“He called to tell you—”
“He called to tellallof us,” I correct, feeling a mild panic starting to rise.
“Hemust have thought you’d besomethingabout it,” she says with a knowing glance at me. “I need a coffee and then let’s take a walk. Do you have time?”
“I—sure. Of course. But I don’t understand—”
“I think you do.” She opens the door and heads inside the coffee shop.
Greetings ring out as we head to the counter, grouping our names together like we’re a couple.
Which I expect we are.
I’ve never been part of a couple here in Battle Harbour. I’ve always beensingle Spencerwhile I’ve lived here. My relationships—if you can call them that—have been with people outside of the royal circle. My involvements happened while I was away, with women from away. I’ve never even brought a woman home to meet my friends and family.
There have been many who asked to meet the royal family once they heard of my connections, but they never lasted very long.
I’ve always feltwrongto have a woman on my arm walking through the streets of Battle Harbour. Stopping for coffee at Coffee for the Sole, having fish and chips after work, playing pool at The King’s Hat.
It’s different with Abigail because we did all those things before, when we were younger. When we were just friends. Once Hettie and Bo got together in high school, Abigail and I made up an inseparable foursome. I was a year ahead of Bo in school and I left for university right after graduation, but Bo, Hettie and Abigail stayed here, so I came home a lot to be with them.
Walking into Coffee for the Sole with Abigail now has an odd sense of déjà vu.
Only it’s different.
After we get our order and chat to Silas for a few minutes—about Lyra, since that’s all the town wants to talk about now that the news about her being the Suitorette has been announced—we head across the square to the pier. It’s nearly empty at this time of the afternoon. Most of the fishing boats are out and it’s too early for crowds waiting for their catch to begin gathering. The waves lap at the pier, a soothing backdrop for the ever-present calls of the seagulls. Out on the water, a few boats are visible and if I squint, that might be the blowhole of a whale.
Or it might just be a wave.
I don’t often take the time to appreciate what Battle Harbourhas to offer, but on a late June day like today, it’s obvious there is a lot to offer.
“The capelin roll will be starting soon,” I say as we step off the pier onto the rocky beach.
“Any day now,” Abigail agrees, pushing her short hair away from her face. “Fenella is planning a party around it.”
“Fun.” The capelin are small, silvery fish that live in the Atlantic. Once a year, they move, en masse, to the beaches to spawn, creating a wave, or roll, of fish. People catch them with hooks, lines, nets, and buckets, and even sometimes by hand.
Their arrival in the water around Battle Harbour means the arrival of summer, and today, the breeze is warm, the sun is bright, and it feels like summer is beginning.
“I didn’t bring you here to talk about fish,” Abigail points out. “As interesting as it might be.”
“I do talk a lot about fish,” I say ruefully, years of fishing disputes with the Canadians, the French, and even Scotland, making me far more knowledgeable about the animal than I’ve ever wanted to be. “I didn’t talk to the king this morning,” I add as Abigail pauses to slip off her shoes to walk close to the water. Screaming seagulls join us in the hope that we have more than coffee in our hands. “I don’t know why you think Lyra’s decision would be a concern for me.”
“Are you in love with her?”
“I—” My mind blanks. I have no idea how to answer that. Lyra is… Lyra has always—I have always…
“Scratch that.” Abigail stoops to pick up a piece of sea glass, looking out at the waves instead of me. “Youarein love with her. The family knows it. The whole country knows it. Anyone who has seen you two together, or even a picture of the two of you, can tell.” Her shoulders slump with resignation.
“Abigail—”
She turns to me and her expression…
I hope I never have to see such hurt and disappointment cross anyone’s face. Luckily, she’s wearing her sunglasses, so I don’t have to see the sadness in her dark eyes.
I know it’s there.
“I thought, maybe, because of our history, I might have a chance,” she says in a low voice like she’s talking to herself. “I think you started to believe it too, and then this.”
