“Half sisters,” she agreed, “but we’re the only siblings we’ve got—”
“True enough, I suppose.”
Lucy continued stiltedly, “I don’t think I’ve thanked you properly for putting me up. Inviting me here, I mean. I really do appreciate it. I had nowhere to go—”
“You could have stayed in Boston.”
Lucy shook her head. “No. I’d rather have gone anywhere than stay there.”
Juliet raised her eyebrows. “Even a poky village with the worst weather in all of England? Although to be fair, ithasbeen a miserable August. It’s not normally quite this cold.”
Lucy raised her eyebrows right back at her. “And you told me it wasn’t that bad.”
“Well.” Juliet could feel a sudden smile tugging at her mouth, surprising her. Were they actually joking with each other?
“It’s beautiful here,” Lucy said, and fluttered her fingers. It took Juliet a second to realize she was trying to touch her hand. “Lookat that,” she exclaimed, and flung the other hand out to encompass the view.
They’d turned off the high street at the train station, and had been walking along a lane aptly named Beach Road, with sheep pastures on either side, the steep, gray-green fells cutting a jagged line out of the horizon. As they rounded a gentle hill, they could see the sea in the distance, glittering under a sun that had emerged from dark storm clouds, offering that syrupy golden light particular to England, even though most of the sky was still a deep, dank gray.
The wind blew their hair into tangles around their faces and tears still streamed from their eyes, but in that moment, facing the stark beauty of sea and sky, Juliet felt her spirits lift.
Lucy must have felt it too, for she grabbed Juliet’s hand and squeezed. Juliet went rigid in shock, but Lucy was clearly oblivious. “It really is beautiful,” she exclaimed. She turned to Juliet, her smile ridiculously radiant. “I can see why you stayed.”
Juliet pulled her hand away from Lucy’s and called the dogs forward. “Let’s go. Milly looks like she needs a poo.”
They let the dogs run about on the beach for a good half hour, racing along the water’s edge, wet sand spraying up behind their long, elegant legs.
“So where did the Australians go off to?” Lucy asked as they stood huddled by the concrete promenade that ran along the beach, all the way to the flimsy-looking bungalow with a sign in peeling black paint that was Hartley-by-the-Sea’s beach café.
“The pub,” Juliet answered. “They’ll stagger back when Rob throws them out tonight and then conquer Scafell Pike tomorrow.”
“Rob?”
“Rob Telford. He’s the landlord of the Hangman’s Noose.”
“Nice name.”
“It adds character.”
Lucy gave a small smile, and Juliet gave one back. So apparently she and her sister could chat like normal people, for a few minutes at least.
“So, are all your guests like these Australians?”
“They’re almost all walkers or hikers. I get the odd guest who’s here for something else, visiting relatives or doing research for a dissertation on Wordsworth or Beatrix Potter. But we’re a bit far off the beaten track for that sort of thing, so walking it is.”
“I saw a sign for Wordsworth’s house, I think, on the road here.”
Juliet nodded. “Up in Cockermouth. And Hill Top, Beatrix Potter’s house, is in Ambleside. There’s not much going out this way, though, besides walking.”
“But that’s enough to keep you in business, I suppose.”
“I manage.” Juliet nodded towards the café. “It’s not much, but they serve coffee and tea and some toasted sandwiches. You fancy it?”
Lucy beamed at her, making Juliet feel guilty again. She should be kinder to Lucy; it was just that she wasn’t always surehow. Or if she really wanted to. “Sounds great,” Lucy said, and Juliet called for the dogs, who came loping to her, butting their narrow heads against her leg.
“Get off, you’re soaking,” she exclaimed, but she stroked them all the same before looping their leads around their necks and heading for the promenade that led to the café.
Juliet could tell Lucy was a bit nonplussed by the shabby, muggy warmth of the café, the windows that overlooked the frothing sea fogged up. The small room was scattered with tables with peeling tops and rickety chairs, and only a handfulof patrons. It wasn’t some upscale Boston bistro, that was for certain.
