Miranda catches my eye then and I know what she’s thinking. If only I’d been a bit more wary about Marcus Dennison. I don’t want to think about Marcus but sometimes, whenever I let my attention slip for a moment, there he is back inside my head. The fact that Christmas is nearly here doesn’t help. I pick up my tea again, still too tired to think about knitting, and it’s cool enough to drink. I take a sip, savouring the warm liquid for a moment and willing the ghost of Marcus Dennison to leave. It doesn’t help though – nothing helps. Last week marked a year since he left, and I still don’t feel as though I’ve put myself back together again.
The café door suddenly swings open bringing a blast of cold damp air with it, blowing all thoughts of Marcus away for the time being. At first I think that the wind has caught it but the cold air is followed by a man – a very tall, dark, handsome man. I put my mug down on the table in front of me and stand up.
The man frowns at me.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Bessie’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Hello, young man,’ she says. ‘Would you like to join our Knitting Club?’ Honestly if it was an old man saying that to a young woman, Bessie would be the first one shouting about sexism.
The man responds by frowning even harder, his eyebrows knotting together.
‘I was just wondering if it would be possible to get a cup of coffee,’ he says. His voice is deep and gruff and his manner overly formal. His accent sounds southern but there’s a hint of something there, as though he came from Yorkshire once upon a time but doesn’t want anybody to know that. He catches my eye then and it sends a brief wave of something almost unrecognisable through me. It’s been so long since I felt anything. Over a year.
‘But it looks like you’re closed,’ the man continues.
‘We’re always open to the passing traveller,’ I say for some reason, sounding as though I’m narrating a nativity play. Shut up, Ellie, I think. He stares at me as though I’m mad and as I walk towards him grinning whilst he just keeps frowning. He’s probably imagining scenes from The Wicker Man.
‘We’re all about tea here,’ I babble on nervously. ‘But I always have a pot of coffee on for Bessie.’ The Knitting Club have fallen ominously silent behind me and I can feel their eyes boring into the back of me as the man stares at me from the front. The knitting ladies have been trying to fix me up with every passing man under fifty since I arrived with my two meagre suitcases of belongings last year. This must be the best Monday night entertainment they’ve had in months.
I walk behind the counter and pick up the coffee pot, turning back towards the stranger.
‘Drink in or to go?’ I ask.
I watch his eyes dart over towards the Knitting Club again as he pulls a KeepCup out of his coat pocket.
‘To go,’ he replies.
Of course he wants it to go. He’d have to be mad to want to sit in here with all of us staring at him while he drinks his coffee.
I fill the cup noticing the picture of the whale on the side of it, the symbol of one of my least favourite coffee chains – not that I’m a fan of any of them really. I’m not a coffee person; I don’t like the smell – but none of that is this man’s fault so I swallow the small ball of rage that always springs up whenever I see that whale symbol.
‘Are you in town for long?’ I ask.
‘Just a few days,’ he says counting out his coins. ‘On business.’
‘Where are you staying?’ I want to ask him what possible business could bring him to Sanderson Bay that none of the women sitting in this café wouldn’t know about.
He looks at me then, his eyes meeting mine for the first time. They’re pale grey and seem incongruous with his dark hair and eyebrows but it works. He really is very good-looking. ‘I’m at the hotel up the road,’ he says quietly.
‘Oh Sascha and her husband own that,’ I say.
‘I’ve met Geoff,’ he replies.
‘Sascha’s over there.’ I point towards the knitting ladies again. ‘Blonde wavy hair.’
Sascha waves and the stranger raises an eyebrow before turning back to me.
‘I’m Ellie by the way,’ I say, holding out my hand.
‘Ben Lawson,’ he replies taking my hand in his and squeezing it gently. I ignore the fizz that dances in my stomach when he does that. ‘How long have you worked here?’ he asks, the corners of his mouth turning up into what could almost be a smile.
‘I’ve been here about a year,’ I say. ‘But I bought the café off the previous owners back in the spring.’ I don’t tell him that I bought it for a song from my own aunt and uncle; that’s none of his business.
His face closes down again then, the almost-smile forgotten.
‘You’re Eloise Caron?’ he asks.
‘Yes, how did you—’
‘I was expecting someone older,’ he interrupts, his eyebrows knotting together again.
‘I don’t understand,’ I begin but already he’s turning towards the door. How did he know my name?
‘Maybe I’ll see you around,’ he says as he leaves.
I shut the door behind him, putting the latch across so nobody else can blow in like Mary Poppins on this cold December evening.
When I turn back towards the table of knitters, I notice Bessie and Clara nudging each other.
‘Stop it,’ I say. ‘No matchmaking. He’ll only be here for a few days and he seemed quite rude anyway.’ I don’t tell them about the fizzing feeling in my belly, or about the fact that he knew who I was.
‘He’s a coffee drinker anyway,’ Miranda says, smiling at me.
‘I’m not sure he is,’ I reply glancing back towards the door that he just disappeared out of as suddenly as he appeared. ‘I think he might be Russian caravan.’
2
After everyone has left I load the dishwasher carefully with the mugs and plates and teapots that we’ve used tonight while Sascha, who always stays behind to help me clear up, sweeps the floor. I’ve only known Sascha a year but she’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a best friend and I don’t know what I’d have done without her as I’ve turned my aunt and uncle’s upmarket greasy spoon café into the tea shop of my dreams. Together we’ve both taken over rather run-down businesses and changed them into something special, something different.
Sanderson Bay has grown increasingly popular since the American singer Karol Bergenstein stayed here a few years ago. According to the news reports, her grandfather had visited Sanderson Bay when he was stationed in Yorkshire during the war and she wanted to get to see the places he’d been when she was in the UK on tour. As far as anyone knows she’s never returned to Sanderson Bay but it’s put us on the map and brought a lot of footfall and money to the town.
‘So what did you say your handsome coffee drinker was called?’ Sascha asks, leaning on the broom and looking at me.
‘Ben,’ I reply not quite meeting her eye. I’m still feeling a bit odd about him knowing my name.
‘Well he’ll be a nice distraction at least.’
‘For you maybe. He’s staying with you so you’ll probably see him much more than I will. I doubt he’ll be back here.’