A Season for Second Chances(77)

“What if there is someone who loves it as much your aunt does?”

John looked at her. “Annie, I don’t doubt your motives, but love doesn’t pay the bills.”

Annie bit her lip. That’s for damn sure! “No,” she said. “But cold, hard cash does.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you actually signed anything? I mean, could you hold your buyer off for a few months?”

“He knew I was honoring Mari’s commitment to let you stay until Easter. Why?”

“I own half my restaurant business. I also own half the restaurant building and my house. I’m in the process of trying to get my husband to buy me out. I don’t know what price you’ve agreed with your builder friend, but I want to throw my hat into the ring.”

John was looking at her with an even bigger frown than usual. “Are you serious?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Annie. “I want to buy Saltwater Nook.”

She hadn’t expected to blurt it out like that. In truth, it had been a half-formulated what-if rumbling around in her head for a while: one of those idle daydreams that recur when you’re washing up, or showering, or watching the sea . . . now that she thought about it, this idle thought had been on a permanent loop.

John sat staring at her, his mouth slightly open. Annie was getting to know his face, the myriad of tiny adjustments that made up his expressions: the twitch at the corners of his mouth that could mean stifled amusement or mischief, depending on the glint in his eyes, and the crinkles at their edges, which became deep creases when he was incredulous—as he was now. The lines in his forehead formed ridges when he frowned in annoyance, and his eyebrows would meet in the middle for chagrin or work independently of one another when he was being cocky or self-righteous, one brow raising itself into a questioning arch. These little facial cues expressed the things his mouth didn’t say and very often belied his words altogether. John Granger called himself a realist, but Annie knew he loved Saltwater Nook every bit as much as his aunt did. If ever there was a man looking for a reason not to sell to builders, it was he.

“I’ll need to think about it,” he said finally, smoothing his face to a blank.

“Take your time.”

“And I’ll need to make sure the numbers work.”

“Absolutely. I’m not trying to put you out of pocket. I’m giving you the option to sell it as a going concern: as a thriving, established business, as well as the living accommodation. But if I can’t offer what you need, I’ll stand down and you can sell to the developer. All I’m asking for is fair consideration.”

“Right,” said John. “Right.”

“Can you get some numbers to me? And I’ll do some calculations on my end, and then we’ll see where we are.”

“Sure,” said John. He had the look of a cartoon character seeing stars, and Annie couldn’t blame him; she felt much the same.



* * *



—

Annie lay in bed that night wondering what on earth she was doing. At this point, she didn’t have access to a single penny of her money, yet here she was making make-believe offers on a property in the arse end of nowhere. Is this what a midlife crisis looks like?

She needed to get Max to agree to her terms. More immediately, she needed access to her bloody bank account; if she kept hitting the credit cards like this, she’d end up having to share the cove with Alfred! And there was another problem. She was becoming increasingly concerned about the prospect of Alfred spending winter outdoors. She found herself unable to drop off to sleep each night until she heard the familiar sound of him climbing into the café and knew that he was safe. And on the nights when he didn’t stay, she would sleep fitfully. It was like having teenagers all over again. She mentally added Alfred to her list of men to worry about.





Chapter 60



Gemma started her training the following Monday and took to the work with ease. Annie wouldn’t be letting her loose on the coffee machine anytime soon, but that would come in time and, in the meantime, Annie was hoping the extra help would mean she could deal with the ordering and baking for the next day during work hours, as opposed to after closing.

“So, you haven’t spoken to John since?” Gemma asked.

It was Tuesday afternoon and had been raining heavily since eleven o’clock. Customers had been arriving in fits and starts. Annie was smoothing shortbread dough into a round fluted tin, while Gemma cleared the decks after the last onslaught of bedraggled patrons.

“Not in person, no.”

Annie and John had been messaging back and forth—sometimes about the café, once about the patched hole in the ceiling that still needed painting, twice about which vegetables would win in a fight—almost as though they were friends.

“And he’s coming to stay in Willow Bay?”

“That’s what he said.”

“I wonder what that means,” said Gemma, sweeping cake crumbs with a dustpan and brush.

“He said he wanted to come down here to think and he’s staying in Raye and Aiden’s spare room for a bit. He’s been crashing at Paul’s place, but I don’t think he can stand sleeping on Paul’s sofa for any length of time.”

“Sounds like he’s planning on staying for a while. Do you think he’s seriously considering your offer?”