Page 49 of And Then There Was You

Forty-Three Merryn

There’s still no news. Nothing concrete, anyway.

Fifteen recorded sightings in the Penwith area, every one of them drawing a blank. Zanna calls me daily now, updating me on what she’s found. Her editor is loving the interest in the story, so he’s given her permission to pursue it as a special assignment.

But still, we’re no closer to finding Grant.

I don’t know what’s worse: knowing he’s been seen close to St Ives or realising that, even with the story becoming so well known, he hasn’t come forward.

What if he doesn’t want to be found? What if his reasons for abandoning the piano are the same reasons he doesn’t want to find me?

What if he’s breaking free from the past, of which I’m only a tiny part?

To a kid, two years feels like a lifetime.

To Grant, it was a short episode in a life that otherwise didn’t include me.

He and Mum were never going to work: he wanted peace and security, while Mum wanted to rail at the world.

He couldn’t have taken the brunt of her pain and anger indefinitely.

She was always going to push him away, the fate of every relationship she ever encountered.

What if being reunited with me would mean dragging all that baggage back for him?

At least I have the busiest weeks of the summer to distract me.

We’re into August now, always the most intense part of the summer holidays, and St Ives is heaving.

Long queues form every day while people wait for tables, the takeaway line snakes out into Star Court, and Ruthie and I barely have time to exchange two words as we race to fulfil orders.

I’ve roped Murph and Jenna in, too. They’re alternating shifts through the week to give us extra help.

With the frantically busy days and three evenings, I hardly have time to think.

But I miss Zach.

At night, after closing, the piano sits alone in the courtyard, silent and still.

Since the repairs were completed, customers have resumed playing Merlin during the evening openings – we’re getting quite the roster of regular players who bring their own flavours of music to the courtyard.

I’ve even persuaded Murph to do a few tunes when service isn’t so busy.

He’s developing an impressive repertoire of music. It’s lovely to see.

But it isn’t the music Zach played. The way his character spoke through every note, the deeper meaning I sensed behind each song he selected.

It isn’t being played just for me. It’s only now I don’t have it that I realise why Zach’s playing meant so much: it was only ever meant for me.

Even if there was a room full of customers.

He was expressing his love for me through every song, a secret language just meant for us.

I fell in love with the man I discovered through his music.

And now it hurts to hear anyone else play.

At least there’s a truce of sorts with Seth.

After his apology and the repair he arranged for Merlin, the ground between us has become a little less rocky.

I’m not sure I’ve forgiven him for the fight yet.

But he’s still here, where Zach isn’t. Is that what matters, in the end? Who leaves and who remains?

With no evening opening tonight, I decide to take a walk. I’ve been hiding within the café walls since the fight, I realise now, when I’ve no need to. St Ives is my town, the place I love the most. It’s time I got out to enjoy it.

It’s a glorious evening, the kind St Ives is famous for but so many of us working over the summer don’t get to see.

I revel in it as I leave Star Court, enjoying the buzz of Fore Street with its lights and life and colour as I wander along it.

I buy chips from The Balancing Eel takeaway, then walk up through the streets of Downalong, heading for Porthmeor Beach.

The sea greets me the moment I reach the sand, a sea-salt blast of air and sound.

The tide is quite a way out, beginning its slow progression back up the beach, the waves beyond crested white.

Over by the rocks on the Island side, several groups have gathered to drink and see the sunset.

I pass the pockets of friends, moving down the beach to find a spot where I can watch the tide come in without being overlooked.

I wonder how many starry-eyed visitors to St Ives believe that if they lived here they’d spend all their days on the town’s beaches.

I used to dream of that, too, when I was living in Penzance.

If I could afford to live and run a business in St Ives, I thought, it would be like the kind of perfect existence you see in lifestyle magazines.

It is wonderful here, but it’s surprising how often you can take for granted what’s right outside your door.

Life doesn’t stop because you’re lucky enough to live somewhere beautiful.

I eat and enjoy the view as the sea makes its lazy way up the beach.

The sun sets, replaced by a clear night-blue sky that glows above ink-dark waves.

Stars appear and the breeze becomes cooler.

I needed this – to be somewhere other than Sweet Reverie, where too many concerns await me at every turn.

For a moment, I wish Zach was here. I see the ghosts of us out in the sea, the memory of our surf lesson that meant so much to both of us. I wish I could return to how we were then. But he stayed away after the fight and that speaks volumes. Could we have been happy together? I’ll never know.

When the last of the light has gone, I leave Porthmeor and head home. The stillness of the café welcomes me, the buzz from the fridge a familiar sound as I round the tables to reach the stairs to my flat.

I make myself a mug of spiced apple tea and settle on the sofa upstairs, knowing full well I’m likely to fall asleep there. It’s only when I’m curled up in the cushions, drink in hand, that I notice a message on the screen of my phone.

Sorry for the late message. I have news.

Call me when you get this.

Zan x

Shaking, I call her.

‘Merryn hi! I’m so glad you got my message.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Okay, are you sitting down?’

My nerves twist, my pulse kicking into gear. ‘Yes.’

‘We’ve found him.’

I can hardly breathe. ‘He’s come forward?’

‘No. But I know where he’s working. It’s a confirmed lead.’

‘Where?’

‘A bar. In Carbis Bay.’

My brain is racing now, processing the news. Carbis Bay is the next village around the bay from St Ives, ten minutes’ drive at best, or one stop on the coastal rail line. And there are fewer bars there than in St Ives.

‘Which bar?’

‘Mariner’s.’

The name hits me like a speeding train.

Not just any bar in Carbis Bay. Mariner’s – the bar owned by Graham Jacobs, who I’ve known for years.

Luke’s uncle.

Grant Henderson is working at Luke’s uncle’s bar, just two miles away from where we found his piano. There’s no way Luke wouldn’t have known about it. And all the time Luke told me not to search for Grant, he knew exactly where he was.