Chapter Four

J umping out of the bakery van, Debbie closed the door and walked around to the back. She could almost see the roof of the bakery from outside the pub, but with so much to deliver and the delicate cake to carry, it had been a good idea of Elsie's to bring the van.

As she began stacking boxes of food in her arms, she glanced across the road towards the entrance to her nan's lane. She'd have to visit soon. It would be better than running into her on the street or her coming to the bakery. What would she say then? Tell her she'd been in the bay for a couple of days and still hadn't got around to visiting her? And she was the reason Debbie had taken the voluntary role at the bakery. The very reason she'd replied to Elsie's advertisement had been so that she could see her nan.

Besides, she'd been meaning to for years now. A couple of years ago, she'd got so far as to plan a holiday a few miles away just so she could reconnect with her nan. And she'd backed out at the very last moment.

She grimaced. That hadn't pleased her ex-fiancé, Ben. He'd had his heart set on visiting the Norfolk Broads, not Cornwall, and after all the months of persuading she'd put in, she hadn't gone through with the reason for their holiday choice, anyway.

‘Do you need a hand?'

Debbie jumped and looked up at the man next to her, his gruff voice having disturbed her thoughts. She watched as the box on top of her stack slid off and, balancing the others in one arm, she grappled to grab it.

‘Let me help you. We don't want anything dropped and ruined before it's even got into the pub, do we?' He chuckled, his dark blue eyes shining.

‘I wouldn't have almost dropped it if you hadn't appeared from nowhere.' Debbie muttered as she reset the stack in her arms.

With a twitch at the corner of his lips, he paused before pointing towards the pub door. ‘Fair enough. Want me to leave you to it?'

‘What?'

‘If you don't need my help, I can head back to the pub, get on with the million and five jobs I've got to get done today.' He began backing away, a glint in his eye.

Despite his infuriating behaviour, Debbie found herself laughing. ‘Okay, okay. Yes, a hand would be amazing, please?'

‘Of course. At your service.' Suddenly, back by her side, he began piling boxes on top of each other. ‘Is that all of them?'

Peering into the back of the van, Debbie nodded. ‘Yep, that's it.'

‘You're just in time. I had the book club organiser ask if they could pop by to set up in an hour, earlier than previously planned.' He held the pub door open with his foot and jerked his head to indicate her to go through.

‘Thanks. That was lucky then.' As the heavy wooden door swung shut behind them, she breathed in the familiar aroma of stale ale. ‘I hope I've not crushed any of the cupcakes when that box almost fell.'

‘I'm sure they'll be fine.' He lowered his stack of boxes to the long, dark wooden bar before taking hers and holding out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.'

She caught his gaze as his hand enveloped hers, his handshake strong, confident. ‘Nice to meet you too.'

‘I take it you're new to the bay? I've heard Elsie takes in volunteers?' He shifted the boxes towards the end of the bar.

‘I'm the new volunteer, yes. But this isn't my first time to the bay.' She lined the edges of the boxes up, making the stack straighter.

‘Ah, I did wonder.' The man indicated the coffee machine behind him. ‘One for the road?'

Debbie nodded. ‘Yes, please. I hope you don't say that to all your punters.'

‘Haha, no, only the ones not driving.' Shaking his head slightly, he chuckled.

Debbie pulled herself up onto a bar stool and lowered her elbows to the bar. ‘What did you mean by saying that you did wonder?'

Whilst the coffee machine whirred into action, he looked across at her. ‘Only that you'd been staring down the little lane opposite yesterday and then when I came out to help you bring the food in as well. History?'

‘Yes.' Debbie looked down at her hands and laced her fingers together. ‘And no.'

Placing the mug down on the bar, the man slid it across to her. ‘Yes, and no?'

Wrapping her hands around the mug, she winced at how hot the ceramic was and dipped her head to the steam, breathing in the bitter, earthy fragrance. ‘My nan lives in one of the cottages down the lane.'

‘Oh lovely. I imagine she's pleased to have her granddaughter so close for however long you're volunteering here?' He took a can of coke from the small fridge beneath the counter and opened it, the click of metal and the ensuing fizz filling the quiet pub.

Debbie took a sip of her coffee and looked over the rim of her mug at him. What was it with bartenders? How did they manage to put their punters at ease so quickly? She felt comfortable enough to tell him her life's story. Lowering her mug, she shook her head and laughed softly.

‘What?'

‘I was just wondering if all you bartenders go on a compulsory course entitled How to Make a Punter Feel at Ease and Spill All Their Secrets or something.' She shrugged.

Chuckling, he placed the can of coke back on the bar. ‘Well, now, I'm not actually qualified to answer that, as I'm only standing in for a couple of months.'

‘Huh.' She turned her mug around, looping her index fingers through the handle.

‘I'm just standing in for the owners whilst they're away. I'm a builder by trade.'

‘Oh. Elsie mentioned someone was looking after the place for a bit. I just assumed that's what you did. Ran pubs. You look so comfortable behind the bar.'

‘Here, take a look at these if you don't believe me.' Grinning, he placed his hands on the bar between them and turned them over, exposing his palms. As he spoke, he traced the imperfections on his palms with his finger. ‘See the callouses, the broken skin. No bartender would sport hands like this.'

Reaching out, Debbie ran the pad of her finger across a small scar running from the base of his thumb to his wrist.

‘Believe me now?'

Pulling her hand away, Debbie looked down into her coffee as a flash of heat streaked across her neck. ‘Sorry.'

‘Hey, don't be.'

Hearing him take another swig from the Coke can, she glanced up, her eyes meeting his before she could look away again. Shifting on the bar stool, she cleared her throat, willing her voice to sound steady despite the butterflies flittering in her stomach. What was wrong with her? She'd not so much as looked at another man since her ex, Ben, had finished with her four months ago so why was this man, someone she'd only just met, making her feel as though she'd known him her entire life, making her want to get to know him more? ‘Okay, I believe you but answer me this: if you're not a trained bartender, then how are you so at ease speaking to people?'

He tapped his fingers against the wooden bar and grinned. ‘You mean to ask, why do you feel you want to tell me your life's story?'

‘Uh-huh.' She nodded. If any other man had said such a thing to her, she would have immediately labelled them as cocky, overconfident, but with this guy it was different. He didn't sound cocky or overconfident, he just sounded natural, neutral even, just as one friend would talk to another.

‘I grew up in a household of women.' He grinned. ‘My mum was a single mum and I have four sisters.'

Opening her mouth to speak, Debbie floundered. How was she supposed to answer that? ‘I guess that explains it.'

‘I guess so. Anyway, now you know about me. How about you? What's stopping you from telling your nan you're staying in the bay?'

‘I just...' Debbie paused and looked at him, narrowing her eyes. She hadn't told him she hadn't visited her nan yet. Had she? ‘How did you know I haven't seen her yet?'

Hunching his back, he leaned his elbows on the bar. ‘I've caught you twice now, standing and staring towards the lane. If you'd already visited her, I'm guessing you wouldn't be feeling quite so conflicted.'

‘Conflicted? How do you...?' Debbie shook her head. She was either a completely open book or he was just very good at reading people. ‘I've not seen her for sixteen years.'

‘Right. Well, you obviously want to reconnect, or you wouldn't be volunteering at Elsie's bakery...' His voice trailed off.

‘I know. And I do. I want to go and knock on her door more than anything else in the world, but I'm not ready.' She opened her mouth, ready to speak before closing it again, thinking better of it. Glancing down at her hands, she clenched and unclenched them. She couldn't tell a total stranger what was going through her mind, what was stopping her from doing something which should be one of the most natural things in the world, could she? Looking up at him, her eyes were drawn to his forehead. She reached her fingers to her cheek. ‘Your scar. That's why I feel as though I can talk to you.'

‘My scar?' Frowning, he touched his forehead with his index finger.

‘Yes, your scar.' She straightened her back, smiling now. How had she not recognised him? ‘I have a scar on my cheek from an accident on my bike.'

‘Aw, no. You're not the girl from the beach?' Using his hands to push himself away from where he'd been leaning on the bar, he shook his head in disbelief.

‘Yes. If you're talking about what I am, at least.' She laughed, the memory of the day she'd careened down the hill on the new bike her nan had bought her for her thirteenth birthday only to discover the brakes had failed and she'd collided with a boy of a similar age to her. They'd both ended up in a tangled mess on the promenade, grateful that they hadn't fallen over the wall onto the beach.

‘No, it can't be you. Are you seriously the girl who crashed into me on the promenade?' Crossing his arms, he tapped his lips with his finger. ‘Debbie, isn't it?'

‘Haha, yep. And you're Richie!' She laughed. It had all happened so fast. He'd been walking with his mum and sisters and her nan had come rushing down the hill to rescue her before insisting on inviting them over to her cottage to get cleaned up and for some tea to apologise. That summer, they couldn't be apart, with him teasing her playfully about the cut on his forehead that he was sure would leave a scar and give him something to brag about to the other kids at school. ‘So, the burning question is, what did you tell your mates back home when you returned to school? Did you blame a shark attack for your scar like you said you would?'

‘Ah, no. I made up some story about being washed away on a raft to sea and having to fight off a band of pirates.'

‘Pirates.' She nodded slowly. ‘Were you given the street-cred you hoped you would be?'

‘Oh yes.' He stroked his beard. ‘I don't remember if I admitted to you at the time, but as a lanky kid of thirteen I was bullied terribly at school and that scar you gave me, however painful it had been to acquire, and the story I made up, gave me the confidence to fight back.'

Looking at how well-built he was now, it was difficult to picture the slight teenager he'd been when she'd knocked him over with her bike. No wonder she hadn't recognised him. ‘Well, I'm glad the pain was worth it.'

‘Oh yes. The bullies never looked at me the same way again once I'd practised the moves I'd fought the pirates off with on them.' He held his hands out karate-style.

Debbie grinned. ‘I can imagine.'

‘I never did see you again. Every time we visited my aunt and uncle here, I looked out for you, hoped we'd be able to catch up.'

Debbie scrunched her nose up. ‘Oh, you know. Life.'

Placing his palms on the bar again, he looked at her, searching her face before shaking his head. ‘Yep, life.'

Debbie pointed to the pub door. She wasn't sure why she hadn't told him why she'd never visited again. ‘I should probably get going.'

‘Yes, of course. Well, it was great to meet you again and I hope it's not the last time. Although mark my words, if I see you cycling around the bay, I'll be darting to the other side of the road.' He grinned. ‘I can't be having my good looks compromised again.'

‘Haha, fair enough.' Slipping off the bar stool, she held her hand up in a wave. ‘Good to catch up with you, too.'

‘See you around.' He called as she pulled the door open.