Page 37 of Tribute Act

Mack swallowed. “Yeah?” He lifted his coffee and took a swig. “By the way, what beans do you use? This is a gorgeous flavour. So nutty.”

I told him about our beans—an Italian roast—and for a couple of minutes, we chatted about coffee and the pros and cons of introducing a “coffee of the month,” an alternative flavour for the aficionados amongst our customers. It wasn’t till later, when I cleared some packaging away, that I saw he’d chucked the rest of his scone in the bin.

That first morning with Mack went pretty well. He was competent, quiet, and hardworking—too hardworking actually—I had to nag at him to take the regular sit-down breaks we’d agreed on. The last thing I wanted was Mack opening up his surgery wound and bleeding out on the floor.

“I’m fine!” he protested as I pushed him into a chair after the lunchtime rush and slid a ham-salad baguette in front of him.

“Eat,” I growled, setting a mango and orange smoothie in front of him too. He didn’t eat nearly enough fruit or veg, and I’d been devising strategies to get more into him over the last few weeks, pulsing up roast veggy pasta sauces and wholesome soups like an overeager parent.

He sighed, but he tucked in, and I couldn’t help but smile to see him polish off the lot. He was so lean and spare. I loved how he looked, but he could stand to put a little weight on after the rigours of the surgery. And honestly? I supposed I liked taking care of him.

A little while later, the back door to the kitchen opened and a voice called out, “Nathan? Can you give me a hand with this lot, son?”

Derek.

I was making up an order for some customers who’d just sat down. Mack, who’d finished eating, rose from his chair, lifted his dishes, and walked back round the counter. “I can help him,” he said.

I shook my head. “No way. No lifting for you. You take over here. A white coffee, a flapjack, and a Dilly’s ice cream tea.” Without giving him a chance to argue, I headed for the kitchen.

Derek did a couple of ice cream deliveries each week from a small unit in the local industrial estate where he made and stored the ice cream for Dilly’s.

“Hi,” he said when he saw me. “I’ve got everything on your order but the mango ripple. The last batch of that didn’t set right.” He put down the box he was carrying on the worktop.

“All righty,” I said. “Let’s get this lot in.”

I followed him out the back door to the van he’d parked in the lane. We quickly emptied out the ice cream and carried it into the kitchen, where I transferred most of it into the chest freezer, leaving out a few of the big ten-litre tubs to replenish the shop freezer: a vanilla, a chocolate chip, and a strawberry cheesecake.

“Have you had lunch yet?” I asked hoisting up the tubs and heading for the counter.

“Yeah,” he said following me, “but I could murder a coffee if you— Oh!” He stopped dead when he saw Mack standing at the till. “Dylan. Hi. I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

Dylan eyed him coolly. “Didn’t Nathan mention I was going to be helping out?” He frowned slightly, and my cheeks warmed. Which was ridiculous—I had nothing to feel embarrassed about.

“I mentioned it to Mum,” I told Derek defensively.

He cleared his throat. “Oh, right. She didn’t say. Anyway, it’s, um, fine—not a problem.”

Well, it hadn’t been, but now it felt like it was. Mack’s face reddened.

I turned to Derek and said firmly, “Mack—I mean, Dylan—agreed to help us out when Katie left. No one’s responded to the job advert yet, so he’s doing us a big favour.”

“Oh. I see.” Derek looked hunted. He glanced at Mack and said awkwardly, “Nathan and Lorraine sort out the café shifts. I just do the food.”

Mack’s expression was unfriendly. “Sure.”

Christ.

The door chimed then, and a couple of little old ladies came in, twittering. As Mack busied himself greeting them, I said wearily to Derek. “Go and sit down. I’ll get you that coffee.”

I made our drinks, popping a Danish pastry on the tray in case Derek changed his mind about being hungry, and took everything over to his table, settling myself in the chair opposite. He was watching Mack, chatting to the old dears as he took their order.

“He really hates my guts,” Derek said hoarsely.

I studied my stepdad. I’d known Derek since I was kid, and he’d always been the big man in the room, the loudest, the funniest. I’d never seen him so . . . diminished.

“You need to talk to him,” I said, keeping my voice low. “You two clearly have stuff you need to discuss but you avoid him like the plague! What the fuck is that about, Derek? He just donated half his liver to Rosie, and you can’t even say hello properly?”

Derek slouched over the table, not meeting my eyes. “He doesn’t want to talk to me. He couldn’t have made that more obvious. I’m respecting his wishes.”