Instead, she straightens, socks balled in her hand. “The music shop after dinner would be amazing.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
She raises her arms to stretch, the movement lifting her damp shirt, and I drop my gaze a fraction too late as she asks, “Will there be time before it closes?”
“Should be…Doesn’t close until six,” I say distractedly. Without the overalls, her wet leggings outline the shape of her legs. I drag my gaze up to her face, noticing a streak of dirt on her cheek.
She tilts her head in puzzlement, and I realise I’ve been staring.
A booming shout resounds over the fence.
“Oi! Brandon!”
I wince, turning slowly as Rupert barrels around the fence line in his wheelchair—stocky and broad-shouldered, his buzz cut sharp, face ruddy and triumphant, a wide grin already fixed on me as he hurtles closer.
Barbara follows at her usual stately pace, tall and thin beside her husband, pearls around her neck gleaming, violet curls bobbing as she carries a tray piled high with scones.
“Been hiding her from us, eh, Brandon?” Rupert grins, waggling a meaty finger at me. “Not to worry, we’re here to welcome her now. And look—we didn’t come empty-handed.”
I already know there’s no escaping them. I shoot Lily-Anne an apologetic look and mutter, “Change of plan.” I stow the oysters in the fridge, hoping Rupert didn’t spot them.
“You must be Lily-Anne,” Barbara says unnecessarily, pressing thescones into Lily-Anne’s hands with a kind smile.
“Come, come, love birds—to the patio!” Rupert calls, spinning to face the back garden. “Brandon, open the bloody gate, will you? Before the scones get cold.”
I oblige with a quiet sigh, and Rupert’s laughter follows us as I lead the way down the side path to my back patio.
It’s impossible not to be fond of the old couple. I don’t mind them making sport of me, but I worry their antics will make Lily-Anne uncomfortable.
As they settle at the patio table, I rescue the sea-blue ceramic bowl that lives there before it gets knocked over, nearly dropping it myself when Rupert elbows me and says in a stage whisper, “You’re smitten already, aren’t you, old boy?”
I say nothing, praying Lily-Anne didn’t hear his question, and determined not to dwell on it myself—or on what my answer might be.
13
Fish and Chips
Lily-Anne
I’ve barely set the scones down on the wrought-iron table when Rupert pulls up beside me with a boisterous, “I haven’t even said a proper welcome yet!” He pushes a small basket into my hands. “A gift for you, my dear—garden stuff, from Barb and me.”
The ‘garden stuff’, as he proceeds to show me, includes home-grown pears, herbs, and an assortment of useful items: a bottle opener, a hand balloon pump, a roll of duct tape, a mesh laundry bag for delicates containing—oh God, pink lacy knickers?—and, most peculiarly, a rosy-cheeked garden gnome. It’s one of the friendly storybook varieties, with a blue coat and a jaunty red cap.
“Brandon isn’t fond of garden gnomes, but we thought he could use a bit of luck,” Barbara explains.
“Oh. Well, thank you,” I begin, searching for a compliment while wondering why she’s giving it to me. “It’s…cute.”
Or terrifying.
“Benjamin,” Barbara corrects. It takes me a moment to realise she means the gnome. She plucks it from my hands and walks into the garden, murmuring to Benjamin that she’ll find him a place to hide.
Meanwhile, Rupert produces a beer bottle from the cooler bag strapped to the side of his wheelchair. “Here,” he says, waving it insistently at Brandon until he takes it.
“And one for you, Lily,” Rupert says to my right, cracking open a beer and passing it to me. “Drink up, drink up, now. Get it down ya.”
I take a polite sip.
Barbara returns and lets herself into the kitchen through the sliding door, reemerging a minute later with dessert plates, forks, and butterknives.
