he was going to miss me. ‘And I’ll probably be back even before the first lot arrive.’

‘Probably?’ he asked, pulling away, his eyebrows raised.

‘Stop pressuring her, Marco,’ said Alessandro. ‘She’ll be as long as it takes. Fliss, we need to go.’

He took my bags out to the truck and I swallowed down the lump in my throat. I wasn’t sure I could handle saying goodbye to Nonna.

‘Here,’ she said, holding out a sheet of paper. ‘This is for you.’

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Read it and see.’

I only took in the four words written at the top before my throat closed up and my vision blurred. Copied straight out of her ancient handwritten family cookbook it was the Rossi cherry and almond tart recipe. I had been asking her for it for years, but she had always refused to give me the exact details. The particulars were a closely guarded family secret, not even Alessandro and Marco were privy to the extra ingredient which she only ever added when no one else was in the kitchen.

‘Wherever you end up,’ she shakily said, ‘this will always give you a taste of home.’

I let out a steadying breath and nodded.

‘I’ll keep it safe,’ I huskily promised, carefully folding and tucking it into the breast pocket of my shirt alongside Mum’s two letters.

Together they felt like a protective talisman close to my heart and I was in no doubt of the honour Nonna had bestowed upon me by handing the treasured recipe over.

‘And you only add the last ingredient when no one is watching,’ she sternly reminded me.

‘Of course,’ I smiled, bending to give her one last hug.

This departure from the farm felt very different to when Mum was dragging me off somewhere. It felt unsettlingly final. Not as though I would never be coming back, rather that when I did things would be altered for good.

The journey from Puglia to Peterborough wasn’t all that long but by the time I checked into the hotel where I was staying for my first night on UK soil, I felt exhausted. I briefly video called the farm to let everyone know I was safe and then, refusing to give in to the bout of homesickness the sight of the familiar kitchen aroused, I indulged in a long, hot bath.

Still with no real idea of where I was going to end up the next day, but knowing I had come far enough not to change my mind, I snuggled down in the comfortable double bed and began to google.

‘Fenview Farm,’ I said aloud as I typed the name into the search bar. ‘Wynbridge.’

There was no website for the farm, or social media presence, and Google Street View offered up little more than a view of a Fenland drove road, flat and far reaching, but the land on either side of it appeared to be full of orchards. I hadn’t given much thought to what sort of farm Fenview might be, but looking at the landscape, a fruit farm felt likely. My heart skittered at the thought. The acres of trees would provide a setting I could relate to and there was some comfort in that. Perhaps that was why Mum considered it a match for me, but why hadn’t it been for her?

I could see that most of the trees looked to be well-tended, but there were a couple of areas which were either neglected, or altogether abandoned. The exact spot on the road where the farm was located was obscured by a row of silver birches so I couldn’t see much, but from what I could make out it looked to be a proper working farm.

It pained me to think that Mum had never once mentioned it. She had worked her way around numerous farms over the years, but she had never shared a single detail about the one which was owned by her family. Why exactly was that? My mind started to race again in spite of my efforts to stop it before and, knowing I was in danger of undoing