‘Two more chicken dinners, please, Sam!’ she called out, ‘and they both want Yorkshire puddings with them.’
I stepped aside to let her through.
‘It’s busy out there,’ she said, sounding glad. ‘I thought you’d already gone again, Tess.’
‘Not yet,’ I said, ‘I’m just about to.’
The smell of the roasting meat was making me feel nauseous. Not that there was anything wrong with Sam’s culinary skills, but my hangover was still doing a fine job of making its presence felt.
‘I don’t suppose you could spare an hour to help out, could you?’ Hope asked me, ‘there’ll be a lunch in it for you and it would save Sam from having to keep walking in and out of the bar.’
It was the very last thing I felt like doing, but given that I’d almost kissed her boyfriend the second her back was turned, I didn’t feel in a position to refuse.
‘If that’s okay with you, Sam?’ she said, turning to him.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘but only as long as you haven’t got other plans, Tess.’
‘Other than nursing this hangover,’ I said trying to laugh as I eased off my sunglasses, ‘I haven’t got plans to do anything.’
‘That’s settled then,’ said Hope, ‘come with me and I’ll run you through the menu.’
Chapter 18
I might not have been initially in the mood – physically or mentally – to be doling out platefuls of Sunday dinner, but my busy stint in the pub was the perfect way to get over what had happened the night before and by the time the rush was over, and I was tucking into the succulent roast beef I suddenly found I fancied, everything was back to normal and on an even keel.
I spent all day Monday at the café helping Sophie and Hope check the final details of the beach clean and solstice party and on Tuesday, as it was so hot, I went back to the beach for a lazy day of paddling, exploring the pools and soaking up the sun.
Not surprisingly, given where I was, my head was full of Mum in her yellow sundress, but left to its own devices, my mind skipped ahead and I saw her as the wealthy but solitary shopper who spent her days trying to make herself feel better about life by maxing out her credit cards and lunching alone.
Conversely, when I thought of Dad, first reading a newspaper in his deckchair and then years later, the only images I could conjure of him were ones where he had his head down at his desk and never on the arm of another woman or, as Mum’s diary had alleged, women. For some reason, my brain was reluctant to marry up with the truth I now carried around in my heart, but I tried not to let it all dominate my day in the sun.
I had just stepped out of a refreshingly cool shower late that afternoon when someone began beating a tattoo on the cottage door and I hastily pulled on some clothes before rushing to answer it.
‘Just a sec,’ I shouted, fumbling with the key in the lock, ‘hold on.’
I opened the door and was faced with the biggest bunch of yellow roses imaginable. In an instant I was transported back to my parents’ garden and, remembering how beautifully the roses had bloomed this year, courtesy of the bunch Joan had arranged for me during my last attack of vertigo, I was completely convinced that my father was standing behind them – and I was amazed to discover that I hoped he might be.
My heart hammered hard as I tried to work out what I was going to say but I couldn’t come up with anything and it didn’t matter anyway, because it wasn’t him.
‘I’d all but given up on you,’ said Joe, his face appearing over the top of the blooms as he lowered them. ‘Are you going to ask me in?’
I stepped aside to let him in as my heart settled back down again.
‘These are for you,’ he said, handing the beautiful bunch over. ‘I remembered how much you enjoyed looking at the roses when we went for our afternoon tea.’
‘Hello, Joe,’ I said, finally finding my words. ‘They’re absolutely stunning. Thank you so much. It was kind of you to remember.’
‘There’s not much I forget,’ he grinned, evidently pleased with my reaction.
Aside from the first non-platonic kiss anyone had ever planted on my lips, of course.
‘When did you get back?’ I asked, brushing the thought aside.
‘Not long ago,’ he said, following me into the kitchen where I thought I’d seen a vase at the back of one of the cupboards. ‘I haven’t even been to the farm yet.’
‘Are you putting the moment off by any chance?’
‘In a way,’ he shrugged, ‘but I had a couple of things to do in the village and I wanted to see you. I’ve been feeling bad about how we left things last week.’
I thought back to how resolutely he had objected to my suggestion that he should go with me to the pub and how keen he had been to convince me not to try and ‘mend him’.
‘I hate the thought of you thinking that I don’t appreciate your concern,’ he said, looking at me intently.
‘I know you appreciate it, Joe,’ I told him, ‘and I also know this isn’t just any old run-of-the-mill sort of situation either.’
He nodded and ran a hand through his hair.
‘That’s all right then,’ he smiled, ‘that’s settled. And you know, I have high hopes for today.’
‘High hopes?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I’m hoping we might be able to say goodbye without any confusion, mixed messages or argumentative undertones.’
I supposed that had become a bit of a habit.
‘Hey now,’ I said, finally locating the vase and plunging the roses into it, ‘don’t go mad. Let’s not count our chickens until you’re walking out through that door and heading back to the farm, shall we?’
I made us tea and halved the gargantuan slice of coconut coffee cake Sophie had sent me home with the day before.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind sharing this?’ Joe asked, appreciatively eyeing the plate.
‘It’s imperative that I do share it,’ I told him as I handed him a cake fork, ‘because if I keep eating everything Sophie tries to feed me, then I’m going to be at least two dress sizes bigger before I wave goodbye to Wynmouth.’
I hated the thought of saying my farewells, whatever size I was going to be when I had to do it.
‘That’s not going to be happening just yet though, is it?’ Joe asked.
‘What, me piling on the weight, or saying goodbye?’
‘Saying goodbye,’ he laughed. ‘I can see you’ve already put a bit of weight on.’
‘Hey!’ I objected, batting him with a cushion and almost knocking the plate out of his hand. ‘I thought you wanted to leave on friendly terms today?’
‘I do,’ he laughed, hiding the cushion down the side of the sofa. ‘I do. You know I’m only teasing. You aren’t really thinking of leaving already, are you?’
‘No,’ I swallowed, ‘not just yet.’
There was a part of me that was beginning to think about it though, in spite of my tipsy request to stay on. Not that I wanted to go, of course, but now, having decided that I was quitting my job, I needed to tell Dad and I also needed to clarify a few things that I had discovered in Mum’s diary because I just couldn’t get some of them to add up.