“I see.” Claire took the penny, nearly dropping the beans in the process, and then turned to leave.
She was so busy trying to manage her purchases and closing the door without it slamming again that she nearly collided with a woman coming into the shop.
“Oh, my fault, my fault,” the woman exclaimed, and caught the tin of beans that was slipping out of Claire’s grasp.
“Sorry,” Claire said, and looked up to see the woman—about her age, with frizzing, sandy hair and an open, friendly expression—scrutinizing her.
“I don’t think I know you.”
“I’m Claire. Claire West. I’ve just... moved back into the village.”
“That explains it, then. I’ve been living here since August, more or less. Lucy Bagshaw.” She stuck out a hand, and Claire attempted to shake it, transferring the tin of beans to her other hand.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Moved back, you said? You lived here before?”
“I grew up here.” Now that she’d said more than a few words, Lucy’s American accent was recognizable. “You obviously didn’t,” Claire ventured, and Lucy grinned.
“Nope, although I actually am British, if you can believe it. I know I don’t sound it. I moved here from Boston. I live down at Tarn House, the bed-and-breakfast? With my sister, Juliet.”
“Right.” Claire hadn’t heard of either.
“Well, I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. I work at the primary school, teaching art. It’s only part-time, but it’s a start.”
“Right,” Claire said again.
Lucy gave a goodbye sort of nod and started to move past Claire before turning around suddenly. “You ought to come out with us some evening,” she said. “We go to the pub quiz on a Thursday evening. Have you ever been? Of course, you probably know loads of people, but if you don’t...”
“I don’t really know anyone anymore,” Claire admitted, and Lucy touched her arm, a spontaneous, friendly gesture that made Claire feel oddly moved.
“Then come out with us. We’re down one anyway, because Juliet’s going somewhere with Peter. He’s taking her out to a fancy restaurant somewhere in Keswick. Do you know Peter Lanford? Sheep farmer?” Claire shook her head. “Anyway, the quiz is tomorrow night, seven thirty at the Hangman’s Noose. You will come?”
“I...” Claire shrugged, overwhelmed by the exuberant force of Lucy Bagshaw’s personality. “Sure. Thanks for the invite.”
“Good. That’s settled, then.” Lucy headed into the shop, and Claire watched her go, bemused and yet grateful for the American’s overwhelming friendliness. God knew she could use a friend.
Chapter three
Rachel
The pub quiz was the highlight of Rachel’s week. For an hour she escaped the stifling confines of her house, dressed up, drank wine, and got to feel smart. Four ways to win.
She hummed under her breath as she put on mascara and wondered if her new magenta sweater was too clingy. There was trying and then there was trying too hard. She definitely didn’t want to be in the latter camp, but she liked looking nice, and Rob Telford had been giving her the eye the other week, if she wasn’t mistaken.
She hadn’t dated much in the last ten years—a few fumbled attempts hardly counted—and she wasn’t sure she wanted to date Rob Telford. But she wouldn’t mind flirting a little tonight. She could use the distraction. She’d been in a bad mood since yesterday, when Claire West had waltzed back into Hartley-by-the-Sea.
Although, actually, Claire wasn’t the waltzing type. Mincing, perhaps. Or maybe tiptoeing. But the fact remained she was here, and it made a lot of old, hard memories resurface. Memories that didn’t directly have to do with Claire, but hurt allthe same. The loneliness and isolation and pure desperation of the years after her mother’s accident. The struggle to hold on to her dreams, and then watching them all scatter.
But she wasn’t going to think about any of that tonight. She was going to flirt and drink wine and maybe even win the pub quiz for once.
“What are you smiling about?”
Rachel met Meghan’s speculative gaze in the mirror. “Nothing.”
“You seem in a good mood,” Meghan remarked, and came to sit down on the edge of Rachel’s bed, bouncing lightly on the mattress. “And you’re wearing a tight sweater that shows off your boobs. Who’s that for?”
Rachel pressed her lips together and concentrated on her mascara. “I like to look nice,” she said. “And I’m in a good mood because I’m going out for a change.”
