‘Themeh, I’m over itbit.’
‘Hey, take pity on me and my poor heart! I can’t feel like thisforever,’ he smiled slyly.
‘Well, all right, better start your fifty years of looking right now then, get it over with as quickly as we can.’
‘Good plan.’ He trailed a fingertip up my arm and the sparks it sent through my nervous system made me limp and I folded, bringing my face close to his. ‘I’m gonna get tired of those eyes first, probably,’ he continued, low and deep. He kissed both my eyelids in turn and each warm press of his lips felt like a promise. ‘And your lips…’ He trailed his mouth to mine, languidly claiming it. ‘I look forward to the day I can finally say I’m done wanting to look at them… can’t come soon enough.’
With our mouths together I heard his breathing accelerate. I kissed him hard until he moaned into my mouth. He turned us both over and at the same time somehow shifted us down the bed and I don’t even know how it all happened next, but I couldn’t kiss him deep enough, or get enough of his touch and the sweep of his tongue, or the sound of his cries, and another Clove Lore summer dawn slipped away from us.
‘Thank God, only forty-nine years, three hundred and sixty-four days left of this torture,’ he said as, later, we lay in each other’s arms, knowing I was late to turn on the ovens and mix the scones.
‘Not long now,’ I told him, and we smiled because everything was perfect.
For three days, as soon as the ‘Closed’ sign was turned in the afternoons, we made our way upstairs and we kissed away the whole night. We’ve fed ourselves pretty much exclusively on the remnants from the hamper and on the morning’s leftover baking and – as in, ahem, other areas of my life – my confidence in the café kitchen is growing.
I’ve tried rock cakes, sweet bread rolls to be eaten split with jam or chocolate spread, and cherry scones for a twist on a classic, all taken from Grandad’s recipe book and all snapped up by café customers.
Jowan brings down the extra ingredients I need from the visitors’ centre shop if I text him a shopping list, and since Aldous is still refusing to eat anything other than chicken broth he’s got to stay at Anjali’s surgery for a little longer.
Mrs Crocombe hasn’t popped in again since she put the fear of God into Elliot on Tuesday with all her prying and matchmaking, and Izaak’s only been in once enquiring if we had a copy of ‘that one with all the chocolate, you know, Frenchy chocolate?’, and Elliot and I had both said at the same time, ‘You meanChocolat?’ And we’d been so pleased to crack his riddle so easily and then so disappointed to realise I’d sold the only copy we had to a holidaymaker from New Zealand a few days before.
I tried not to think of the time slipping by and how a week had already passed and it won’t be too long until I have to return to Marygreen, alone. Mum and Dad fly off to begin their cruise this morning, Saturday, leaving my bedroom waiting for me in their new house with my boxes still to be unpacked. The very thought makes me ache for my lovely bookshop and Elliot’s arms, makes me wish this was permanent. So I choose not to think about it, for now.
My insistence on needing a self-sufficient summer of solitude was, it turned out, nonsense. This was exactly what I needed, and I don’t ever want it to end.
Chapter Eighteen
On Saturday afternoon, moments after the photo of Mum and Dad excitedly raising coffee cups to the camera in the airport lounge pings up on my phone, making me smile and sigh at the same time, Minty breezes briskly into the shop. Everything she does is brisk, I’m learning. She’s followed by a stolid, stocky little man. Both of them are in matching tweeds and quilted green body warmers, but while Minty is all natural blonde and horsey, a true thoroughbred of the old English country house variety, the man is definitely redder about the face and more menacing-looking, like a countryfied bodyguard.
Minty’s made a beeline for our stationery selection. ‘I’m looking for invitations. Have you any?’
‘What’s it for?’ I say. ‘There’s a few birthday invites and some wedding acceptance cards.’ I’m quite proud of the way I’ve got a handle on our stock. It’s only taken a week but I’m completely at home now.
‘It’s for the estate’s fox and field day. These won’t do at all. Never mind.’ She looks like she minds very much. ‘I’ll have them made up online. Bovis, can you see to them, have them emailed straight to the VIPs?’ This is addressed to the tweedy bruiser, who nods and makes a note on a pad.
Minty introduces us. ‘This is my estate manager. The place couldn’t run without him.’
Bovis doesn’t return my smile, but I get a curt nod from him.
‘A fox and field day?’ I say.
‘Oh yes, annual tradition, going back generations,’ tolls Minty. ‘Dashed expensive to organise but country ways must be upheld, even if we have made a few changes here and there over the years. I’m sure you must have heard of it? We’ve been onCountryfiletwice, you know? Ben Fogle said it was the highlight of his filming calendar.’
I raise my eyebrows in what, I hope, looks like a ‘wow! I’m impressed’ kind of a gesture, cut short by Minty’s sudden change in tone.
‘Bovis spent five minutes putting your scattered litter back in bin bags out on the square, you know?’
‘Did he? I didn’t realise it was scattered anywhere!’ I gulp.
Bovis just looks at me, giving offif your name’s not on the list, you’re not coming indoorman vibes. ‘Jowan mentioned the gulls, and I definitely covered the rubbish with the blankets like he told me to.’
‘Gulls are one thing. What you’ve had there is a fox,’ Minty interjects, and Bovis nods his head sagely.
‘Really? That’s lovely!’ This is greeted by Minty’s wide-eyed incredulous expression that tells me Iwouldthink that, being a clueless townie. ‘I’ve never seen a fox before,’ I tell her.
‘Scavengers. They live off cold chips and food scraps.’
‘Oh!’ I say, not wanting to court Minty’s disapproval any further by telling her I really hope I spot one before my holiday ends.
