A whole world of hurt lay on the other side of this weekend when Gaby left. Peter could already feel the jagged edges of the broken heart that waited for him there.
But still, he took her hand in his as they left the riverside path behind and walked back into Hamblehurst… because he simply couldn’t help himself.
And as Gaby seemed to be enjoying his stint as a tour guide, why not keep doing it? Even if he was headed for disaster when she left next week, he could comfort himself with the memory of the smile on her face right now and the sound of her laughter and the feel of her fingers brushing against his.
They had right now together and that’s all they’d ever have, which meant he ought to make the most of it.
So, he led her back into Hamblehurst and they wandered along the high street together. They window shopped and enjoyed the sunshine and the buzz of the busy stores. They meandered along the cobbled lanes and past the old church and through the market square.
When they passed a bistro with pavement tables catching the last of the afternoon sunshine, they sat down and ordered wine and talked and talked and talked.
Why was it so easy to talk to her? Why had he never experienced this easy conversation with any other woman he’d ever known? Why did being in her company make him feel like everything was right in the world?
Why did being close to her make his soul feel like it had found its mate all over again?
Peter didn’t want to answer those questions and so he forced himself to enjoy his glass of wine, enjoy the light draining from the sky above the rooftops, enjoy the glow of the coloured festival lights that lit up the bistro’s outdoor seating area and made the early evening feel magical.
By the time they finished their wine, the last warmth of the afternoon had vanished and Gaby was pulling her coat tighter around herself against the evening chill.
“Shall we start moving again before we get too cold?” he asked.
“Good idea,” Gaby replied. “Although this is such a pretty spot. I’m sorry to leave it behind.”
“We’ll find somewhere else to go. There are plenty of nice places around here. In fact, there’s a bar just around the corner that serves wonderful tapas with the drinks. I think you’d like it.”
He couldn’t stop himself from selling this town to her. She must think he was so transparent, even as she nodded at his suggestion.
“I doubt the tapas will compare to the real deal you’re probably used to enjoying in Spain, but this place isn’t half bad,” he added.
“I’m looking forward to it. And you don’t have to worry that I’m comparing it to the ‘real deal’ as you put it, Peter. That’s not how I work.”
“But I’m sure you’ve enjoyed some amazing authentic tapas while you’ve been in Spain?”
“Of course. That doesn’t mean the tapas I’m about to eat in this bar you’re taking me to won’t be amazing, too.”
She smiled and that made him feel better about his inevitably doomed attempts to convince her this town might be somewhere she could call home.
“Tell me about the best tapas you’ve ever had,” he said as they walked towards the bar.
“That’s a hard question. There’s so much to consider.”
“Like what?” he asked, captivated by the way her mind worked.
“It’s not just about the food. It’s the ambience of the bar, the personality of the waiter or barman. And the weather and the company and the location make a big difference too, because tapas is about being sociable and enjoying good times with good people. But I’d have to say the best tapas I’ve ever had was…”
He listened as she talked about a little bar in a tucked-away street in Seville which she’d stumbled upon while exploring the city one warm spring evening some years before.
He listened as she talked about the exquisite servings of roasted meats and grilled vegetables and baked fish she’d sampled while drinking a perfectly paired sherry recommended by the barman.
He listened as she explained how the barman had kept track of her order by writing it in chalk on the bar counter and how, once she’d reached a certain total on her bill, he’d pointed at it and made her pay before letting her order anything else and had nodded with approval once she cleared her slate, and he’d wiped the chalk from her tab and started afresh.
He listened as she talked about that memory and then shared others from her travels around Spain, a country she obviously adored. She’d seen so much of the world, unlike him. He wondered if he seemed irredeemably provincial in her eyes.
When they settled at a window seat in the bar overlooking the market square, he was glad when she smiled at the cosy interior and the twinkle lights around the walls and the soft piano music playing the background.
“This is a nice place,” she said, taking it all in.
“I’m glad you like it. I’ll choose the wine and you can choose the tapas.”
