Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 75

Not surprisingly, she couldn’t get through to Kerensa. She tried not to be jealous of her glamorous friend, and of course she hadn’t the slightest interest in Reuben, but the idea that Kerensa was spending all day in a luxurious bed doing exactly what she’d very much wanted to do herself was a little hard to stomach.
She went to call Huckle, then frowned and hesitated. She didn’t want to look as if she were throwing herself at him. Instead she threw herself into work, drinking lots of orange juice and making up her yeast and sourdough mixes for the coming week. The little village was thronged. Some holidaymakers came up and knocked on the window, but she shook her head sharply. She really did need some help in the shop, she thought; she would turn into Mrs Manse if she didn’t keep an eye on it. She cursed herself for being so self-pitying and concentrated on making up decorative bread plaits to hang over the door; she’d meant to do it for ages, and now she had the time and the energy, she thought crossly, but no one who cared what she was up to. She baked with all her heart until she had tired herself out, and slept again early, cross at the merry sounds of the holidaymakers just outside her window.
She was woken at ten that night by her phone buzzing. It was a text from Huckle. She immediately jumped up, wide awake and delighted. Had he realised he’d made a big mistake? With a faintly wobbling hand, she picked up the phone.
She checked the text carefully, drawing in breath.
Sorry to bother you, but can you show the beekeeper the way?
Oh well, she thought. A bit formal, but they were back on friendly terms. Surely they could take it from there? She thought again of the softeness of his lips, the roughness of his skin, his sweet taste.
Why, where are you off to? she texted back.
The answer, when it came, made her want to throw the phone across the room.
Just dropping in to Savannah for a time.
She stared at the screen, half laughing, half crying in disbelief. This wasn’t a planned trip, was it? Surely he’d have mentioned it. And arranged things with the sodding beekeeper.
No, this must be a last-minute thing. It was, she recognised with utter fury, exactly what he had done the last time he’d been in a relationship that hadn’t worked out. He’d fled the country. No way. She couldn’t believe it. She stared at the phone, shaking, then threw up her hands. Oh, for heaven’s sake.
Huckle had been more affected by the rescue than he had let on. He had come all the way round the world looking for something safe, and the precariousness of life on that little rock had shaken him to the core.
Added to this was what had happened between him and Polly. It had taken him so long to open up after his relationship with Candice, so long to get over it and heal. And the second he did so, and met someone that he thought was safe, and kind, and gentle, she too had been thinking about somebody else.
He was, he thought, safer at home. His experiment had failed. He didn’t want to wait about, to see all the same old faces every day. He needed to get away. With barely a thought, he packed an overnight bag and caught the first train to London.
Tell him to come to bakery, Polly texted back, eventually.
Huckle stared at his phone. Well, there it was. Proof that whatever he’d thought there was between them was nothing at all, nothing real. She barely seemed to remember… Or maybe she just didn’t care. He stared in disbelief around the airport lounge, full of sleepy-looking businessmen. Was this his life, then? Just women who liked other guys more? Maybe men like that fat guy over there with the ten-thousand-dollar watch on, drinking vodka in the middle of the afternoon. Or that businessman shouting into his phone.
Thanks. You’re a pal, he texted back, slightly bitterly.
Polly stared at Huckle’s text for a long time. It looked to her very carefully worded to imply nothing more; she was nothing more than a pal, someone useful in a spot of organisational difficulties. He was letting her down gently. She sat on her bed and wept some bitter tears. Neil drank them, to let her know he cared.
The next morning, she opened up as usual. People were busy and ready for something to eat; the season was in full flow now and the combination of the town’s fame and the beautiful weather meant it was looking like a vintage year for tourism. Polly figured she should probably think about putting some little wrought-iron tables and chairs across the road by the harbour, so people could sit out and drink their coffee and eat something. That would make a lot of sense; she wondered if it would be allowed. And how she could manage it.
As if in answer to this, two figures appeared at the doorway. It was Mrs Manse and a limping, but patently healing, Jayden.
‘This boy needs a job,’ Gillian stated shortly.
‘I don’t want to go fishing any more,’ he said, smiling. ‘Did you know girls LOVE to ask about my leg?’ His face was a cheerful pink.
‘Do they?’ said Polly. It was hard not to smile seeing him up and about again. ‘How’s it healing?’
‘Do you want to see it?’
‘Is it gross?’
‘Of course not,’ said Mrs Manse. ‘I’m not getting a boy in to work with an open wound.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Polly.
Jayden showed her his leg. There was a huge chunk out of his calf and a white-lined skin graft under the bandage.
‘That is disgusting,’ said Polly.
‘You should have seen it before,’ boasted Jayden. ‘I looked like a butcher’s shop. You could see the bone and everything. I made a health assistant faint.’
‘Er, well done. Sorry, you want me to do what?’ said Polly, confused.
Mrs Manse sniffed. ‘It seems like you might need some help round here.’
Polly blinked and caught on.
‘Oh.’ She looked at Jayden severely. ‘Can you work, young man?’
‘They kept me on the boats for long enough,’ said Jayden, which Polly reckoned was fair enough. ‘I can gut two hundred fish an hour. I reckon I can probably help out with a bit of bread.’
He looked defiant and a little nervous. Polly felt her heart go out to him.
‘Do you really want this job, Jayden?’
Suddenly his face showed the child he must have been. There was a suggestion of tears in his eyes.
‘There’s nothing else here,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to move. Please, please, please don’t make me go out to sea again. I can’t.’