Page 19 of Tribute Act

My heart twisted painfully in my chest at those words. I didn’t know what to say. What could I say after all? I was the guy with two dads—one of them his. What did I know?

“Speaking of which,” Mack continued, frowning at his pint of lager. “I shouldn’t be drinking any more booze. In case I’m a match.” He pushed it a couple of inches away.

I couldn’t help thinking about him last night, reaching out to me in the dark. His words.

“Hold me.”

He had needed me last night—or at least, he’d needed someone. We all needed someone, sometimes. And God help me, but I was a fixer.

I began, my tone tentative, “Maybe Derek—”

His hand landed on my forearm, warm and firm. “Don’t, okay? I don’t want to talk about my dad.” He gave a half smile to take away the sting, and I nodded.

Just then, an electronic feedback shriek made us both jump.

“Sorry!” someone yelled out—it was the ponytailed guy from the bar, plugging his guitar into a speaker at the tiny stage area. Andy, Jago had called him.

“Looks like we’re getting some music.” Mack seemed pleased, watching the guy set up his equipment with obvious interest.

“You’re a musician, aren’t you?” I said.

He turned back to me, eyebrows pleated over the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, kind of. How did you know?”

“You had a guitar case in your hotel room.”

“Oh, right.” He shrugged. “I suppose. It depends on your definition of musician. I play, but mainly for myself, not to make a living. It’s not like I’m hoping to hit the big time.”

“You’re not a professional then?”

“Nah, I just love to play. As soon as you start trying to make money or get known, that gets tainted, you know?”

Tainted. Interesting choice of word

“So what do you do the rest of the time?” I asked.

“All sorts. I was working as a barman in Manchester till last week, but I’ve been a kitchen hand, waiter, labourer, cleaner, worked in warehouses and factories.” He offered me a small smile. “I’ll turn my hand to pretty much anything. What about you?”

I sipped my pint. “I studied marketing and business studies at uni. Worked in London for a while, then a couple of years ago, I came back to Porthkennack.”

He gave me a curious look. “Why?”

It hadn’t occurred to me he wouldn’t already know but of course he didn’t.

“I—um—I work in the family business. Dilly’s.”

“Dilly’s? Wait.” He frowned, thinking. “Do you mean the ice cream shop my dad bought down here?”

I shifted awkwardly. “Yeah. That’s it. It’s more of a café now though. We still make and sell ice cream, but we do breakfasts, lunches, and afternoon teas. We’re hoping to expand into next door at some point.” I realised I was babbling and stopped talking abruptly.

Mack eyed me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Impossible to ignore the obvious fact that this might prove to be a source of resentment between us. Me, the stepson, working with Mack’s dad in the “family business,” while Mack scraped by in what sounded like a series of temporary jobs. But in the end, all he said was, “You gave up a fancy career in London to sell ninety-nines in Cornwall?” To my relief, he chuckled. “You must be mad.”

I laughed too. “I do make the odd ninety-nine,” I admitted, “but my main role is dealing with all the business stuff—the boring stuff. Derek makes the ice cream, Mum and me run the café between us, and we have a couple of part-timers to help out.”

Mack raised a brow. “Must be demanding.”

I glanced at him, wondering if there was any sarcasm there, but it didn’t seem like it. “It can be,” I said lightly.

Over at the stage area, Ponytail Andy hopped up onto a tall stool and began playing a few exploratory chords. Mack watched him intently. After a few moments he said, without looking at me, “What happens if I’m not a match?”