I’d met the baker when I’d gone there to buy lunch. His name was Antony Graham. I’d gotten his life story from him when I went in—early forties, divorced, had his kids every other weekend, and he’d run the bakery in Alnster for twenty years.
Caro shot a look at the door where Roane had disappeared out of, and then turned to me. Her dark eyes were bright with frustration. “I have. Two years ago I went to Tony with my baking. I was so nervous.”
“What happened?”
With a heavy sigh, she lowered her eyes to the table. “He said he thought I was a good baker but asked me if Aunt Helena knew I’d come to him about a job. When I said no”—she met my gaze again, anger mingling with the frustration—“he said he wouldn’t employ me, knowing it was going directly against the wishes of my aunt. I said, ‘But I’m twenty years old,’ and he said . . . ‘Everyone knows Helena’s in charge of your life, and I don’t want to deal with her wrath. Go home, little girl.’”
“He said what?”
I closed my eyes, wincing at the fury in Roane’s voice. When I opened them, Roane was rounding the table, indignation etched into every feature of his face. He placed his palms on the table and bent toward Caro, who was wide-eyed with concern.
“He really said that?” Roane asked, clearly forcing calm into his voice.
“Roane, it’s not worth getting upset over.”
“I beg to differ. Why didn’t you come to me, treasure? I didn’t . . .” He slid into his seat, his expression changing to one of guilt. “If I’d known you were trying to make a career out of baking, I would have helped. I would have gone to that spineless prick of a man and—”
“And what, Roane?” Caro placed her hand over his. “Threatened him? I don’t want a job that way. I just . . . I just wanted to see if other people liked my baking . . . if I was good enough to do something with it.”
“You are,” he promised. “Let me speak to Tony.”
Seeing Caro’s lips pinch together, I found myself intervening. “Caro is right,” I butted in. “She doesn’t want a job because you threatened the baker. She wants it on her own merit.” My brain kicked into high gear. “I . . . what if you set up a market stall on Main Street just outside The Anchor? You could sell your baking and get some reactions.” Although I already knew those reactions would be positive.
For some reason this idea caused panic to flitter across Caro’s face.
Deducing she was too shy to put herself at the center of attention, I hurried to add, “We could see if anyone else is interested in putting up a stall. Have a market day. I could ask Penny if I can sell some books.”
She relaxed. “That might work.”
“You’ll need permits,” Roane said, his brows drawn together, “and Caro would need to register with the Food Standards Agency, and that takes time. I can see about pushing the permits through, but not the FSA. You need to register with them twenty-eight days before the event.”
“You can push the permits through?” I asked, curious about his influence in town.
“I sell livestock to market,” he explained, but he wouldn’t meet my eye. “I know people.”
There was something cagey about his explanation—
“Do you really think we could do it?” Caro seemed brighter now, hopeful.
Realizing I wouldn’t be there for it made me sad. But I could still help organize it before I left. “Absolutely.”
Roane frowned. “You’re really not worried about Helena trying to put a stop to it?”
“I’m a little worried,” she replied softly. “But . . .”
“But . . .”
She swallowed hard and stared Roane right in the eye. “I-I’ve been thinking about it for a while and I need to know if I can do this. Because maybe if I can do this one thing . . .” She stared forlornly at the table now.
“You’ll feel strong enough to leave her?” Roane guessed, his tone hesitant, like he was afraid of pushing too hard.
“Perhaps.”
Roane looked at me, his expression determined. “Get sign-ups for the market by Wednesday and I’ll see about getting what you need to hold it in four weeks’ time.”
I knew my expression was equally determined. “You got it, Robson.”
“I do wish you could be there, Evie,” Caro said.
Sadness threatened to take hold, and I couldn’t quite meet Roane’s gaze. “I’ll be there in spirit,” I replied far more brightly than I felt inside.
Nine
It was the first week of June and the end of my third week in England.
A gentle breeze kissed my bare arms and legs as I clasped the old photograph in my hand and shook with laughter.
“Give it here,” Roane demanded. “Caro, you’ll pay for this.”
Caro, wearing a light summer dress that still managed to cover everything but her arms and throat, giggled. “I’m sorry. I felt it was in Evie’s best interest to see this side of you. I wouldn’t want her to think you’re perfect.”
I snorted and shot him a teasing look. “I’m keeping this.”
Just as he had last Sunday, Roane decided to take a day off to join me on a walk along the beach. Considering my attraction to him had only deepened over the last week, I felt it prudent to invite Caro to join us. Shadow danced in and out of the water, entertaining us with his exuberance.
And then Caro had produced an old photograph of Roane she’d found.
She told me he was fourteen years old in the photo.
Once upon a time Roane was a gangly, long-limbed, skinny teen whose face hadn’t quite grown into his ears.
Oh, and he was wearing a Spider-Man costume in the photograph.
Scowling, Roane turned to Caro. “Mum and Dad guilted me into wearing that costume for your bloody birthday party because you loved Spider-Man. I took shit from everyone for it and this is the thanks I get.”
She giggled harder.
Sensing he’d get no remorse from his cousin, he narrowed his eyes on me. “Give it here. I’m destroying the evidence.”
“No!” I held the photo behind my back. “This is priceless.”
“Evie, give it here,” he warned, striding toward me.
I stumbled back into the tepid sea, my sandals in one hand, the photo in the other, and held the latter out of his reach. “You’ll have to fight me for it.”