A Season for Second Chances(17)

“I may not be here in body,” she said, as they gathered around. “But this joint is still my baby, and I expect you guys to keep it going for me. And I will be checking up on you!”

There were oohs and ahhs at this.

“So that means no cutting corners with the flaky pastry; I’m looking at you, Flash!” said Annie, pointing to a tall, gangly youth with a tattoo on his cheek. Flash grinned and pretended to look about for someone else she might be talking to.

“Or rushing the caramelized onions,” said Annie. She moved her gaze to a spotty sous chef, who blushed and giggled. “What is our onion mantra?”

“The slower the sweating the sweeter the onions!” came the chorus.

“And don’t cook the shit out of the vegetables,” said Annie. “Say it with me!”

“Snap not pap!” came the military-style response before the team dissolved into laughter.

After she had dismissed her chefs back to their work stations, she and Marianne went over the final copy of the autumn menu.

“It should be him going,” said Marianne.

“Don’t complain,” said Annie. “You’ve got a promotion out of it!”

“Yeah, but still,” said Marianne.

“I’m looking forward to some time away,” said Annie. “It’ll be good for me.”



* * *



—

It was Sunday the twentieth of September: moving day. The morning was sunny with the faintest nip in the breeze. Annie had checked out of the hotel so early that the night staff were still on reception. She was sad not to have seen Sally before she left, but Annie had her number and was determined to use it. She’d parked in the far corner of the car park last night, hoping that opportunist thieves wouldn’t spot her worldly possessions piled up in the back of her car and decide to have a rummage; thankfully all was as it should be.

She arrived in Willow Bay while the residents were still enjoying a Sunday lie-in. The two pubs were dark and quiet, and squirrels and blackbirds had appropriated the beer gardens.





Chapter 13



Annie meandered down and around the steep hill in second gear, acutely aware that her car was three times heavier than the last time she’d driven down it. As she rounded the corner at the bottom of the hill, she saw a car already parked in her spot beside Saltwater Nook’s garden.

Oh, hell, she thought. Surely Mari’s nephew wasn’t here to check up on her already? But as she drew closer, slowly negotiating the car along the shingle path, she recognized Peter’s old Honda Civic and her heart leaped. She swallowed hard in an effort to push down the lump in her throat and blinked quickly to clear the tears that were making her vision wobble.

Alex and Peter unfolded their long legs from the small car, stretching and yawning as the sea breeze snapped at their shirts. They were fraternal twins but unmistakably brothers. Both boys had dark hair and big eyes like Annie, but they’d been blessed with their father’s height and chiseled features. Alex wore his hair cropped short; his black beard was professionally trimmed with neat, sharp lines that framed his cheekbones. By contrast, Peter’s shoulder-length hair was a mass of dark curls that whipped about his face in the wind. His square jaw was hidden beneath a thick, unruly beard that gave him a distinctly biblical look.

Annie’s composure was lost to the wind as soon as she got out of the car. She hugged them each in turn, and they mocked her tears, as she’d known they would. On the back seat of Peter’s car, she saw her patchwork quilt, the bread maker, the slow cooker, and her red enamel Le Creuset casserole dish: beloved things she’d reluctantly had to leave behind due to lack of space in her car.

“How did you—” Annie began.

“We spent the night with Dad,” said Peter. “Got a takeaway after service. He helped us pack your things.”

“Really?” said Annie.

“I think he’s trying to be a gracious loser,” said Alex.

“I see,” said Annie, instantly suspicious.

“How on earth did you find this place?” asked Alex. “It’s in the middle of bloody nowhere.”

“Don’t you like it?” asked Annie, turning away from the wind and pulling her hair into a ponytail.

“He’s craggy because there were no independent cafés open for him to get an artisan coffee,” Peter mocked.

“You can’t walk twenty paces in Soho without finding somewhere that serves coffee at any time of the day,” said Alex.

“We managed to find a Costa open in Dover,” said Peter. “I thought Alex was going to weep with relief.”

“I can’t deal with morning without at least a double-shot macchiato inside me,” said Alex. “And since someone had taken the coffee machine”—Alex looked pointedly from Annie to the sleek black-and-silver machine on the back seat of her car—“I had to make do with some instant shite that Dad found in the back of the cupboard.”

Peter raised his eyebrows.

“Looks like someone needs another coffee,” he said.

“When did my babies become such big-city sophisticates?” Annie asked. “Whatever happened to the little boys who liked to dance around the living room to ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’ in their Ninja Turtle underpants?”