Page 27 of And Then There Was You

Twenty-One Merryn

‘Merryn?’

I’m cleaning the chrome front of our espresso machine, watching the shine build with every stroke.

Everything looks brighter this morning, from the sparkling sunshine flooding Sweet Reverie to the new batch of cakes that our supplier just delivered.

The lemon, strawberry and cherry glazes gracing each four-layered sponge cake glisten as they sit on the counter, waiting for us to divide them into slices and place under the glass cloches.

‘Earth to Merryn . . . ?’

I feel brighter, too. Despite falling back into bed just before three a.m. and my alarm rousing me at six. Despite every muscle in my body protesting. I ache, but I don’t care. All I can think about is last night . . .

‘I mean, I could try semaphore if it would be easier . . .’ . . .

And Zach Trevelyan. I wanted the man who ran to feel welcomed back, but I couldn’t have dreamed he would bring so much with him.

That song, the one I haven’t heard for years that’s played in endless loops whenever I’ve thought of Grant.

And the surprise of Zach himself. His story, which I still don’t know all of.

His heart, flowing through the melody as he played our piano like it was his lifeline.

‘. . . Or Morse code? Maybe I could summon aliens to spell out the phrase HEY BOSS in the sky?’

I blink. ‘Aliens?’

Ruthie is beside me, arms folded, judgement in full swing. ‘I knew you weren’t listenin’ to me.’

I offer her a sheepish smile by way of apology. ‘Sorry, Ruthie. I was miles away.’

‘Tell me about it. What’s got into you?’

‘Nothing. I just didn’t sleep well.’

My assistant’s eyes narrow. ‘Well the sleep you got was enough to power that big, dopey smile you’re wearin’.’

Am I smiling?

Okay, I know the answer – the fact of which only makes me smile more.

‘I don’t have a dopey smile.’

‘You do this mornin’. Also cotton wool in your ears, apparently.’

I snort-laugh at this. It’s such an old-fashioned phrase for my very modern, absolutely Gen Z colleague to choose. ‘I just need sleep.’

‘You need somethin ’ . . .’ She stares into my soul. ‘You met someone?’

‘No.’

She catches the note of uncertainty that sneaks into my reply. ‘You have! Who is he?’

‘You’ve got this all wrong.’

‘I know a moonin’ face when I see one, Mer, and yours is the mooniest one I’ve seen in a while.’

‘Can we drop this?’

‘Only if you give me his name.’ Her eyes sparkle as another thought occurs. ‘Or did you even catch his name?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, if you had a cheeky one-nighter, perhaps there wasn’t time . . .’

‘ Ruthie! ’

She laughs, holding out a hand to me. ‘Listen, bird, fair play to you if you did. I mean, it’s been a while and a half, hasn’t it? If anyone’s earned a bit of horizontal boppin’, it’s you.’

This line of questioning is making me want to run from the café. How could I ever explain what happened when Ruthie’s already made up her mind?

‘Enough now,’ I say, the sharpness of my words cutting the jovial atmosphere dead.

‘Suit yourself.’ She huffs and starts to restock the jar of mini marshmallows. It’s a shocking masterclass in passive-aggressive confectionery handling.

If this was a different time, I might have confided in her.

In Seth, too, before yesterday afternoon.

It’s still early, and Mondays are traditionally quiet first thing, even in the summer, but I’ve heard nothing from him.

No apologetic or bullish texts. No missed calls or grudging voicemails.

He was furious with me when he left and, to be honest, I was furious with him too.

If he finds out Zach not only gained entry to the courtyard last night through the gate I purposefully didn’t lock but also roused me from my bed with his piano playing, Seth will hit the roof.

So I keep it to myself, loving the thrill of knowing something about my life that others don’t.

Leaving the side gate accessible was the right thing for me to do.

But Seth believes he did the right thing, too, by insisting on greater security.

And so we stand at an impasse – or we will if he ever decides to speak to me again.

My mind drifts back to shadowy, intimate images from last night.

Of how Zach’s head bent a little as he played, like he was about to whisper secrets to the piano; of how his fingers coaxed the loveliest melodies from the keys, like they had been designed for his hands to touch.

And of how he looked at me, startled and amazed, when we held hands.

He promised to return. But he left without saying when .

Which gives me a dilemma: do I change the sign tonight, extending the invitation again? And leave the gate lightly on its latch?

It’s dangerous and thrilling and quite unlike anything I’ve done before.

But I want to see Zach again. Tonight.

Lunchtime arrives, the trickle of customers becoming a steady flow, and by the time we’re doing the end-of-day tasks at five-thirty p.m., I’m about ready to drop.

‘That’s all the tables done,’ Ruthie breezes, grabbing a broom. ‘I’ll do the floors and then I’ve got to shoot.’

‘Doing something nice after work?’ I ask.

She grins. ‘Got a date.’

For a moment, I wonder if Seth has finally mustered the courage to ask Ruthie out. Or maybe she’s made the decision for him?

‘And you’re only telling me this at the end of the day? Denying me gossip, Ruthie?’

‘Nothin’ to tell, yet,’ she replies, clearly loving the revelation. ‘With any luck, Nico will change that.’

So, not Seth. Those two have been dancing around each other for the best part of a year, the longing looks between them impossible to ignore. Will they ever admit how they feel?

‘Nico who?’

‘He’s on the lifeboat crew. Built like a tower, smile like a dream. His dad owns La Mer over near Porthminster, so he’s not short of cash, either.’

‘He sounds delightful.’

‘He’s sex on legs .’

‘That too.’ I smile, Ruthie’s summation of her date pure gold. ‘I’ll do the floors. You head off.’

‘Lifesaver! Cheers!’ My assistant props the broom against the counter, heading round to give me a hug before she grabs her bag and hurries to the door. Flinging it open, she looks back at me. ‘Talk to Seth.’

‘I will.’

Will I?

It’s enough to send Ruthie out of the door, my café falling into delicious silence. I close my eyes and take a long, slow breath, the knots in my shoulders protesting.

A memory of last night returns: of Zach Trevelyan’s stare that seemed to reach into me. That moment of connection in the night-dark courtyard, our hands lightly joined . . .

It was impossibly lovely. But nowhere near enough.

My decision is as easy as the breath moving freely through my lungs: I won’t lock the gate again tonight.