Snowflakes at Lavender Bay Page 3

  ‘I’m not quite sure what you’re saying, Mr…?’

  ‘Stone. Mick Stone. I heard you were looking for a business to buy in Lavender Bay and I’ve got one to sell, but maybe I got that wrong? Beth was talking about it in the emporium, see, and there was your business card sitting on her counter so I popped it in my pocket.’

  All those good intentions of forgetting about Lavender Bay fell away in an instant as his heart began to pound. If he believed in providence, he’d take this as a sign. Getting himself established in the community might be the key to finding some answers about his family. It didn’t have to be forever, but people might open up to him if they got used to seeing him around the place. Worst case scenario, he could spend a couple of months doing up the place, turn it around for a profit and walk away again. Hope bloomed inside, and he had to fight to keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘No, Mr Stone, you didn’t get it wrong. Please tell me more…’

  Chapter 3

  ‘Now you’re sure you don’t mind me popping out for a bit, Libby-girl?’

  Libby bit back an exasperated sigh and turned instead towards her father with a smile. ‘Of course not, Dad.’ Taking in the whiteness of the collar of his shirt half-trapped beneath the lapel of his best jacket, she cocked her head. ‘You look smart, got yourself a hot date?’ She’d meant it as a tease—though nothing would please her more than if her long-widowed father found a companion to share his life with—but regretted the words as an ugly flush mottled Mick Stone’s cheeks.

  Gaze dropping to the cap clutched between his fingers, Mick shook his head. ‘Nothing like that, lovey, just a bit of business. The accountant wants to discuss last quarter, the usual stuff.’ Libby relaxed. The books were all in order, but their accountant still liked to keep in regular contact. It was a personal touch she knew her dad appreciated. And just maybe the conversation would work its way around to plans for the future.

  Stepping forward, she eased the wayward point of his shirt collar free and straightened it before letting her hand drop to smooth over the rough tweed covering the big heart which had given her all the love a girl could ever have needed growing up. ‘Ignore me, Dad. It’s nice to see you looking smart, that’s all. Take as much time as you need. Eliza’s still at a loose end, so she’s going to give me a hand with lunch club.’

  Friday lunch club was a tradition her parents had started when they’d first opened their fish and chip shop on the seafront promenade at Lavender Bay. The tradition of eating fish on a Friday might have waned in popularity, but the pensioners still flocked through the doors for a bargain meal. Rain or shine, through the high heat of summer and the cold depths of winter, they turned up like clockwork and went away smiling with a small cod and chips, and a pot of mushy peas for those so inclined. What they lost in profits through the discounted price was more than covered by the return in numbers—and community goodwill.

  It was not lost on either Libby or her dad that for some of their customers, lunch club was a highlight of the week. Nobody was rushed through their order, and on warmer days such as that morning they put a handful of folding tables and chairs outside the front door for those who wished to linger and share their meal.

  Her father paled. ‘Oh, lovey, I forgot all about blooming lunch club when I made my appointment. I…I could put it off.’

  This time she didn’t hide her sigh. ‘Give it a rest, will you? I can manage the shop with my eyes shut. It’ll do Eliza good to do something other than mope about the place.’ Libby scrunched her nose. ‘That sounds awful. I don’t mean it like that, I’m just really worried about her. Nothing’s been the same since she came home.’ Eliza, one of Libby’s two best friends, had recently split from her husband and returned to live with her parents who ran The Siren, the main pub a few doors along the promenade from the fish and chip shop. Her other best friend, Beth, lived next door in a flat over the shop she’d inherited earlier in the year.

  Since leaving Martin, Eliza had been at something of a loose end and Libby worried that if she didn’t find her way soon she might think about leaving Lavender Bay again. Both she and Beth had moved away permanently following their university courses, leaving Libby alone. University had never been on the cards for her, not that she’d ever been that academically inclined to begin with. From the first moment the careers advisor had called her in to talk about the future, Libby had had only one answer: she would work alongside her dad in the chippy.

  Though the loss of her friends’ physical presence had sat on her heart like a stone, she’d never felt jealous of them. Lavender Bay was her home, and she couldn’t imagine herself anywhere else. This was where her mum was: in every grain of sand upon the beach; in the cry of the wheeling gulls high over the rolling waves; in the weft and warp of Libby’s daily routines.

  There was no denying her relief that both Beth and Eliza had returned to the bay, nor that she’d been completely lost without them. Oh, they’d each done their best to keep in touch with regular Skype chats and not-so-regular visits home, but it had only served to emphasise the difference between their lives. While they grew and expanded their life experiences through both successes and failures, like a fly suspended in amber, Libby’s life had remained resolutely the same.

  And then there was her dad. Mick Stone had always hung the moon and stars for Libby, and his quiet strength had been the rock she clung to through the maelstrom resulting from her mother’s painful illness and eventual death when Libby had been barely 13 years old. Her resultant teenage rebellions as she struggled to adjust to their new status quo had bounced off Mick’s solid frame without seeming to make a single dent at the time. It was only as she grew older that Libby had begun to come to terms with just how difficult she’d made things for him.

  Mick’s weathered face softened. ‘Poor Eliza, she’s been through the mill, hasn’t she? Let me get this business out of the way, and then I’ll pick up the slack here.’

  She snorted. He wouldn’t know slack if it pinched his nose. No one worked harder than her dad. Though she did her best to ensure they split the work as evenly as possible, he was forever looking for an excuse to give her a break. She adored him for it, even as it drove her crazy. They were partners in crime, a team through thick and thin, though she didn’t plan on selling fish and chips for the rest of her life. The future she’d mapped out for herself lay under this roof, and her dream was to turn the chippy into a café and bakery. But those plans were for other days, and she was happy to bide her time until her dad decided he’d had enough and was ready to hand over the reins.

  In spite of it being the hottest day of the year so far, lunch club had proven as popular as ever, and without Eliza’s help, Libby would’ve been rushed off her feet. With the fryers on, the heat inside the shop had been punishing, even with the little air-con unit on the back wall running at full blast. With the last customer served, she clicked off the power to the fryers and the heating cabinet then moved to stand beneath the air-con and let the cold air wash over her. Eyes closed, she stood there until the combination of the frigid air and her sweat-soaked T-shirt sent a shiver through her entire body.

  ‘Oh, that looks good.’ Opening one eye was almost too much effort, but Libby cracked a lid and watched as Eliza propped the folding chairs she’d been carrying against the wall then came to stand beside her. ‘Okay, I’m never moving from this spot.’ Eliza dragged the hygiene covering from her hair and gathered the mass of curls spilling loose in one hand to expose the nape of her neck to the chilly blast.

  Since they’d been little girls, Libby had always envied Eliza for her hair. The curls always seemed full of life and vitality, not like the limp, brown mop her own hair would be without all the dye and gel. Picturing the horror show lurking beneath her hat, Libby shook her head. ‘How is it possible for you to work non-stop for two hours in Lavender Bay’s own version of Dante’s Inferno and still look like some pre-Raphaelite goddess at the end of it?’

  Eliza laughed. ‘You must be jok
ing. I caught sight of myself in that mirrored sign over there as I walked past, and my face is glowing like a neon sign.’

  Libby didn’t agree but was too hot and tired to argue the point. With a healthy flush on her cheeks and a bit of life back in her eyes, Eliza looked better than she had since returning home. ‘Have you thought any more about what you want to do?’

  Laughter fading, Eliza scrunched up her face. ‘Not a clue, but I’ll have to find something soon before Mum and Dad get too used to the idea of me being behind the bar again. It’s great to be home, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t fancy the idea of pulling pints for the rest of my days. Do you know what I mean?’

  Not really. With the death of her mum, it had been only natural for Libby to step into her shoes and help her dad with the business. At first it had been a case of pitching in around their two-storey home above the shop, keeping the place clean so her dad didn’t stay up half the night doing chores after being on his feet all day. It had progressed to prepping the batter, stocking the cold drinks fridge and taking orders whilst Mick manned the fryers. The day he’d deemed her old enough to work them herself was still one of the proudest moments of her life. Not a grand achievement to most, but it had been a milestone on her path from adolescence to adulthood. She loved the shop, loved the ebb and flow of people’s lives through the door. Shared their triumphs and commiserated their disasters as she shook, and salted, and wrapped the food which kept them going at the end of a long day.

  It was the people she loved the most. Her people. They came through that front door in good times and bad. If someone was having a hard time, it showed in the way their orders changed. When a regular customer reduced their order, her dad would often slip them an extra piece of fish or add another scoop of chips to their standard portion size. He greeted each and every customer with the same ‘What’ll it be then?’, even those whose order never deviated in the dozen years she’d been helping him out. She’d asked him about it once, and his answer stuck with her.

  ‘When we started out, your mum and I made a point of learning what people liked, thinking it added a personal touch when we asked someone if they’d like their usual order. Then one Thursday Bill Curtis came in, same as he always does, and when I said “the usual?” he burst into tears. Poor sod had just been laid off and he didn’t know how he was going to pay for supper, never mind tell his wife when he got home. Your mum took him out the back and told him in no uncertain terms that until he was back on his feet, Thursday supper was on the house. Wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I agreed with her. Took him four months to get a new job, another year after that to catch up on overdue bills and the like. The moment he was square again, he insisted on paying us back for those free suppers, not that we expected him to, but his pride had taken enough blows so we didn’t argue.’ Mick wiped his hands on his apron then put an arm around her shoulders. ‘This place is more than a chippy. We’re a community centre, a safe haven for people in trouble. I don’t have a lot, but what I have got I’ll share with anyone that needs it. Asking people what they want rather than assuming I know gives them the space to change their order without any sense of embarrassment, do you see?’

  She did, and her heart swelled with love for his big, generous soul. Libby leaned into the reassuring bulk of his body. ‘I see what you do, Dad, and I think it’s brilliant.’

  With that memory warm in her heart, Libby took a deep breath, then opened her heart. ‘I’ve found my place in the world, Eliza, and it’s right here.’ She gestured around the shop. ‘I love what my parents built here, and I want to keep playing my part at the heart of our community, but I want to do it my way. Ignore the smell of hot fat and vinegar and picture little wooden tables painted in pastel shades laden with pretty plates full of cakes and sandwiches, sparkling cutlery and real cotton napkins. Replace the fryers with a glass-fronted refrigeration counter holding fresh-baked quiches, flaky sausage rolls and glass bowls full of salad. Shelves along the back wall full of specialty teas and coffees and a fridge full of traditional bottles of lemonade, ginger beer and elderflower water. I’ll paint the walls soft lemon and buttermilk with watercolour paintings of scenes from around the bay, and hang frothy lace curtains at the windows.’

  A long silence followed the tumble of words and butterflies began to chase each other around Libby’s stomach. It was the first time she’d let anyone else in on her plans for the future, and she could hardly bear to meet Eliza’s gaze. Her best friend had the kindest heart and would say all the right things, but would she mean it? If she looked into Eliza’s eyes and saw pity, it might break her heart. Needing to keep busy, she took a cloth to the already spotless counter and began to clean it.

  ‘Libs?’ Soft fingers touched her arm, stilling her hand mid-sweep. She couldn’t bring herself to turn around. It mattered too damn much. Eliza released her only to slip her arms around Libby’s waist and prop her chin on Libby’s shoulder. ‘God, Libs, it sounds wonderful. Just perfect.’

  The husky warmth in those words eased the tension holding Libby’s frame rigid. ‘You really think so?’

  Eliza gave her a squeeze. ‘I know so. Watching you today was a revelation. Feeding people, taking care of them, it’s in your blood.’

  Blushing, Libby stared down at the cloth now wound between her fingers. ‘I’m not exactly in Sam’s league. A few sarnies and cakes won’t hold a candle to the Cordon Bleu experience he’ll be offering.’

  A finger jabbed in her ribs, making her turn with a yelp to meet a soft scowl from Eliza. ‘Don’t do that,’ she admonished. ‘Don’t talk yourself out of it before you’ve even started. Sam’s restaurant will be for people wanting a one-off experience, somewhere to celebrate a special occasion. What you’re talking about is a place people will return to time and again for everyday comforts.’

  Everyday comforts. Libby liked the sound of that. She’d never seen herself as in competition with Sam, that was just her insecurity digging in its claws. Deep down, she knew her plan was a sound one. The café would fill a gap in the current market, offering healthier alternatives alongside luscious cream teas. Friday lunch club would continue, but she’d offer salmon quiche or tuna melts and salad in the summer, and thick bowls of hearty chowder or fish pie in the winter. She also had plans for a pensioners’ afternoon tea special once a fortnight. Lavender Bay had plenty of takeaways and pubs serving hearty meals and one or other of them would likely expand their menu and add fish and chips—and good luck to them. The day she never had to wash the smell of the chippy out of her hair again couldn’t come too soon, not that she’d ever admit that to anyone other than Eliza or Beth—and they’d never say a word.

  ‘You know I’ll make the curtains and whatever for you when it’s time. I’m making all the soft furnishings for Sam’s restaurant, and I’d love to help you in whatever way you need.’ And there it was, the reason why Libby had told Eliza before anybody else. In the same way they’d pitched in to help Beth fulfil her dreams with the emporium, Libby knew they’d throw their all behind her.

  Eliza had always been a whizz with her sewing machine, whereas Libby could barely manage to sew on a button. Stick her in the kitchen, though, and that was another story. She’d learned to bake at her mother’s hip and the café was a way of honouring those precious moments and keeping them fresh in her mind. Beth was the organised one, who would help her sort out the business side of things. Libby had experience helping her dad keep the books for the chip shop, but it would still take a lot of work to adapt to a more extensive menu. Work that would be much easier with Beth to guide her through it.

  Eliza removed the apron she’d been wearing over a mint green shirt and matching capri pants and hung it on one of the pegs. ‘So, what does your dad think about your plans?’ Libby screwed up her face but didn’t say anything. Her dad would be 65 next year and the years of hard work were starting to show. He’d dropped a few hints about retiring after his birthday, and that was one of the reasons she was hoping their accoun
tant might be raising the topic at today’s meeting.

  She hadn’t mentioned it herself, because she didn’t want her dad to feel like she was pushing him out the door. When he was ready to take that step, she’d sit him down and go through her ideas. ‘You’re going to have to tell him some time.’ Eliza laughed. ‘Listen to me, Little Miss Assertive telling you what to do, when I’m just as bad.’

  Libby slung an arm around her friend’s shoulder and leaned close until their heads were touching. ‘We’re hopeless. Remember when we were kids how we couldn’t wait to be all grown-up and be in control of our lives?’ She sighed.

  Humming sympathetically, Eliza nodded. ‘We thought it would be so exciting, only no one told us how difficult it would be. I can’t for the life of me remember why we were in such a hurry.’

  ‘Because we wanted to have all that great sex we kept reading about in those copies of Cosmopolitan we used to steal from Beth’s mum.’

  ‘Ha! We should sue them for false advertising because we’re still bloody waiting.’ Eliza pulled back to regard her. ‘Well, I am, at least, although you’ve been very quiet in that regard. Any scorching hot love affairs you want to tell me about?’

  As it had far too frequently in the past weeks, the image of Owen Coburn sprang to mind, all cocky smile and hard-bodied perfection. The fluttering that followed dissolved into a deep stab of humiliation. He’d stood out—a bright flame among the usual Saturday night crowd in The Siren, and she’d floated across the bar like a mesmerised moth driven by a fatal combination of bone-deep loneliness and a haze of hormones. And damn, had he burned her with that incredulous look in his eyes.