“Oh.” Claire glanced at Andrew, surprised; he looked as composed as ever, wearing his usual uniform of chinos and a well-starched button-down shirt. “That’s nice of you.”
“I want to help.” He glanced up with a wry smile. “Not that Rachel wants me to.”
“She is prickly about stuff like that.”
“She’s afraid.”
“Afraid?” Rachel seemed like the most fearless person Claire knew. She always had been, even when they were children. A memory slotted into place: Rachel taking on Rob Telford in the school playground, when he’d pulled Claire’s plaits and ran away with the ribbons. He’d mentioned it when she’d first seen him at the pub, but now Claire could see the scene in clarity: Rob’s boyish, taunting face as he held up her ribbon and Rachel’s righteous fury, hands planted on hips as she commanded him to give it back. Claire had simply stood there, shocked into silence by the whole episode and then filled with gratitude and relief when Rachel had returned her ribbon.
“She’s afraid of trusting me,” Andrew said, bringing her back into the present. “Or anyone. She doesn’t want to depend on anyone, in case they let her down.”
“I suppose I can understand that, considering her father up and left her family.”
Andrew’s expression hardened. “Not everyone is like that.”
Claire glanced at him curiously. “Do you... ? Do you care about her, Andrew?”
“Maybe I do,” he said, and folded up his newspaper. “I should get ready to go. I’ll drop you off at the post office, if you like.”
Claire wasn’t looking forward to seeing Dan after their weird interaction last night. What if he’d been able to tell that she’d wanted him to kiss her? He probably had. He was probably secretly laughing at her, although Dan didn’t really seem the type. More like secretly—or not so secretly—disgusted by her pathos.
She came into the shop warily; Dan was in the back, getting ready to open the post office. The papers had already been delivered, and so Claire started stacking them on the shelves without a word. Dan glanced over at her but didn’t say anything, and they both worked in silence until Eleanor Carwell came in for her paper and milk at a quarter to nine.
By lunchtime Claire was ready to quit. Her few forays into conversation with Dan had ended in grunts, until she wondered why she even bothered. She’d offered to walk Bunny when the post office closed at noon, but Dan had said he’d do it and had left her alone in the shop for an hour, which was a relief after the tense silence she’d endured all morning.
By the time he returned with Bunny, she’d worked up enough courage—and irritation—to ask him what was going on.
“Nothing’s going on.” He put Bunny back in the kitchen and closed the door behind him, coming out a few minutes later while Claire stood there, bristling.
“You’re being so silent,” she said when he returned and started opening up the post office again.
He glanced at her, nonplussed. “You’re surprised?”
“I thought . . .”
“I was changing?” He filled in. “You were rehabilitating me? Sorry, no.”
“Rehabilitating—”
A farmer came in for a meat pie and a Lottery card and so Claire fell silent. Dan had disappeared behind the post office’s Plexiglas partition and she was manning the till, so even after the farmer left, it wasn’t easy to have a conversation. Not that she even knew what to say. She was the one who had supposedly needed rehabilitation, not Dan.
By four o’clock they’d had no more than a handful of words between them, and Claire chastised herself for feeling so disappointed, and worse, hurt. Maybe Dan was right and she had been trying to change him. She’d wanted him to talk more, anyway. She’d wanted him to like her.
“See you on Monday,” she said as she reached for her coat. It was mid-May, but the wind off the sea was still cold.
“Wait.”
Claire’s heart lurched ridiculously, and she turned around to see Dan handing her a check.
“Your week’s pay.”
“Right.” She took it without enthusiasm and stuffed it in her bag. “Have a good weekend, anyway,” she said, and Dan didn’t reply. What a surprise.
She was at the door when he spoke again. “Claire.” She stilled, one hand on the doorknob.
“Yes?”
“Have a good weekend.”
