A Season for Second Chances(71)

In less than a minute her phone pinged.


I’m sorry too. I came off as self-righteous and accusing and that isn’t how I meant that conversation to go at all. I guess the skeletons in both our closets were rattling their bones tonight Of course you care about Alfred. I took my frustrations out on you and that was unfair of me.



Annie read and reread the text. Blimey! she thought. He’s like a real live grown-up! Another text came through hot on the heels of the first.


I’m driving to Cornwall this weekend to visit Mari and Celeste but I’ll be back in Willow Bay on Wednesday to help Paul with the fireworks. Perhaps we can talk again.


Away till Wednesday? Don’t you ever work?



To which he replied: Ha! The benefits of working remotely. I work six days a week but pick my own hours. Can usually be found burning the midnight oil.

“Hmmm,” Annie mused aloud. “A workaholic?” She texted: In that case . . . don’t you ever sleep?

The response was almost immediate: Not enough and lately even less!

Annie desperately wanted to ask why he wasn’t sleeping, but given how quickly their conversations deteriorated, she decided to keep things light.


Well, you’ve got a long drive tomorrow, so hopefully you’ll get some sleep tonight. Nite nite.



She deleted the nite nite and then wrote it back in again three times; was it too cutesy? Too familiar? Too dismissive?

Oh, for the love of God, woman! Just finish the text already! she berated herself. She put nite nite back into the message and pressed send before she could change her mind again.

Sleep tight! J. came the reply.

Just one more thing . . . Annie messaged.


Yes??


If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what would it be?



The response was almost immediate. Spice Girls, “Wannabe.” Obviously!

Annie laughed out loud. She was still erupting into little guffaws as she settled herself down under a blanket to watch an old Hammer Horror on TV: Dracula: Prince of Darkness, starring Christopher Lee as Dracula, nibbling on the necks of prim ladies with jaunty hats and plummy accents. What better way to finish off a perfect Halloween.





Chapter 56



The next morning, it was pouring with rain outside, and her customers were primarily those for whom nothing will come between them and their constitutionals. A couple squeaked their way to the bench by the window and shrugged out of their hardy outerwear.

Annie’s phone buzzed with a text. It was from John: a photo of Mari, laughing from beneath a woolen hat and shrouded in many layers, as she sat outside a café in bright sunshine, holding up a coffee cup. Behind her, the view fell away down to the sea and little fishing boats bobbing on the water. Just at the edges of the picture was a slender hand with black nail varnish, resting lightly on a packet of cigarettes. This, Annie surmised, must be Celeste. The caption read: Just so you know I haven’t locked her away in a nursing home.

Annie smiled. She went to the kiosk and hung out the window far enough to be able to snap a picture of the lashing rain and the muddy brown sea beneath a gunmetal sky. She sent the photograph with the caption: Bet you wish you were here! And then followed it quickly with: What crazy time of the morning did you leave to be sipping coffee in Cornwall by 11 a.m.?

He messaged back: 5 a.m. Couldn’t sleep.

Where do you actually live? Annie asked.


Why? Do you want to send me anthrax in the post?


I was thinking more horse’s head in your bed!


Classic. I live in London, Clapham.


And what exactly is your profession in Clapham?


I’m an architect.


As an architect, aren’t you supposed to love buildings?


I know what you’re getting at. I’ve been made an offer I can’t refuse.


Can’t or won’t.


Do you have a better solution?

She didn’t so she messaged: Say hello to Mari for me.


Will do.



It was all rather exhilarating, this dance of words, and Annie found herself working with a distinct spring in her step, despite the dismal weather and the constant mopping up after dripping umbrellas and waterproof coats.

Half an hour later another message from John flashed up on her screen, and Annie had to stop herself from breaking into a jig right there behind the counter. What was wrong with her? She felt like a teenager.


By the way, there was something I’d been meaning to ask . . .



Yes?? she typed back.


Who do you think would win in a fight between an apple and an orange?



Annie snorted with laughter, earning herself some amused looks from the café.

Why, the orange of course! she typed. It could squirt its juice in the apple’s eyes; everyone knows orange juice in the eye is a real stinger.

Just as I thought. John replied.

It was puerile, of course, but it didn’t stop Annie from grinning like a maniac. And besides, what was wrong with a bit of silliness? So far as she knew there wasn’t an age limit on it.

The Calor Gas fire in the corner pushed out welcome heat as the mellow sounds of Harry Connick Jr. wafted around the café and mixed with the cheerful hum of customer conversation, and Annie found herself feeling a contentedness she could never have imagined three months ago. She felt so at one with the world, in fact, that she took Emily a slice of cake out with her coffee to keep her going while she picketed in the rain.