‘Very well. And steady.’
‘Are you hoping Trevor will go back to Wales with you?’ She puffed out her cheeks. ‘Sorry, I’m probing you with questions and it’s none of my business.’
His eyes lit up. ‘You’re taking an interest; I like that.’ But then, on a sigh, he showed this wasn’t easy for him. ‘I just want to do what’s right for Dad.’
Peter, who ran the bakery with his wife, came over to welcome Nate and his conversation with Morgan stalled. ‘Betty is busy today but said to make sure you feel welcome, Nate. And you too, Morgan. You both look like you’re having fun.’
‘Not sure about that,’ laughed Morgan. ‘But we’re working hard.’
‘Does Betty still make the best pasties in the Cotswolds?’ Nate asked Peter.
Peter’s hearty laugh had them both smiling. ‘I will tell her you said that and you pop in when you can, two on the house for yourself and your dad.’
‘Not going to say no to that.’ Nate excused himself to give his attention to a customer.
Peter moved to Morgan’s side of the stall. ‘Betty would love these.’ He’d picked up one of the set of four tumblers with gold tipping and floral motifs. ‘Maybe I’ll surprise her.’
‘Is it her birthday?’
‘Not for a long time yet but your mum always said the best gifts are the ones you don’t expect.’
‘Mum did used to say that.’ Morgan gulped back her emotion. She remembered the saying well but hearing that Elaina had shared it with others had a certain pull on her heart that took her by surprise.
Morgan hadn’t appreciated it as a teen but coming back to Little Woodville after all this time had made her look at the village with fresh eyes. The way people exchanged greetings in the street or were willing to stop and have a conversation, how they asked after your loved ones, how without you realising, they had an eye on you and cared about your well-being. The wake had drummed it into her even more how much her mum was deep-rooted in the community here and Morgan had seen how happy it had made Elaina.
When Peter went on his way, Morgan said to Nate, ‘So you remember Betty and her bakery then.’
‘What can I say?’ He patted what she suspected was a pretty taut stomach if the rest of his physique was anything to go by. ‘I remember the bakery and its owner; obviously my head saw that as very important.’
‘Obviously,’ she laughed. ‘So tell me, where does all this wood stuff come from?’ He really did have quite the collection.
‘Wood stuff?’
She grimaced. ‘Sorry, that sounds terrible, bit like you asking where I get all myold stuff.Which, believe me, some people do ask.’
‘I make it.’
She pointed to a small wooden box with a smooth finish and a lid on top. She imagined it might hold surplus coins or bits and bobs like the button box her nan once had. ‘You made this?’
‘That, everything else.’
‘What, even the towel ladder you sold, the table, the boxes?’
He nodded.
‘It’s all so beautiful.’
‘You seem surprised.’
‘I am.’ Pleasantly so. ‘You’re very talented. When did you make it all? Did you bring it with you from Wales?’
‘I made it all a very long time ago. I haven’t done much woodworking lately but I had filled my workshop, which was once Dad’s garage, with all of my projects – it was time I cleared it out.’
‘Ah, that’s what Trevor meant by workshop. I heard him say it once,’ she explained. ‘I thought he meant a bench at the back of a garage, you know, the way some men have an area where they do projects. But it sounds like it’s a lot more than that.’
When a man came over to talk to Nate, she moved back to her side of the stall to find her bottle of water. She was sure it was beneath the table at the back, out of the way.
Nate must have finished with his customer because after a minute or two, she could hear him asking what she was doing.
