by Lucy Knott
‘So, do you have a partner?’ Bronte asked when there was a lull in customers. She was leaning on the counter while Florence cleaned the espresso machine.
Florence put down one of the stainless-steel jugs and looked over at Bronte, a smile curving up at her lips. ‘It depends, if you’re talking about fictional characters, I have many. In real life, no, no I don’t. I’m not the real-life boyfriend type.’
Bronte let out a laugh and played with the paper straws that stuck out of a mug on the countertop. ‘You can’t have all the fictional characters; you can only choose one,’ Bronte asked, dreamily. The statement made Florence’s smile grow wider. She liked the way Bronte’s mind worked.
She placed her cleaning rag next to the espresso machine and joined Bronte near the cake counter. This was a serious question and one that needed to be thoroughly thought about. She glanced over the apple and cherry pies and made “hmm” noises, while Bronte gazed at the ceiling.
‘If you’d have asked me this question in the interview, I don’t think I would have passed,’ Florence noted with a chuckle.
‘I believe it’s impossible to answer. Think of all the books – there are far too many,’ Bronte replied, turning her attention to Florence.
‘Maybe but I have one name that is at the forefront of my mind and it has been there since I was a little girl. No matter who I’ve met over the years, all the book boyfriends I’ve said hello and goodbye to, there is one that will not move on,’ Florence told Bronte as she bit her bottom lip and narrowed her eyes at her friend. Bronte smiled a cheeky smile and sighed.
‘Laurie,’ the girls said in unison before falling into giggles.
‘He’s timeless,’ Bronte noted once their giggles had subsided.
‘He’s elegant and gentlemanly but fun and mischievous,’ Florence added, her hands clasped over her chest, an away-with-the-fairies look on her face.
‘He was always there for the March sisters and did the most thoughtful things,’ said Bronte through another deep sigh.
‘He made life exciting and dreams seem possible,’ Florence said, her voice coming out airily, her mind filling with images of Jo. She shook her head quickly and cleared her throat. ‘How about you? Do you have a significant other?’ Florence asked to distract herself from her wayward misbehaving mind.
Bronte’s eyes narrowed, she looked over her shoulder to see who was around before she turned back and gave her answer. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend no. Though there are a lot of beautiful boys in acting class, but… I don’t know,’ she said, slowly, her eyes shifting around again. ‘You know when you meet someone and no matter what you do you simply can’t get them out of your head? Kind of like Laurie, there’s something about them that stays with you?’ Bronte queried.
Florence nodded, her thoughts drifting to Jo again, her eyes threatening to glaze over.
‘Well, what do you do when you can’t be with them?’ Bronte spoke casually, her question making Florence tilt her head towards the window in the swinging door where she could just make out Langston’s head as he moved about the kitchen. Bronte followed her gaze with a nervous smile twitching at her lips. Florence felt for her new friend. What made Bronte think that she couldn’t be with her person? Or was it simply something she had put into her own head, like Florence had done with Jo? ‘Who can’t you get out of your head?’ Bronte asked, her brows furrowed, her lips pursed. Apparently, Florence’s acting skills needed work, for Bronte hadn’t quite accepted her earlier answer.
Florence matched Bronte’s deepened brow, feeling amused by the kinship she felt having only known Bronte a few days. Then bravely she said, ‘On three, one, two, three…’
‘Langston,’ Bronte said before her hands shot to her mouth as if she couldn’t believe she said it.
‘Jo,’ Florence said at the same time before she could catch herself or hide behind her wall. Her eyes had closed and when she opened them Bronte was grinning at her, which made her cheeks flush and giggles slip from her lips too. ‘You’re in love with your best friend?’ Florence swooned, registering the name that came from Bronte’s lips, but Bronte waved away her comment.
‘Never mind me, I knew there was someone behind those eyes. I don’t believe for a second, Miss Florence, that you don’t do real-life boyfriends. I understand you have been hurt but that is only because Ryan was not your Laurie. Who is this Jo?’ Bronte stated with a confident nod as she served a customer, who had just walked in, a Scarlett Latte.
‘You don’t know Jo; how can you say he is my Laurie?’ Florence found herself asking. There was something about Bronte that made her feel safe and free to talk about her feelings. Olivia, though her heart was always in the right place, never quite understood Florence’s vulnerability and inability to date and date until one guy stuck. Whereas when Bronte spoke, she spoke like a true romantic. She spoke to Florence’s heart.
When the customer left and took their Scarlett Latte to go, Bronte spun around to face Florence and took her hands in hers.
‘I have a hunch.’ Bronte shrugged. ‘But look, no one can ever be one thousand per cent certain but when we meet that guy in the first chapter we get that feeling, that feeling that no matter the obstacles and ups and downs that are to come, we want to know more about the guy and we want to see him with the girl. We stick around, we invest in the story, we read on until the very end. We take a chance on him, willing him to be the good guy we believe him to be deep down or hoping that he wins the girl because he is an utter sweetheart and deserves it. There is always that hope. Can you honestly tell me that you don’t want to see your Jo in any more chapters and that you have lost all hope forever?’ Bronte asked, still holding on to Florence’s hands, and looking at her with such care and warmth.
‘Spoken like a true bookworm,’ Florence said, pursing her lips to one side. ‘It’s far easier to have hope in books,’ Florence noted as a slew of customers came through the door, pressing pause on their conversation and giving Florence chance to mull over Bronte’s words and think of a good answer.
‘You do realise that books hurt us too. You’re stronger than you think, Floss,’ Bronte leant over and whispered as she blended a berry Pride and Pre-juice. Florence’s brows furrowed and she turned to Bronte with a quizzical look.
‘How long did it take you to move on from Ryan?’ Bronte asked while handing over the drinks and taking another order.
Florence handed back some change to a customer and thought about it for a moment. ‘Maybe a month. Though he left plenty emotional scars, I was very much over thinking about him, loving him and missing him in about a month,’ Florence answered with a nod.
‘How long did it take you to get over Jo and Laurie not getting together?’ Bronte then asked after waving bye and quoting Maya Angelou to the last customer.
Florence looked at the floor and gasped. ‘Oh my gosh, I still don’t think I’m over it.’
‘Exactly. Those fictional characters are people too and they teach us every day. You have put yourself in many people’s shoes and experienced people’s pain alongside them and you are stronger for it. The fictional world and the real world are not entirely separate when you really think about it,’ Bronte said, scooting around the counter.
‘Oh, and Floss, you’re like me – you read with your heart not your head. Maybe try that in real life and listen to your heart a little more. I’m going to tidy up outside if you could see to in here,’ she added as the clock moved closer to closing time. Florence thought about Bronte’s insightful words while she cleaned the tables and wiped down the counters. She thought about Bronte’s words as she hopped on the tram and walked home. She did not stop thinking about those words until she sat down at the dinner table with her nanna and came face to face with a too-flashy leaflet that made her stomach turn unpleasantly.
Twenty-Three
Florence was a tea person. She had always preferred a pot of tea to a coffee, and not fancy teas but just your simple, everyday breakfast tea, with a splash of
milk and a sprinkle of sugar. When she was growing up, tea parties were a regular occurrence between her and Margot. They would sit around the dining table or on a picnic blanket in the garden and talk about the latest book they had read, or Margot would read stories or make up her own. Florence treasured those memories and tea had become her favourite drink. At Caffeine Heights, they served many kinds of tea, but the coffee was exceedingly popular. Florence could understand what Langston had said about the aromas in the air and though Florence was becoming partial to the smell of the lemon and honey tea when it brewed, the rich perfume of robust coffee bubbling up in the espresso machine had a magic to it that wrapped her in a warm hug and filled her brain with possibilities.
Now though, that cosy hug was making her feel claustrophobic and uncomfortable. She was too tightly wound. Her eyelids were growing heavy as she wavered on her feet after serving the last customer in a line that had been consistent for the past two hours. It was the midday rush and having not slept last night she felt exhausted.
‘Something on your mind?’ Bronte questioned, while refilling the cake counter with some Bakewell tarts, that Langston had just brought out to the front. Not only was Langston a poet but he baked most of the scrumptious treats they served at Caffeine Heights.
‘Huh.’ Florence made a soft noise as she picked up a clean cloth from the sink and wiped down the milk frother.
‘Yesterday you were all smiles, today not so much,’ Bronte noted as she filled up the napkin dispenser.
Florence placed the cloth in the sink and looked over at Bronte from under her heavy eyelashes. She pushed her glasses up her nose and pursed her lips. There was something about Bronte that made her want to talk. Bronte’s open mind and view of the world tugged at Florence’s heartstrings. Her comments yesterday about books and real life not being so separate had truly struck a chord with Florence and if anyone were to understand her confusion it would be Bronte.
‘I met Jo…’ Florence started slowly, leaning against the counter, and fiddling with the bracelet on her wrist. For the next five minutes Florence told Bronte the story of meeting Jo, her realising how much she loved and needed Camp Calla Lily, how new investors were coming to take over the land and help George restore it to its former glory, but George didn’t want that. She explained about the rumours in the village and the mix-up when she had gotten angry at Jo for wanting to destroy his grandad’s legacy and how Jo had promised that wasn’t the case. Florence noted how much Jo loved the camp and seemed so content there, how he dreamt of being a writer but couldn’t risk leaving his architect life behind even though he didn’t enjoy it all that much. She then went on to say that Jo had expressed he had feelings for her, which she had been unable to reciprocate and that Jo had returned to London without saying bye, though he had left her a lovely, if not short, note, but he still hadn’t returned to the camp or reached out to her.
It felt like the customers of Caffeine Heights understood the importance of her getting this all off her chest, for the café remained quiet and free of new customers while Bronte’s expressions weaved in and out of joyful, hopeful, and intrigued as Florence poured her heart out.
‘Hmm, I see,’ Bronte noted, sounding very much like Watson, finger on her lip and all. Florence mused that she could certainly do with a helping hand to decipher Jo’s grand plan and all the mixed-up feelings in her mind right now. ‘So, you think he lied?’ Bronte asked.
Florence let out a sigh. Hearing it out loud made her feel sick. Her heart thudded in protest, but she simply could not make sense of the leaflet. Jo had given up on his grandad. He’d given up on Camp Calla Lily. He’d given up on her. At least Jo walking away from her could be somewhat understandable. Maybe he realised that he had everything he needed back in London and had found someone who could love him back. However, giving up on his grandad, allowing Luxury Acres to do what he had promised to George they wouldn’t do didn’t seem like the Jo she knew at all. And maybe that was it, maybe she didn’t know him at all.
‘Look,’ Florence said, pulling the leaflet from her apron pocket. In a too neat and modern bright white font were the words “Coming Soon to Lily Pines and Under Construction”, around which were pictures depicting a bold white brick spa, a large conservatory that held a swimming pool and a three-storey luxury hotel. A map on the back detailed the route to the village and tourist attractions close by. There was no mistaking which plot of land this monstrosity was going to devastate. ‘He promised this was not going to happen. He promised he was going to take care of George, that he was going to ensure the land was looked after. He knew of its importance to me, to my nanna, so how do you explain this?’ Florence asked, feeling as if all the positive steps she had taken over the last two weeks had been for nothing and that once again, letting her guard down had only allowed pain to wreak havoc on her heart. Her heart that was currently palpitating in short painful bursts.
‘You said yourself George was in terrible debt, maybe this really was the only way out? Maybe Jo is just as devastated as you,’ Bronte tried, but Florence could see her face was scrunched up in search of a decent explanation. George’s home, the original cottage, was nowhere to be seen on the photos. Debt was bad but making his grandad homeless didn’t sound like a solution to her at all.
‘Then why would he up and leave? Why leave his grandad to deal with all the village rumours and businessmen and women and head back to London when his grandad needs him? What if he got some form of commission for getting his grandad to sell and now, he’s taken the money and ran? What if he and Kirsty were in cahoots the whole time?’ The words came out small as Florence couldn’t believe she was saying them or that her brain had even come to such a conclusion. Her heart ached. She had promised to take her nanna back to the camp to see George, but would George still be there when everything was torn down? Or had that been a lie too? She wasn’t sure she could stomach a visit to this new resort, not when she knew the beauty that it had demolished.
Before Bronte could further speculate, the coffee shop door opened, and a barrel of people walked in ready for refills and their afternoon pick-me-up.
The fire crackled and coyotes howled as Florence lay back in her deck chair staring up at the pitch-black sky that glimmered with thousands of tiny stars. The flames, which were still burning tall and bright from that evening’s dinner, warmed her body in the night’s breeze. She had no need for a blanket or a jumper, for the crisp air on her skin felt perfect.
‘What can you see?’ asked a voice from the deck chair next to hers. Florence squinted, not taking her eyes off the heavens.
‘I see a bear, a big grizzly bear with her cub walking alongside her,’ she said, after a few moments. She stretched out her arm, pointing her finger to draw out the figure, connecting the stars together.
‘She’s looking for food – look there’s a fish,’ the voice replied, copying Florence’s motion, and drawing a fish in the sky next to the bear. Florence laughed and turned her head, her cheek squishing against the frame of the chair. In that same moment, he too turned his head, but the hazel eyes she had come to expect did not meet hers. Instead there were inky black holes that made Florence shriek…
‘Hey, watch it,’ came an angry voice. Florence jolted, hot coffee spilling over the takeaway cup she was currently squeezing a lid onto. The coffee burned the back of her hand but not as bad as the scold she was getting from the customer before her.
‘Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry. Let me make you another one,’ Florence said hastily, quickly carrying the soggy paper cup over to the sink and grabbing a fresh one. She shook her head and poured the fresh liquid into the cup, thankful that the man had not asked for a fancy coffee that would have had him glaring at her disapprovingly for longer. She put the lid on, carefully this time, focusing on the small task and handed the man his coffee, receiving no thanks in return.
When he left, Florence let out a sigh and wiped her brow. She had not meant to drift off like that. Working amongst the bookish crowd a
t Caffeine Heights had given her a sense of belonging. She loved that customers were accustomed to the flair and drama that Bronte delivered daily with her affinity to quote the greats expressively, but Bronte never nearly burnt customers with her quirkiness. Florence had to pull herself together. Since the leaflet had crossed her line of vision, however, it was proving incredibly difficult to keep it together.
‘Here,’ Bronte said, walking over to her with a cool cloth in her hand. ‘Put it on your hand.’
Florence took it. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. Are you going to fire me?’
To Florence’s surprise Bronte laughed. ‘You drifted off; it happens,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Though I’m glad you spilled the coffee on you and not him. Now, where did you go?’ Bronte added with a clap of her hands.
As she dabbed the cool cloth over her hand, Florence saw the black holes in her mind’s eye and her body shuddered. Not only had Jo disappeared in real life, but he was also starting to disappear in her dreams too.
‘Bronte, what do I do? Mere days ago, my nanna was full of excitement talking about taking a trip back to Calla Lily. I can’t take her to a building site. I can barely look her in the eye. She told me George was wary and I defended Jo. I stood by him,’ Florence said, not missing the wobble in her voice. Was this all her fault? Had Jo left because of her, because of the things she had said about fairy tales and them being out of reach for people like them? But she had made it clear to him that he could have it all, that he deserved it all, that he deserved to live among the lilies and write his great novels with someone who loved him. Was he angry that Florence had turned down his love and now this was his revenge? OK, stop it, Florence, you have read one too many thriller novels, she told herself. She hardly thought Jo the revengeful type. If not that, then had this been his plan all along?
