“Is everything okay?” Claire asked. Dan looked up.
“Sure, everything’s fine,” he answered, and she couldn’t miss the sarcasm. “I normally empty a bottle of Glenlivet on a Friday night by myself. Who doesn’t?”
“Maybe you do and I just didn’t know it,” Claire retorted. “You’ve never opened up to me about your life.”
“Why would I?”
“Because we’re friends?” Claire suggested. “Or becoming friends, at least?” Dan didn’t reply, and she couldn’t keep from feeling a needle prick of hurt. “But you don’t really do friendship, do you?”
“I did,” he answered gruffly. “Once.”
“Once?”
He shook his head. “Leave it. And thank you for the tea and toast.”
It sounded like a dismissal, but she didn’t move. “What are you going to do about the shop? You can’t miss a whole Saturday of business.”
“I’ll go out there in a minute.”
“Why don’t you let me?” He swung his head up, his gaze bloodshot, bleary, and narrowed. “I can manage the shop on my own,” Claire said. “And you can dry out. Take Bunny for a walk. She looks like she needs it.” Bunny was quivering under the table, her head nudging Claire’s knee hopefully.
“I can’t afford to pay you overtime—”
“You don’t have to pay me at all—”
“I don’t need your charity,” he snapped. “I’m not that strapped.”
“Is it charity if I want to do a friend a favor?” Claire demanded. Dan didn’t answer, and she gritted her teeth. “Why do you have to be so difficult?”
“I’m difficult?” He looked both affronted and surprised. “I gave you a job when you were completely unqualified.”
“So I can accept charity but you can’t?”
He stared at her for a long moment, the only sound Bunny’s nervous whine from under the table. Then he actually cracked a smile, the gesture so surprising Claire gaped back at him. “Fine. But don’t open the post office.”
“Of course I won’t,” she answered with stiff dignity. “I’m not a trained postal assistant yet.”
It felt strange yet also surprisingly comfortable to be in the shop alone, turning on lights and unlocking the door. A note had been thrust through the letter box from Robin the milkman, stating he’d come back later to deliver the day’s pints.
Claire had just gone behind the till when Eleanor Carwell stumped in, dressed in her usual twinset and tweed, looking decidedly disgruntled.
“So you finally decided to open, did you?”
“Better late than never,” Claire answered cheerfully.
Eleanor stopped in front of the empty newspaper racks. “No newspapers,” she stated in an aggrieved tone. She turned towards the refrigerated section. “And no milk, either.”
“They’ll both be here shortly,” Claire assured her. “I could deliver them to your home, if you like, when they arrive.”
Eleanor eyed her suspiciously. “I’m perfectly capable of walking to the post office twice in one day,” she said. “It’s merely inconvenient.”
“Which is why I suggested delivery,” Claire returned sweetly.
Eleanor glared at her for a moment and then nodded. “Fine. I live at number fifteen, just down the street. The house with the iron railings.”
“All right.” As Eleanor strode out of the shop Claire wondered what Dan would think about her offering delivery service. Maybe she wouldn’t tell him.
The rest of the morning passed quickly; the milk and papers arrived, and she stacked them both in between serving the occasional customer. An elderly farmer threw a strop when he discovered the post office wasn’t open as it usually was, but after quelling a bit under his beady glare, Claire managed to stand her ground. He rolled the Westmorland Gazette under his arm and left the shop in a huff.
