The Bakery at Seashell Cove

by Karen Clarke

  ‘Listen, I know it’s bad timing, but I don’t want you to worry that I’m going to let things slide,’ I said to Big Steve, who’d come over to wrap a flour-coated arm around my sunburnt shoulders. My hair was frazzled from tossing and turning all night, and I was wearing the dress I’d had on the day before, which I’d also slept in. At least I’d tried to sleep, on top of Mr Moseley’s unmade bed, repeatedly sneezing into the pillow, which was filled with feathers. I knew I looked a state. ‘And by the way, I’m so glad you’re here.’ I stretched my arm as far as it would go around Steve’s waist, noting the heaps of proving dough, waiting to be turned into loaves. ‘We sold out of everything on Saturday.’

  ‘So I heard,’ he said, a twinkle of satisfaction in his eyes. ‘Are you living upstairs now, then?’

  I thought of home, with its perfectly polished floorboards, and the kitchen that Sam had chosen, and the garden Neil and Beverley had lavished so much attention on, and knew I couldn’t go back. ‘Actually, I think I am.’ Something stirred in the pit of my stomach. A chink of hope – or maybe it was excitement. Or maybe I was coming down with Tilly’s flu. ‘It needs a lot of sorting out, and I’ll probably have to clear it with the solicitor’s,’ I said. ‘But it’s… well, it’s vacant, so I suppose it’ll be OK.’

  ‘And you’ll be on the premises, so won’t need to drive to work.’

  To my astonishment I found myself high-fiving Big Steve. ‘And you’ll be right next door,’ I said.

  ‘We can shout to each other out of our bedroom windows.’ He grinned so hard his eyes almost disappeared.

  ‘And I won’t need to set my alarm because you can just shout up the stairs.’

  ‘And you can make your cakes whenever you like, even in the middle of the night, if you want to.’

  ‘We can have midnight baking sessions!’

  Suddenly we were doing another Highland fling, then reality hit me and I stopped mid-turn. ‘I’ll need to go and pick up some things,’ I said. ‘And I’m going to have to break the news to Mum and…’ I nearly said Dad, and realised there was a lot Big Steve didn’t know, and decided to leave that explanation for another day. ‘I’ll wait until this evening.’

  The thought of bumping into Sam filled me with trepidation. He hadn’t tried to contact me and I knew, deep in my gut, however upset he was now, that once he’d got his head around us splitting up, he’d package it away and put me in the ex-fiancée zone. He’d move on. Sam was good at that.

  Telling Mum wouldn’t be easy; she’d always liked Sam, and it meant there wouldn’t be a wedding to look forward to, or babies on the horizon, but I knew she’d support me, no matter what, and having regular access to baby Milo would help fulfil any grandmotherly urges. Plus, she had Mike now, and a chance to experience the sort of love she thought she’d lost forever. Nothing was going to match that feeling, right now.

  ‘Is there a shower upstairs?’ Big Steve comically rolled his eyes in the direction of my armpits. I had a sniff and winced. ‘It could make all the difference to this homeless vibe you’ve got going on.’

  ‘Actually there is,’ I said, clamping my arms to my sides. ‘It looks older than me, but must still work. Mr Moseley always smelt nice and clean.’

  ‘He didn’t die in that bed up there, did he?’

  ‘I’m not even going to think about that,’ I said.

  ‘OK, well I suggest you spruce yourself up and get to work, Miss Larson. You’ve got cakes to bake for the masses.’

  I had one foot on the bottom stair, when someone knocked at the back door. My immediate thought was Nathan, but when Steve answered the door it was a tired-looking Sam standing there, surrounded by bin bags and a couple of suitcases I recognised as mine.

  ‘I thought you’d be at your mum’s but I suppose I should have known that you’d come here.’

  My heart tipped over. ‘You saw Mum?’

  He shook his head. ‘She was in the front garden watching a man paint the front door, so I guessed you couldn’t be there and I didn’t want to ask in case she didn’t know anything.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, thinking how odd it was that I could talk to him as if he was just an acquaintance, when we’d been sharing a bed until a week ago, and were planning to spend the rest of our lives together.

  ‘I’ve brought your car,’ he said. ‘I’ll cycle home, my bike’s in the boot.’

  He ran a hand over his hair, and I noticed he was wearing his cycling shorts, with his work shirt. No time off nursing heartbreak for Sam. ‘I’ve been away for a week, I have to go in,’ he said, seeing me checking him out. He looked a lot better put together than I did, and I wondered whether he was gratified to see evidence of my sleepless night. ‘There’s no point me moping at home, if you’ve really made up your mind.’

  When I didn’t respond – there was a lump the size of a tangerine in my throat – he nodded, as if to say I thought so. ‘I’ll cancel the wedding venue.’ His voice was clipped. ‘We’ll divide up the savings, and you’ll have something to live on. I’ll probably sell the house.’

  ‘Sam, I—’

  ‘I might go back to Edinburgh.’ His gaze didn’t quite meet mine. ‘It’s going to be too painful, staying.’

  My heart felt like a rock. ‘And there’s an outside chance you might run into Andrea.’

  He shook his head, as though greatly saddened by my comment. ‘I know people up there,’ he said. ‘The company has an office. It would be an easy relocation.’

  Less than twenty-four hours, and he was planning an alternative future. ‘What about Chris, and the cycling group?’

  ‘There’ll be cycling groups up there, and we’ll stay in touch on Facebook. Chris can come and visit, once I’ve found somewhere to live.’

  He must have been up all night, thinking it through.

  ‘I’ve packed as much of your stuff as I could find.’ He gestured at the bags, hand on hip. ‘Shall I bring them in, if you’re staying here?’

  ‘You can just hand them over,’ I said, not wanting Sam to come inside the bakery. He’d never shown much interest, and had only seen me at work once, before Mr Moseley died, when he’d had a day off and popped in to meet the old man he’d heard so much about, because I’d tentatively suggested he might like him. (He hadn’t. ‘He should have retired at least a decade ago, Meg. He’s running that business into the ground.’)

  ‘Fine,’ he said, smiling quickly as if to neutralise his feelings. ‘They’re quite heavy.’

  He handed each bag over wordlessly until the narrow space at the foot of the stairs was crowded with all the things I’d accrued over the last few years. ‘If there’s anything else you’d like, any pictures, or maybe that rug you chose for the bedroom, just call and I’ll bring them over.’

  ‘There won’t be.’

  ‘I didn’t know if you’d want photographs of us.’ He raised an eyebrow.

  I thought of the one by the bed, of us at Sadie’s eighteenth. Had he been thinking of George then? How long had he wanted to kiss her? ‘No, thanks.’ Hurt and confusion flared across his face. ‘Do what you want with them.’

  Recovering, he said, ‘Dad and Sadie are upset,’ as if it was all my fault. No mention of his mum, and I guessed Beverley was thanking the heavens that her son had had a lucky escape – even if it meant him moving away again. ‘They want you to promise you’ll stay in touch.’

  In fact, I’d already had a message from Sadie.

  I’m sorry I won’t get to be your bridesmaid. I love my brother, but you’re better off without him. Let me know if you’d like a makeover, love you, S xxx

  I’d cried then, big fat tears, remembering Sadie’s sixth birthday picnic on the beach at Seashell Cove, when Sam had picked her up in a fireman’s lift and run with her into the sea, dunking her under the surface, while Maura shrieked at the water’s edge and Beverley, in a turquoise one-piece, tried to get a photo, and Neil fell over trying to escape a wasp.

  ‘I will,’ I said. ‘And I’m sorry d
inner was ruined.’

  ‘OK, well, I’d better…’ He looked behind him, as if seeing his office and all the things he had to do once he returned to work. ‘I thought I’d go in early and catch up.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And you’ve probably got baking to do.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I am proud of you, Meg.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. I didn’t need his approval any more. I never had really, even if I’d thought I wanted it. ‘Good luck with everything.’

  ‘You too.’

  We looked at each other a moment longer, then he turned to the car to get his bike in the cycling shoes that made him walk as if he’d strained his groin. I waited until he’d gone, then stepped over the bags and went upstairs to have the most unsatisfying shower of my life.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  There was no time for reflection as the next few hours flew by, my attention trained on replenishing the shelves in the shop, as Big Steve finished his first batch of loaves and shot next door for a shower.

  ‘Back in an hour,’ he sang, looking – for the first time in ages – like a man who was happy with his job.

  When Kath saw the three-tier strawberry and cream cake I’d made, she gasped. ‘That looks amaaazing.’ She lifted the glass dome for a closer look, as if trying to absorb it through her eyes. ‘Can you make one of those for my sixtieth?’

  ‘I thought you wanted a rainbow layer cake.’

  ‘I did until I saw this.’ She mimed salivating, which wasn’t a good look.

  ‘It’ll be a lot easier,’ I said. ‘It only took me about half an hour, once I’d baked the sponges.’

  ‘You’re a natural, love.’ She made herself at home behind the counter as if she’d been there for years. ‘I don’t know how you’ve done all of this, with what you must be going through.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your break up with Sam,’ she said, face crumpling.

  I wondered why she’d given me an extra tight hug when she’d arrived, but I’d needed to get some scones out of the oven before they burnt, and by the time I’d finished transferring them to a cooling rack, she’d gone through to the shop.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Cassie, turning from the wall where she was hanging a painting she’d done of the bakery – though I suspected she’d really wanted an excuse to come check up on me. ‘I thought you might have said something.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ I tightened my apron straps, wondering whether Nathan was on a plane, or already somewhere in Ireland. ‘Everyone will know sooner or later.’

  Sooner, at this rate. I hoped no one would tell Mum before I’d had a chance to. I’d thought about calling, but felt it was a conversation I needed to have face to face.

  ‘How are you coping, love?’ Kath’s face was one big furrow of sympathy. ‘You two were together so long, you must feel really weird.’

  ‘Actually, I’m not too bad.’ I poked around my feelings to check if it was true. I was tired, and felt a bit like I’d had the flu, but seeing Sam earlier had only confirmed I’d been right to call off the wedding. ‘I need some sleep, but that’s partly because the bed upstairs was so uncomfortable. And I don’t have any bedding.’

  ‘Didn’t the old man die in that bed?’ said Kath.

  ‘It doesn’t bother me,’ I said. ‘Is that weird?’

  ‘It is, love, yes.’

  ‘You should ask Tilly to give the flat a makeover, once things have settled down a bit,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Good idea.’ Kath smiled. ‘You can have a little shopping spree, treat yourself to a new bed, and some furniture now you don’t have a fancy big wedding to pay for.’ She smacked a hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, love, that wasn’t very diplomatic.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said again, imagining the rooms cleared of junk and cosied up, with lamps and throws and pictures on the walls. ‘I probably will buy new furniture, but first things first. Let’s get the shop opened up.’

  ‘About time,’ said Gwen, bustling past the waiting customers to the front of the queue, before I’d even had a chance to wedge open the door. ‘Day orf, now the Maitlands are back from their ’oliday,’ she said, seeing my befuddled look. I couldn’t recall ever seeing Gwen outside the café, though she was still wearing her Maitland’s shirt and clumpy boots, her thighs pushing the seams of her denim shorts to bursting point. ‘Thought I’d get me and Dickens a tasty treat for breakfast.’ She tugged me to one side. ‘Cassie told us about you and Just Sam,’ she said, not lowering her voice one bit.

  ‘Cassie!’ I turned to see her cringing, as she positioned a picture hook on the wall. ‘I thought she’d want to know,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Mum and Dad send their best wishes.’

  Was there anyone left in Seashell Cove who didn’t know?

  ‘When I left me ’usband,’ Gwen said, folding her arms, her head jutting forward as if about to impart some great wisdom, ‘I did a lot of shaggin’ abart, and I mean, a LOT.’ She raised a meaningful eyebrow. ‘It got ’im out of me system,’ she said, ‘even if I ended up breakin’ a few ’earts in the process.’ Her eyes went faraway, as though seeing herself in the act, and I swiftly buried an image of her in lingerie. ‘You don’t wanna go darn that route,’ she said at last, stroking her bottom lip with her thumb. ‘You ain’t cut out for that malarkey, so don’t go puttin’ it abart as if there’s no tomorrow, or you’ll just end up feelin’…’

  ‘Bad about myself, I won’t,’ I finished, seeing people were straining to listen.

  ‘I was gonna say, itchy darn below,’ Gwen said. ‘I ended up with terrible thrush, but yeah, you probably would feel bad abart yourself, you ’ain’t cut out for shaggin’ abart.’

  I wished she’d stop saying shagging. A little girl was asking her mother what it meant, and a man with a hulking frame and tattooed arms was giving Gwen lustful glances and flicking his tongue over his lips.

  Kath’s face was red with suppressed laughter.

  ‘I love working here,’ she said, and I managed to loosen myself from Gwen’s gaze and rushed behind the counter to help with the queue.

  ‘That looks lovely,’ I said, when Cassie had finished hanging her picture and the shop had quietened down. I studied the line drawing she’d lightly brushed with watercolour paint. It looked like a picture-book bakery, aglow with sunshine, and ‘Meg’s Kitchen’ painted on a board outside. She’d even drawn a cat that looked like Dickens, and customers walking past, and I turned to the window as if they might actually be there and caught the eye of a man, looking in. It was Freya’s husband, Don Williams. I wondered whether he’d come to talk to Kath about Milo, but when he saw me looking he turned and walked away.

  On impulse, I ran outside. ‘Don!’

  He stopped and seemed to hesitate before swivelling round. ‘Hey, Meg.’ He smiled, looking expensive in his brightly patterned shirt and well-cut trousers, his silver plume of hair sweeping back from a widow’s peak.

  ‘Did you want to speak to Kath, because she’s due a break?’

  ‘No, no.’ He held up a hand. ‘I was just… looking.’

  ‘Did you want a cake?’

  He patted his flat stomach. ‘Have to watch my weight,’ he said regretfully, and I was struck again by his air of quiet kindness.

  ‘I’m so sorry about Freya.’ I moved closer. ‘I sometimes think that if I hadn’t told Kath about her wanting the bakery, and Kath hadn’t called her, she might not have left you.’

  He smiled in sad defeat. ‘Oh, I think she would have,’ he said. ‘I love Freya very much, but I didn’t realise just how headstrong she is.’ He tilted his head. ‘I thought for a while that I was enough for her, and the baby would give her life meaning, but…’ He shrugged. ‘There’s no fool like an old fool.’

  I felt a strong wave of sympathy. ‘She might come back.’

  ‘And if she does, we’ll be waiting.’ He eyed the bakery, eyes crinkled against the sun. ‘Looks like it’s going well.’

  ‘Oh, it is!
’ I was still having trouble believing it was open for business. ‘I love it.’

  ‘I know.’ An odd look crossed his face. ‘That chap was spot on about you.’

  ‘Chap?’

  ‘The agent who was here when Freya and I came to view.’

  ‘Oh, er… right.’ A frown settled on my face.

  ‘When you ran off, Freya went to use the toilet—’ to snoop around more like ‘—and Mr Walsh said to me, quite ferociously I might add, that if I was buying the bakery for someone to run, it should be you. That no one would love it more, or work harder to make it a success.’

  I stared, dumbfounded. ‘Nathan said that?’ A feeling rose inside me, more exquisite than the rush of our first kiss. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘I was very impressed by his passion, and yours.’ A smile played around Don’s mouth and his gaze was clear and bright. ‘And I knew he was right, just like Kath was when she called to tear me off a strip for thinking about buying the place for Freya.’

  He must have seen the show and was impressed by your passion. Wasn’t that what Nathan had said, about the mystery buyer?

  ‘It was you.’ My heart seized with shock. ‘You bought the bakery.’

  He slid his hands into his pockets. ‘I heard the buyer wanted to remain anonymous,’ he said.

  ‘But I—’

  ‘That he’s someone who takes great pleasure in helping people realise their potential. People who deserve it.’ There was the tiniest of twinkles in his eyes. ‘I think Mr Moseley would be very happy to put you in charge of his bakery.’

  ‘But, Freya…’ I swallowed. ‘If she knew…’

  ‘Anonymous means just that,’ Don said. ‘Freya will find her own way, one day, I’m sure of that, but it won’t be managing an ice-cream parlour in Seashell Cove.’

  I knew I should say something, anything, but he’d turned on the heel of his shiny shoes and was striding away, marked out by his posture and the quality of his clothes, drawing curious eyes. A man with enough money to change someone’s life, and not demand anything in return.