“But there are changes you would make?”
“Some, yes.” Evie grabbed Abby’s luggage from the car. “Lately I’ve been feeling as if the place needed a bit of a change in strategy, you know? And I’m only acting general manager, obviously. I didn’t want to overstep my remit, although I’m not entirely sure what my remit is. A bit of everything, I think. I even wrote a memo outlining what I thought we could do to improve things and make more money—we’re missing opportunities—but I don’t think anyone bothered to read it.”
“Did you talk to them about it in person?”
“No. I didn’t want to hear all the reasons why my ideas wouldn’t work. I thought it was easier to send a memo.” She paused, wondering how honest to be. “I’m not great with conflict. Particularly when it’s people I’ve known forever. How about you?”
“I think there are situations where being direct is appropriate, and I don’t usually have a problem with that.”
“You don’t worry about it damaging relationships?”
Abby gave a faint smile. “No,” she said. “That concern isn’t generally top of my list. But I probably don’t have the same close relationships at work that you do.”
“I suppose that’s inevitable as you move around a lot.”
And Abby wasn’t a manager, Evie thought. It was different.
“That memo you sent—I’d like to read it if you’d be willing to share it.”
“You would?”
“Yes. It’s your vision for the hotel, and I’m going to be part of the hotel.”
If only her permanent staff were as interested. “I’ll send it to you. The woman who called was a bit vague, but she said youwere a sort of trouble-shooter—that you go wherever you’re needed? That must be fun. You can find yourself doing pretty much anything?”
“Yes.” Abby took the case from her with a smile of thanks. “My role is varied. It’s interesting.”
“And you get to see a lot of hotels, which means you can take the best of what you see and apply it elsewhere.” Evie gestured to a steep, narrow street. “We have to go this way. It’s a bit uneven underfoot. Forget vicious rocks and dangerous tides—I always thought that this street was probably the biggest hazard the smugglers faced. Imagine walking up this after a bottle of rum or two. They probably all had broken noses. Will you be okay in those shoes?”
“I’ll be fine.”
They walked together down the steep, narrow lane, the wheels of Abby’s case bouncing over the cobbles.
“It’s not for everyone but I love this place. In summer it’s swollen with tourists, but in winter it’s mostly locals with a few hardy long-term visitors.” Evie paused outside her cottage. “This is where I live. My dad is right next door. If you need anything at any time, day or night, just call me or knock on one of our doors. We’re here to help.”
Abby studied the cottages. “You live next door to your father?”
“Yes. My cottage used to belong to my grandmother, although I’ve gradually done it up to suit my taste. I adored Granny, but not her interior design choices. She had a thing for porcelain cats.”
Abby gave a wistful smile. “You’re close to your dad.”
“Yes. My mother died when I was born, so it has always been the two of us.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. Dad and I are close and I have what feels like a million proxy mothers in the village. How about you? Family? I assume you’re not married.”
“Not married,” Abby said. “So far I haven’t met anyone that makes me want to rethink my workaholic lifestyle.”
Evie laughed. “Well, don’t tell anyone you’re available or they will set you up with every single man in the village. We’d better pretend you’re married with seven children. The pub is just down there—” She gestured. “It overlooks the harbour.”
As they reached the main street the crowds thickened. There were people wearing shorts and T-shirts, their faces red from too much sun and not enough sunscreen. Fractious toddlers whined, and dogs pulled at their leads and panted in the heat.
“At five in the morning, this place is deserted.” Evie led Abby round to the back entrance of the Smuggler’s Inn and opened the door. “Tristan?” She yelled his name. “Are you there or have you been trampled by tourists? He’s probably down in the cellar.”
Abby held back. “You don’t knock or ring the bell or something?”
“I’ve known Tristan since I was five years old. His mother used to plait my hair because my dad always struggled with it. So no, I don’t knock or ring the bell. Tristan can be a bit gruff but don’t be daunted. He’s a big old softie really.” Evie yelled again. “Tris?”
