‘That’s what Harri’s always called me. It’s Welsh for Annie.’
The man’s face fell. ‘No,’ he said weakly, before clearing his throat and trying again. ‘It’s old Welsh. It meansbelovedor rather,my loved one.’
The silence in the shop fell another notch, just as the warmth swelled in Annie’s chest. ‘It does?’ Annie asked, her eyes darting to Harri, who was already shrugging it off and making to protest.
Mrs Crocombe was fit to combust with excitement, and Jowan staged a one-man rescue attempt by leaving the old man’s side and hurriedly freeing some notes from the till before presenting them to Harri. ‘For drinks, on us,’ he said, shoving them into Harri’s hand.
Annie however, seeing the sudden clarity in the old man’s eyes, determined to make the most of it. ‘I’m Annie Luna, from Texas,’ she said, giving his hand a little squeeze. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr…?’
The man’s face changed. She saw decades of politeness and social training clicking into place, his mouth opened out of habit, as his head lowered in a bow. ‘Mr William Sabine,’ he said calmly. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’
Then in a blink, the spark was gone again. Jowan gently led the man back to the fireplace.
The matriarchs took to their phones once more, armed with this new information, and Harri pulled on his coat and made for the door, looking like a man still very much thinking of the way he’d stupidly yelped ‘Annwyl’ and been exposed by Mr Sabine as some sort of secret admirer when he was supposed to be a friend. He seemed only too glad to get out of the shop for the evening.
Annie followed into the darkness after him, tucking the lengths of her hair into her coat, smiling and promising the chattering women they wouldn’t be gone long but getting no reply. She pulled the door closed behind her.
‘Beloved?’ she said under her breath as she followed Harri across the courtyard and through the passageway onto the dark, glistening cobbles.
‘Hmm?’ Harri answered, the wind whipping his hair and making him squint.
‘Nothing,’ she said, determined not to embarrass him further, her mind racing back into the past, trying to recall the first time he’d used the name for her.
When had he christened her Annwyl?
She’d taken it for an endearing affectation, like how he called Paisley ‘Cariad’ when they first got together. She was struck by the memory of that sweet nickname bugging her. She knew what Cariad meant. It meant he loved Paisley.
Now she was thinking it through, Harri never called her Annwyl in company, only when they were alone together. He’d definitely never said it in Paisley’s hearing. That she was sure of.
A tiny part of her registered how much she’d liked the way he said it this evening as she came down the spiral stairs, even when she thought it was simply her name in his language. She hoped he wasn’t going to stop using it now. From the way the tips of his ears had turned pink at Mr Sabine’s words, she feared maybe he would.
Harri had stopped to wait for her on the slope. ‘Let’s get this over with, yeah?’
‘Sure,’ she said, and then neither of them spoke all the way down the path, past soggy gardens with their fleece-wrapped palm trees, finally making their way past the lifeboat house and onto the seawall where the dark beach and black waves spread out before them and the jolly lights from every window of the old white pub hastened them into the warmth.
Chapter Eleven
The Double Date
Harri was too agitated to feel the full benefit of the Siren’s Tail’s warm welcome, where the fire glowed strong in the hearth, mouth-watering food and beery smells filled the air, and the room buzzed with good humour and community.
He scanned the room for his date. Bovis, no longer on detective duty, was already installed at the bar nursing an orange juice, no doubt Mrs C.’s informer on how the evening was panning out. He was pretending not to notice their arrival, but Harri could see his beady eyes following him in the bar mirrors. Daft old crow.
The women seated at tables around the room were all much older than Harri: coastal-path walkers in pastel raincoats with ski poles and bobble hats. No sign of Anjali amongst them.
‘Are we the first to arrive?’ Annie asked cheerfully from close behind him. She was looking around too.
That’s when a figure emerged from the kitchen doors behind the bar, unbuttoning a chef’s jacket to reveal a beatnik stripe t-shirt and lean muscle. They too were casting a furtive glance around.
When Kit’s eyes met Annie’s, Harri noticed their look of relief and he positivelyfeltthe swell of excitement in Annie.
Kit was gorgeous. Smooth cheekbones and sharp brows, full lips, and surfers’ sun-bleached hair pushed back and buzzed at the sides where it was darker.
‘Well, I’ll be!’ Harri heard Annie mutter through her smile before she launched herself towards them asking if they were a hugger.
Kit looked like they’d usually demur, but they said yes, no doubt melted by Annie’s enthusiasm. Harri stood by as they shared a hug. So far, so much like a real date.
‘Mrs C. said you were pretty,’ Kit was saying shyly, their hands now shoved in baggy black pants pockets, a full four inches shorter than the towering Annie. Neither of them seemed to mind this one bit.
