A Season for Second Chances(97)

“You haven’t had a relationship since Clemmy Pearson in year nine,” Alex snorted. “Your idea of getting serious with a woman is asking what her surname is.”

“He just hasn’t met the right girl yet,” said Annie.

“That’s because I’m not looking for the right girl, Mum, so don’t get any ideas about marrying me off to one of the locals in some weird Willow Bay ritual,” said Peter.

Annie made a show of pretending to write in her notebook: “No forced marriages, no sacrificial burnings. Right, got it!”

“If I see one wicker effigy, I’m hightailing it outta there!” said Peter.

“I’m hoping for some peyote rituals and spiritual enlightenment,” said Alex.

“You guys have really got the wrong impression of Willow Bay.” Annie laughed.



* * *



—

After a not unpleasant evening relaxing with Tiggs on the sofa, while the log burner crackled merrily in the corner and Colin Firth wrote books in a roll-neck jumper in Love Actually, Annie scooped a good portion of lamb stew into a bowl for Alfred. She covered it in foil, then wrapped it in several tea towels to keep the heat in, poured him a large glass of wine, and carried the supper down to the café, with a couple of extra blankets from the airing cupboard. It was cold tonight, even for a seasoned rough sleeper like Alfred.

Back in the warmth of the flat, snuggled up with a book in the soft bed, under the weight of a heavy duvet and an overweight cat, Annie counted her blessings, and wondered what the future would hold for Alfred. If he agreed to go to the shelter, she would miss him, but it would be the right thing for him—hopefully.

Her phone buzzed with a message from John. I can’t sleep. What are you reading?


How do you know I’m reading?


You’re always reading. Answer the question.


A Christmas Carol.


What chapter?


What are you doing?


I’m downloading it, so that we can read together from our separate beds.


I’m halfway through stave one.


Wait for me.


Are we reading buddies now?


In the absence of kissing, I thought we may as well share books.


Instead of saliva.


What a charming way with words you have


Let me know when you’re ready, Mr. Granger, Scrooge and I are waiting.



Annie smiled and waited for John to message that he had caught up. Was it weird that this felt like the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her? They read to halfway through stave two, where Fezziwig has his Christmas party, stopping at intervals to message their thoughts about a particular line or paragraph; John asking if she could rustle up a similar feast for the Christmas festival and Annie telling him not to push his luck, and both of them Googling what negus was.

Do you think you’ll be able to sleep now? Annie messaged, feeling her eyelids drooping.


I’ll give it a try. Thank you, Annie.


What for?


Just thank you.


You’re welcome. Nite nite, John. Sleep tight xxx


Don’t let the bed bugs bite xxx





Chapter 74



The temperature dropped incrementally day by day and by the first week of December, Willow Bay had plunged headlong into winter. Sometimes Annie had to force herself out for her walk in the mornings, knowing that if she left it until after work, she wouldn’t go out at all. But the swimmers kept swimming—their joy seeming to increase as the weather grew colder—and the walkers and runners still made their daily commute to the coast, and against all the odds, business at the Saltwater Café remained steady.

Alfred had agreed to give the shelter a try, and even though she knew it was the right thing, Annie couldn’t shake the feeling that Willow Bay was losing someone special. Annie found herself making two dinners each night and leaving one for Alfred in the café. She made herself get up extra early to give him a hot drink before he left in the mornings; once on a night when the tide was out, she even tramped a thermos all the way down to the cove. He shook his head at her, chuckling his low grumbly chuckle as he took it, as though she were the eccentric. It was silly, she knew, but she wanted to feed Alfred up before he left. She had inherited the need to feed people from her mum, who couldn’t bear it if someone came into their home and didn’t leave feeling replete; this had been known to extend to the vicar, the boiler engineer, and the woman who came to check the electric meter. Watching her mum feed others was one of the reasons Annie had been so sure she wanted to be a chef.

As well as reading the books for the book club, Annie was working her way through Christmas novels with John at bedtime. It had become Annie’s favorite time of the day. They were currently reading Hercule Poirot’s Christmas. She would curl up in bed at an agreed time, with her book and her fully charged phone, and read in tandem with John. It was intimate, just for them, and she often fell asleep wishing that the night hours were longer.

It drives me crazy to think of that dastardly Mr. Knightley in your bedroom! John messaged when they’d finished discussing the abominable Simeon Lee.

Annie was suddenly wide awake and tingling in all the right places.

He is indeed dastardly! Annie replied. Particularly between the sheets!