“You heard me.” He scowls at me from across the counter, where he’s troubleshooting the Guinness tap. “Eejit.”
“For trying to do right by her?”
“For being too noble for your own fucking good.”
It’s not the validation I’d hoped for, walking into the pub today. I roll a piece of sea glass between my fingers before returning it to my pocket. I collected several on the beach this morning, each one chosen carefully, as if for some purpose.
After another long week of staying indoors, the fresh air was long overdue. It did little to clear my head, however, my thoughts constantly circling back to Lily-Anne, replaying that moment by the harbour.
Her mouth, so close to mine. The faint hitch of her breath. The way she clutched my hat, a confusing, wonderful thing that served as a promise of more, and a warning that my willpower was beginning to fray.
I’d frozen, wanting to close the distance—but she froze too, and the doubt in her eyes helped me come to my senses.
We haven’t talked about it. I’ve hardly seen her all week—mostly because I’ve kept to myself, waiting for the flu to clear. But I’ve heard her singing, her guitar drifting through the open window with the warm breeze. There’s something honest and gentle in her music that brings me comfort.
Except that it also reminds me of the reason behind her renewed playing: Jack. He’s asked her to return to his café for a warm-up gig, a short setbefore the main band plays, and she’s agreed. It falls on the same night that Ellenor’s due to arrive in Whitstable, and she’s invited all of us all along.
I didn’t have the heart to refuse her.
This morning, I heard her practising upstairs again before she left for Canterbury with Rupert and Barbara. They planned to visit bookshops first, then take high tea. To my disappointment, Lily-Anne left via the fire escape, and when the side gate finally clanged shut and the neighbours’ car was gone, the house felt abruptly hollow. I used to relish my solitude, but it seems to have lost its charm. I’ve grown accustomed to her presence, and the silence soon drove me out.
“Aren’t you bothered by Dustin’s nephew barking up your tree?” Sean asks me, before slamming a fist against the tap, causing it to shoot a jet of beer over the counter.
“I am,” I say carefully. “But he encouraged her to take the leap with her music. Which is the reason she’s here, remember? I won’t interfere with that process.”
“Process, huh?” Sean sniffs derisively. “You’re a better man than me.”
I set my jaw. I don’t like it, but there’s no escaping the fact Lily-Anne arrived in England with a guitar she was afraid to play, and now the cottage is full of music. She’s even got a performance on Willoughby’s stage under her belt. She deserves the credit for that, but I think Jack had a hand in it too.
Which leaves me in the undesirable position of being grateful to him, however begrudgingly.
“Temperamental piece of crap,” Sean curses, glaring at the tap. “Why’s there so much fucking head?”
“Could it be dirty lines?” I ask.
He jabs a spanner in my direction menacingly. “Watch your mouth. There are no dirty lines in my pub.”
“Are you sure? I recall it was the issue last time. And why on earth do you have a spanner?”
“In case some gobshite like you gives me cheek.” He crouches, disappearing beneath the counter. “Now shut up and drink your beer. It’s the only head you’ll be getting, by the looks of things.”
I take another sip of foam, letting the comment slide. Sean continues to tinker, all the while grumbling and swearing.
“Would you like a hand?” I ask.
He snorts. “Sure, why not? You can’t make it worse.”
I set down my pint, swing myself over the bar, and crouch beside him. A clatter rings out as something slips from my pocket and skitters across the tiles. It’s a shard of sea glass, catching the amber light as it spins to a stop. I snatch it up and pocket it.I really need to find somewhere to put these.
Sean raises a bushy eyebrow questioningly.
“I found it on the beach,” I say casually, by way of explanation.
“On the beach, huh? See, I didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”
I don’t answer, busying myself with the tangle of insulated tubing vanishing into the floor. “The problem might be in the cellar.”
“The cellar, eh? Funny—I assumed the problem was upstairs.”
