Tent pegs.
Padlocks.
Everything for a dog competition he had somehow agreed to organise while running a fully booked grooming parlour without Georgina.
And yet, instead of heading towards anything sensible, Marcus found himself drifting down the decorating aisle.
Paint tins were stacked from floor to shoulder height, their labels promising coastal whites, soft greys, heritage greens and cheerful blues. Beside them hung brushes of every size, rollers, trays, masking tape, scrapers and sandpaper. The kind of things owned by people who made plans, started projects, and did not leave half their life in cardboard boxes for months after moving house.
Marcus reached for a tin of cornflower blue.
It would look beautiful on his front door.
The thought arrived so suddenly, so clearly, that he stood there holding the tin as if it had spoken to him. Cornflower blue for the door and for the window frames too. Maybe white for the gate, once he had scraped away the flaky old paint and sanded everything back properly.
The cottage still felt like Morgan’s old place with his belongings scattered through it. Pretty from the outside if you squinted. Unsettled on the inside. A little tired around the edges.
Rather like him.
He gave a soft snort and tucked the paint tin beneath one arm. Wonderful. Now he was comparing himself to externalwoodwork. That was what a week without Georgina did to a man.
Still, the idea had taken root.
Before summer disappeared and the autumn rain rolled in, he could at least make a start. A front door. A window frame. A gate. Something visible. Something that said he was not just passing through Seagull Bay.
Something that said he intended to stay.
Marcus’s mind tried to find a free slot for some decorating R and R, a chance to clear his mind of the stresses of a full appointment book and no Georgina to help, and the responsibilities of organising the annual dog-grooming competition.
Georgina had been ill for a whole week. The result of a virus. Marcus also needed to find time this evening to call in on her and take the large box of chocolates he’d bought to help her get well—sooner rather than later.
Marcus hadn’t realised how heavily he depended on her, from the small things like sweeping up dog fur from the floor, to having the patience of cleaning out ears of the most fidgety puppies.
He sighed heavily as he reached for sandpaper and painting brushes. Looking down at his decorating things, he realised they weren’t even the items he’d come into Old Po’s to purchase.
He ran a hand down his face. His brain was fried from exhaustion.
‘Need any help there?’
Marcus almost jumped out of his skin. He spun around to see a little old man leaning heavily on a cane. His eyes almost swallowed up by overhanging hooded eyes with bushy grey eyebrows sitting above them.
‘Erm, hello. I didn’t see you there.’
‘Clearly not.’
Marcus looked around, trying to spot something to jog his memory as to why he’d come into the hardware shop.
‘You’re the one organising the dog-competition this year, aren’t you?’ Marcus nodded. ‘And the one who’s bought Morgan’s place?’
Marcus nodded again. How was it that Po knew so much about him? He’d not set foot in here since he’d come to Seagull Bay, nor had he seen Po out and about in the community—not even in The Cheese Wedge and Pickles.
He held out his hand. ‘Yes. I’m Marcus Mitchell. The owner of Ruff to Regal. It’s nice to meet you Mr... Po.’
Po chuckled, his laugh low and dry. He took Marcus’s hand and shook it. ‘They were right about you... A silver fox.’
Marcus’s brow drew together. ‘Who?’
‘The singletons of Seagull Bay, of course. They rattle my head off about the silver fox bachelor from the dog-grooming parlour, every time they come in.’ He chuckled again. Po picked up the paint tin from off the floor and looked at the label. ‘Cornflower blue, eh? Very nice.’ He turned around and proceeded to head for the counter, taking the tin of paint with him.
