A Season for Second Chances(41)
“Sharing his romantic gestures with other men,” said Paul.
Annie smiled. “I can’t give him any reason to think there’s doubt on my part or hope on his.”
“It’s sort of sad, really,” said Paul.
“It is,” said Annie. At that moment Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle gave a heart-rending cry as if she couldn’t stand another moment of chicken being eaten in front of her. The puff of ginger jumped onto the sofa and forcibly wedged herself between them—pointedly ignoring Paul—and sniffed the air like a cartoon dog. Paul reached out to stroke her, but she growled and flicked her tail in his face.
“Sorry about her,” said Annie. “This is Mrs Tiggy-Winkle. She’s quite high-maintenance. She doesn’t like competition.”
Paul nodded.
“Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, you have nothing to worry about, Annie and I are just good friends,” he said seriously. Tiggs reached over and patted his jeans once with her paw in appreciation.
Chapter 32
Annie made two mugs of tea and took them down to the tearoom, but Alfred had already left. She was sorry to have missed him again. He’d stayed a few times now, and she’d only managed to catch him once to give him a drink before he went on his way. She found herself uneasy that he went out into the cold dark morning without even a hot drink inside him. She had begun to leave snacks in the tearoom before she went to bed, just in case. At first, she’d worried that he might take offense, but the food was always gone when she came down in the mornings. Last night she had left a portion of mushroom and spinach lasagne out for him; she was gratified to find the plate scraped clean this morning.
She threw open the shutters on the kiosk and opened the window. An easy breeze blew in, fresh and friendlier than last night’s wind, as though it had exorcised its anger in the storm and wanted to be friends again. A few dog walkers were out, and the beach was populated by green-wellied fishermen, hopeful that the churning tempest had driven the fish closer to shore.
Annie switched on the coffee machine. People would come or they wouldn’t, but if she was going to be down here anyway, she might as well be open. She had stocked up on milks and syrups and contacted the coffee supplier about a delivery. She’d only opened the kiosk a few times, but each time she had, she’d had steady custom. She had been hemming and hawing about whether to give the kiosk a proper try, rather than opening it sporadically as the mood took her. A conversation with Alex had decided it for her:
“I thought you wanted to be free for a while,” said Alex.
“I did. I do. But . . .”
“But you can’t help fantasizing about starting a new business,” Alex cut in.
“I’m not sure I’m cut out for not working at all. I get fidgety. And there’s something about this place. I don’t know how to explain it.” She paused for a moment, and Alex waited. “It inspires me,” she said finally. “It makes me want to build something, something that’s just mine.”
“Well, then, you’ve answered your own question,” said Alex. “Stop dipping your toe in and make it happen.”
Annie had her first customer at a quarter past eight and she informed him, and all those who came after, that from now on she would be open every day bar Sunday. A six-day week didn’t entirely fit with her original taking a step back idea, however, she decided she wouldn’t open past half past two in the afternoon, thus giving her acres of free time.
Between customers, she took the chairs down from the tables in the tearoom and set a scented candle on each one. Along the middle table, at which they would sit for the book club, she ran a line of tealights and positioned her new lamps. When it became clear that it was going to be a busy day for coffee, Annie brought her ingredients for tonight’s snacks downstairs and baked them in the small oven in the café kitchenette.
Her phone lit up with a text from Max as she was rolling out the pastry for the tartlets. She hadn’t thanked him for the hamper; she didn’t know the etiquette for gifts from estranged husbands—any message would open a dialogue she didn’t want.
Did you find the hamper I left the other night? I didn’t hear from you, so I wasn’t sure if you’d got it. I put the perishables in a cool-box in case you spent the night elsewhere. I hope you enjoyed it. Do you remember that night? I’d like for us to go back. Start again. Like when we were mad for each other. I meant what I wrote. x
Annie sighed. It was the same as always: sentimental words sandwiched between thinly veiled passive aggression. She replied right away to prevent a follow-up call.
I did find it. Thank you. And yes, I do remember. The baskets were a nice touch!
She dared not say more. She added no kiss at the end. Max needed only the scantiest crumb of encouragement and he’d be like a Jack Russell down a rabbit hole.
Chapter 33
The candles were lit, the tartlets were warming through in the oven, and the Calor Gas fire glowed merrily in the corner. As she added the ingredients for the hot apple punch to the saucepan, Annie began to feel nervous. She barely knew any of these women. What if they didn’t get on? What if they decided they didn’t like her? What kind of impression did she give as a newly single, newly unemployed woman, stumbling around her forties, undecided as to whether she should wear leather trousers or Fair Isle cardigans, or both?