and a plain grey T-shirt emphasising his lean strength. ‘I thought you had run away.’
‘I thought about it,’ Lawrie admitted, tugging at the hem of her skirt self-consciously.
It shouldn’t take a grown woman two hours to get ready for a few drinks and some badly played guitar, and yet Lawrie had found herself paralysed by indecision. Her clothes were too conservative, too expensive, more suited to a discreet yet expensive restaurant or a professional conference than a small Cornish village.
In the end she had decided on a dress that was several years old—and several inches shorter than she usually wore.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled her hands away from the skirt and tried to remember the speech she had painstakingly prepared earlier, rehearsed at length in the shower.
‘Thanks for coming to collect me—it’s very nice of you. I know Fliss kind of forced your hand—’ Lawrie stopped, her cheeks warm, the speech gone. ‘Actually, she forced your hand in several ways earlier, and I should have thought... If you don’t want me around—if it’s awkward, I mean—then I’ll tell her I can’t do it.’ She stumbled to a stop.
Great—in her former life fluency had been one of her trademarks. It looked as if she had lost that along with everything else.
‘Fliss thinks she gets her own way, but if I didn’t want you working for us you wouldn’t be.’ The blue eyes held hers for a moment. ‘She’s right. You’ll do a good job—and, let’s face it, we are a bit desperate. Beggars can’t be choosers.’
Charming. It wasn’t the most ringing endorsement she’d ever heard.
‘I just don’t want our past relationship to be an issue.’ Lawrie was aware of how pompous she sounded. She’d been trying for offhand. A smirk at the corner of his mouth confirmed she had failed.
‘We’re both mature adults,’ Jonas pointed out. ‘At least I am. And it’s your significant birthday we’re celebrating, so hopefully you are too. I’m sure we can work together without too much bloodshed. In fact...’ He moved away from the cottage and sauntered gracefully over the lawn towards her, a flat tissue-wrapped square in his hand. ‘Happy Birthday.’
Lawrie stared at the proffered parcel in shock.
‘Take it. It won’t bite,’ he teased. ‘I promise. Think of it as a peace offering and a birthday present in one.’
He moved closer until he was standing next to her, leaning against the balcony, looking down on the curve of beach and sea below.
After a moment’s hesitation Lawrie took the present, taking a moment to enjoy the thrill of the unknown. It was her only present, after all.
‘Your gran always had the best view in the village,’ Jonas said. ‘It’s so peaceful up here.’ He shot her a glance. ‘I meant to write after she died, send a card... But I didn’t really know what to say. I’m sorry.’
She turned the parcel round in her hands. ‘That’s okay. I think people were upset we had the funeral so far away, but she wanted to be buried next to Grandpa...’ Her voice trailed away and there was a sudden lump in her throat. It had been six months since the funeral but the pain of loss still cut deep. ‘I wish I had telephoned more, visited more.’
‘She was very proud of you.’
Lawrie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Swallowing back the tears, she turned her attention to the present, wanting to change the subject.
She slid her finger along the fold in the tissue, pulling the tape off slowly as she went, carefully opening the paper out to reveal a silk scarf the colour of the sea below. ‘It’s beautiful!’
His voice was offhand. ‘It always used to be your favourite colour.’
‘It still is.’ She looked over at him, ridiculously overcome despite his casualness. He’d remembered. ‘You really didn’t need to, but thank you, Jonas.’
‘No problem.’ The blue eyes swept over her assessingly. ‘It matches your dress.’
‘I’ll go and put it on. I won’t be long.’
Walking through the back door, Lawrie felt yet again as if she had gone back in time—as if she was once again her sixteen-year-old self, skipping in to say goodbye to Gran before heading out on a date, full of possibilities, full of life and desperately, achingly in love.
Only there was no Gran.
And the world no longer felt full of possibilities. She was all too aware of her limits.
Oh, to be sixteen again, walking on the beach at night after her shift ended, unable to believe that her handsome boss had asked her if she fancied a stroll. She still remembered the electric shock that had run through her when his hand had first bumped against hers. The tightness in her stomach when his long, cool caressing fingers had encased hers. The almost unbearable anticipation drying out her throat, weakening her knees, setting every single nerve-end ablaze as she waited for him to kiss her. And, oh...! The almost unbearable sweetness when he finally, oh so slowly, lowered his mouth to hers as the waves crashed against the shore.
It had been Lawrie’s first kiss and for five years she hadn’t thought she would ever kiss anyone else.
I haven’t thought about that in years. She pushed the memory of vivid, haunting dreams filled with waves, passion and familiar blue eyes firmly to one side.
She glanced up at the wall, where a framed photo hung. A much younger Lawrie looked out from it, her hair whipped by the wind and framing her face in a dark, tangled cloud, laughing, her eyes squinting against the sun. Jonas had taken it twelve years ago, on her eighteenth birthday—their wedding day.
It was all such a long time ago. Who would have thought then that they would end up like this? Apart, near-strangers, exchanging polite remarks and stiff smiles. If she’d known what lay ahead would she have made the same choices...the same mistakes?
Lawrie shook her head wildly, trying to clear the questions from her mind. She couldn’t allow this temporary setback to derail her, to make her question her choices, her past. It was time to face her future—and if the plan had gone awry...well, she would tweak it.
But first her birthday. She needed—she deserved some fun. Maybe she could relax—just a little, just for a short while. Maybe Lawrie Bennett was allowed to let go for just one evening.
* * *
It was one of Jonas’s favourite things, watching the Boat House being transformed from a family-friendly, light and airy café to an intimate bar. It was more than the deepening dusk outside the dramatic picture windows, more than the tea lights on the tables, more than the bottles of beer and wine replacing the skinny lattes, the tapas in place of cream teas.
It was the way the atmosphere changed. Grew heavier, darker. Full of infinite possibilities.
Tonight was the monthly Open Mic Night—a tradition carried through from the earliest days. Before he’d held a bar licence he used to invite friends over to the café after-hours to jam; he’d always fancied himself as a pretty mean guitarist. Once he’d licensed the premises it had become more of an organised event, yet still with a laid-back, spontaneous feel.
Folk
