Bovis tutted and shifted his stance, still glaring, perplexed, at the man who was taking no notice of him whatsoever.
Mrs Crocombe fidgeted with the bow of her apron ties at her tummy and when that wasn’t enough to settle the strange sensation the man’s smile had sent through her, she smoothed the white cotton over her hips and bravely smiled back.
‘That all you come in for?’ Bovis asked the man, who hadn’t as yet lifted his change from the countertop.
‘I’ve heard there are some pretty walks along the beach here?’ the man asked Mrs Crocombe. ‘And a famous waterfall?’
‘There are,’ she told him. ‘And now the beach is all sand and shingle since the flood, it’s even prettier, if that was possible.’
She’d done her best to recover from the strange feeling that had dragged her back to her awkward teenage years, when she’d wished herself a dark and mysterious Natalie Wood – even though her mother had worked at the Clove Lore estate dairy and all that milk and cheddar had already given her the pale, soft, sweet look she still had today.
She’d made her older brothers take her to seeRebel Without a Causefour times the winter it came out and she’d dreamed of being kissed by a wild, doe-eyed boy.
That spring and still under the influence of James Dean and Hollywood, she’d met a big, sandy-haired, cheerful boy fresh from his National Service and they’d married as soon as she was old enough. Ernie Crocombe had remained as rosy-cheeked and devoted – and as far away from dangerous, tragic, dashing James Dean as could be – his whole life.
The man was asking her something. She had to pack away all thoughts of her late husband in order to hear him properly. ‘Say again?’
‘There was a flood here?’
‘Oh, yes, at Christmas. You must have heard about it? Swept through the village, washed away all the beach pebbles.’
‘Ah, I was in the Azores over winter, must have missed that. Perhaps you’d tell me more about it? On a stroll, later this evening?’
‘Oh,’ was all Mrs Crocombe could manage.
‘Aren’t you ’elping at the bookshop tonight?’ Bovis put in.
‘Well…’ Mrs Crocombe glanced between the two men. Bovis, red-faced and stolid; the other, sun-bleached and dashing, like the time the fish finger people tried to sex up Captain Birdseye on their ads and got loads of complaints.
Mrs Crocombe, however, wasn’t complaining. She wasn’t one hundred percent sure what was happening but a little flame of intrigue had ignited within her, something she usually only felt when she added a name to her betting book and set about matchmaking amongst the locals.
‘I’d like that,’ she said, a little shakily, her cheeks blushing.
The man stood straighter, snapping his heels together and offering a hand over the countertop. ‘In that case, let me introduce myself. I’m Captain James da Costa of theLucky Boy.’ His soft eyes crinkled as he smiled once more.
She slipped her hand into his, while Bovis lifted himself on tiptoe so he could scan disapprovingly down the Captain’s body to his shoes and back to his shining eyes.
‘Letitia Crocombe, of Crocombe’s Ices,’ she introduced herself.
James da Costa laughed heartily, making Bovis roll his eyes. ‘Splendid, splendid! Until tonight, Letitia.’ And he was gone, leaving Mrs Crocombe smiling, dazed, in his wake.
‘I don’t like the look of ’im,’ Bovis told her.
‘Oh, Mr Bovis! Since when did you like anyone?’ She ran a cloth along the counter and disappeared behind the curtain once more where she immediately pulled out the book from her apron pocket and scratched a name in pencil,Captain James da Costa of The Lucky Boy, and beside it she left a blank space, allowing her pencil point to hover for a moment before snapping the book shut, telling herself to give over, and fanning her flushing face.
Chapter Ten
Monty was the first to arrive, at five on the dot. Joy met him at the top of the shop steps, knowing she was supposed to smile and be grateful for the help but feeling nothing but panic at the sight of him. Well, maybe not feelingnothingelse.
She definitely noticed how his chestnut-brown curls, probably freshly washed, burnished in the afternoon sunlight. He was wearing a blue Henley, rolled at the sleeves, that looked cool and soft and suggested hard muscle underneath.Nota convenient thing to be thinking.
Worst of all he was cradling something wrapped in paper.Please not flowers, please not flowers.
‘Montague!’ Radia called out, skipping up to him in the square. ‘Come to my tea party.’
‘Hallo,’ he greeted them both, handing Joy the parcel. ‘Tea would be amazing, thanks, Radia.’
‘Oh!’ said Joy, realising it wasn’t flowers, but a big fish. ‘What’s this?’
