“Where did you learn to do that?” Abby poked around in the fridge for salad ingredients.
“My dad. We used to go mackerel fishing when I was little. Then we’d cook whatever we caught.” She heated oil in a heavy-based pan. “When the fish is this fresh you don’t have to do much with it. Sometimes we used to barbecue it on the beach. Can you make a lemon dressing? It will go perfectly with this, and it will also use up the last of the lemons which will make me feel virtuous and stop me hearing my grandmother’s voice scolding me. She hated waste.”
Talk of family peppered Evie’s conversation. Even gone, they were still part of her life. And she seemed to know everything about them. All Abby knew about her grandmother was that she’d been hit by a car when she was thirty-eight and the resulting injuries had left her in need of almost constant care. Abby’s grandfather had walked out, leaving responsibility for that care on the shoulders of eleven-year-old Alexandra.
Pulling herself back to the present, she picked up her phone and searched for a recipe for lemon dressing.
The fish sizzled in the pan and after a couple of minutes Evie flipped it over.
While it finished cooking, she grabbed a couple of large plates. They were a summery shade of blue with a border of sea-birds.
“Those are pretty.” Abby took them from her. “Unusual.”
“I bought them from Harbour Pottery last summer. A birthday present to myself. Do you remember Mia? We ran past her on the other side of the harbour. She was carrying a bucket and spade and gripping the hand of a sandy, cross toddler.”
“I think so.” They’d met so many people it was hard to remember each individual. “Short dark hair?”
“That’s the one.” Evie dressed the salad, served it onto the plates and added the fresh mackerel. “She’s a local artist. She paints, too. Mostly seascapes. I have one in my bedroom. But she is best known for her range of gorgeous ocean-themed kitchenware. I thought it was perfect for my cottage. She sells a ton to tourists and I often wonder how it looks when they get it home to a city. Is there a place for sea-birds in Shoreditch? I have no idea. Bread? It’s fresh from the bakery.” Without waiting for Abby’s response she cut a couple of thick chunks and added a wedge of butter. “I’m telling myself we ran off the calories earlier.”
Despite a busy day Evie seemed to have boundless energy. She bounced from one task to the next, chatting the whole time. What did Abby think about this? About that?
Abby found her enthusiasm infectious. “You seem more upbeat than you did earlier.”
“Yes.” She handed Abby a plate. “That’s down to you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, talking everything through made me feel better. It gave me some clarity. You’re a good listener, so thanks for that.”
They settled themselves in Evie’s pretty garden and Abby tasted the fish.
Evie watched her expectantly. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
“It’s delicious.”
“But you have seafood in Boston?”
“Yes. We have excellent seafood.”
“But you don’t spend a lot of time there because you’re always travelling and working in new places? Did you know that The Alexandra, Cornwall is the oldest hotel in the group?” Evie spread butter thickly on her bread, not waiting for an answer to her first question before she asked a second.
“I—yes, I did know that.”
“A staff perk is to get a discount on other hotels in the group. I was thinking of having a few days in Scotland at some point but now I’m wondering if that’s sad and unadventurous. Which hotel have you liked best out of all the ones in the group? The one in Cape Cod where you worked last—is that good?”
“It’s beautiful. Sandy beaches, dunes and whale watching.”
“And what was the best thing you ate when you were there?”
“Probably fried clams.” Abby put her fork down and admired the garden. “Are you a keen gardener?”
“No. I’m a terrible gardener, but it was my grandmother’s pride and joy so I feel compelled to try and keep things alive. Dad helps me sometimes. A coastal garden isn’t easy, particularly here on the north coast. Plants have to be able to withstand howling Atlantic winds. So do the locals. We’re hardy specimens.” Evie’s dimples showed as she smiled. “So it’s mostly perennials—are you impressed that I know what those are? Sage, rosemary and lavender.” She waved a hand vaguely at the tumbling garden. “That one by the wall is Rosa Rugosa—my grandmother used to make rose hip syrup. Do you have a garden?”
“No. I live in an apartment, but I can see Boston harbour and the skyline.”
“Sounds amazing. I could come and stay with you, and you could show me around. That would be fun. A girls’ weekend.”
“Yes.” For a moment she allowed herself to imagine that scenario. Showing Evie Boston. She’d take her on a whale watching cruise. Walk the Freedom Trail, take her to the MFA. Perhaps they could do a day trip to Martha’s Vineyard. Itwouldbe fun. Two friends, exploring each other’s hometowns.
