Sandy gives a slow smile as she conjures the memory. I know that face, the face of someone who has a tale to tell, so I sit back down beside her to listen.
“It’s a silly story,” she says. “There was a mix-up at the license plate office—Ilídio had been sent mine, and I’d been sent his, along with all the wrong paperwork. It had his phone number printed on it, so I called him up and rather than send them both back, we met up to swap ’em over. Nothing’s far in Jersey.”
I clap my hands in excitement. “And then?”
Sandy nudges me with her shoulder.
“And then, a few days later he asked me out. It’s hardly Romeo and bleedin’ Juliet.”
“Oh no, but it is! It’s a great story. The universe sent you the wrong plates, just like it sent me the wrong suitcase. My story could turn out just like yours.”
“It wasn’t the universe; it was some lass called Sheila on her first day at the job,” Sandy says, scrunching up her nose. “First thing I noticed about him when we met up were these huge white teeth he has. He’s just one big smile, Ilídio is.” She grins fondly. “If he’d been bog ugly, I would have told the universe to bugger off.” I laugh, and Sandy prods my shoulder with a finger. “Your suitcase man could have a face like curdled custard for all you know.”
“Love is blind,” I say dreamily, a palm to my chest.
“It isn’t, and people aren’t akin to their possessions. If they are, God help me, because I’ve just adopted that devil dog.”
* * *
* * *
When we head back outside, I see the trace of a smirk on Ted’s face when he sees what I’m wearing.
“You don’t think I can pull off a shirtdress?” I ask as I wave good-bye to the others and climb back into Ted’s car.
“I didn’t say anything,” says Ted.
“It’s just for an hour while I put my dress through the wash. I don’t have anything else.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Ted repeats, his eyes growing wide in mock offense, but there’s the hint of a smile. “How are you going to explain the jumper then?”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “I will blame you, of course. You went mad and threw his shoe off a cliff and set your dog on his jumper.”
Ted laughs that deep, chesty laugh that makes his whole body move. I like seeing it. It’s like watching a drawing of a person come to life right in front of you.
“Scamp’s not my dog.” He turns his eyes to meet mine, a flicker of mischief in them.
“I found something in the house,” he says, reaching into his bag and handing me a CD—Phil Collins . . .Hits. “From my mum’s old collection.”
I open the case to slot the CD into the car’s dated music system.
“Do all your passengers get a curated playlist?”
“Just you. Mum clearly shared your terrible taste in music.” He pauses, his mouth twitching. “While Scamp shares your terrible taste in men’s jumpers.”
“Funny.” I reach out my hand, playfully hitting his thigh with the base of my fist.
Am I flirting with Ted? Is Ted flirting with me? No, I shake off the thought. That would be weird. We just know each other a little better now, well enough to make jokes.
But my hand feels hot where I’ve touched his thigh. I look up into his face, and he catches my embarrassment before I whip my head back around to face the window, hugging the tingling skin on my fist into my other palm.
Chapter 13
While we are driving, listening to Phil Collins, Ted pretending to wince at every new song that comes on, I text Suki:
Article’s coming together well. I’m moving to the beach to get a more local angle on the travel article. It’s stunning here, our followers will love it!
Then I send her a picture of the view from Gerry’s patio.
She sends back a photo of a skinny Frappuccino, I assume referring to the fact that I am still on thin ice. The Love Life Instagram account has hundreds of notifications, and I open it to see photos of people at the community fete who have tagged #LoveLife, #ShopLocal, and #GenuineJersey. There’s a beaming photo of Jenny behind an empty trestle table.
“Oh, look, Ted, people must have gone to the fete after I posted about it. Jenny sold out of jam!”
“That’s because your broadcast was so inspiring,” he says. I glance across at him, looking for the sarcasm, but there is none.
While I have a moment, I also text Gran and have a painfully slow back-and-forth with her over WhatsApp.
Laura: Is now a good time to talk, Gran?
Gran: Just heading to the dump. Mike Johnson from five down agreed to help me take my Amazon boxes. We’re getting a pasty on the way. Did I tell you about the new pasty shop on Grave’s End Road?
Laura: No. Silly question, but Mum didn’t have phobias, did she? Of the dark and seagulls?
Gran: No. Where did you get that idea?
Laura: I thought not. Don’t worry, we’ll chat later.
As we drive, Ted points things out to me, the honesty boxes at the side of the road where you can leave your money in exchange for freshly grown fruit and veg; Elizabeth Castle, the fortress in the sea I noticed yesterday. Ted tells me you can walk to the castle at low tide, but once the sea comes up, it can only be reached by boat. I love hearing these details about the island, and it seems too soon that we arrive at our destination—a large granite farmhouse on the outskirts of town.
mill manor is engraved on the stone gatepost, the lettering painted in gold. Through the gate, a circular drive winds around an old stone cider press, filled with orange dahlias. The house itself has wisteria and white roses covering half of the front wall.
“Right, this is Maude’s place. Maybe you’ll get some answers from her,” says Ted, nodding toward the house. “There’s a car in the drive and the front door is open, so someone must be home. Are you impressed with my detective work?”
“So impressed, Ted,” I say, biting back a grin. “I did leave her a message, but she hasn’t called me back. Maybe I had the wrong number, maybe these Le Maistres all have some kind of phone aversion.”
“Well, this way you can at least ask to see some photos of her son—see if this treasure hunt of yours is going to be worth the effort,” says Ted, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Ha-ha, I do need to get my case back, you know. This isn’t all about him being a potential—”