so she told him the price of the drink and nodded at the door. ‘I expect you’ll want to take it outside, sir, and enjoy the last of the sunshine while you can.’
She glanced over his shoulder as if she’d seen more customers enter, signalling politely but firmly she wasn’t interested in anything beyond the cash for his Coke – saving herself from rejection, even of the smallest kind, because she’d had it up to here with types like the Blond. She’d met plenty of men like him before, and that included her ex, Keegan.
She didn’t even want to know this one’s name.
The Blond handed over some coins and took his drink. ‘Keep the change,’ he said cheerfully, obviously fine at being passed over for an imaginary customer.
‘Thanks. Enjoy your day, sir.’
Maisie popped the coins in the RNLI tin in full view of him and turned her back to polish some glasses that didn’t need it. The buzz of chatter rose as more customers walked through the front door. She turned back ready to greet them, joking about the late ‘heat wave’ that had hit Scilly.
When she finally made it out onto the terrace again to take a break, the Blond had gone.
The disappointment was like being plunged into cold water on a sweltering day but Maisie told herself to get a grip. She should be relieved he’d walked away this time and that she wouldn’t have to see him again. She wasn’t sure she would be so strong the next time he came across her path.
Fortunately she was kept busy as the pre-ferry rush started. Maisie’s parents and her seasonal barman joined her behind the bar and they served up a constant stream of cold drinks, coffees and teas. Restaurant customers from the bistro ordered after-lunch liqueurs and took them onto the terrace. Maisie was pinned behind the bar, the flood of people never letting up until finally she heard the warning toot of the ferry as it moored at the jetty.
Five minutes later, the Driftwood was as deserted as the Mary Celeste.
Abandoned glasses, bottles, packets of crisps and dirty plates littered the tables in the bar area. Maisie wiped her forehead. Her feet throbbed and her arms ached. It had been non-stop pretty much all day apart from the few minutes she’d spent sparring with the Blond.
‘I need a breath of air,’ she told Debbie, the Kiwi bistro manager who was setting off on her long journey home later that week now that the season was almost over. Maisie was already wondering how she was going to manage once the staff had all left. It might be the quiet season but there was still a ton of essential maintenance work to get through on top of opening the pub over the weekends and for special events – not to mention Christmas. She’d already resigned herself to being just as busy in the off-season unless she could get some of the locals to lend a hand with the repair work and some shifts behind the bar.
Grabbing a bottle of spring water, she slipped out of the side door for a breather after the rush, and to give herself time to think after her encounter with the Blond. The terrace still held a few people, the odd local and a party of students from the campsite finishing pints and eating their own picnics. A couple of middle-aged yachties and a few clients from a local holiday home lingered over their G&Ts. She recognised some of them and nodded.
She considered having a sneaky fag, as she had every day at around this time since she’d given up ten years before. Then decided, again, that she could manage without one today and walked across the narrow road to the beach in front of the inn. She’d quit long ago but had lapsed back for a few weeks after Keegan had left. She’d got a grip on it again now, fingers crossed.
As the afternoon drew to a close, the sun sank lower over the sea. Rocks glistening with bright green seaweed cast long shadows over the shell-pink sand. Maisie selected a dry perch on her favourite rock, which was tucked away out of sight of the inn but had a great view of the Petroc channel. She kicked off her Skechers and buried her toes in the cool sand. Yachts glided past, or bobbed at anchor over sandbars. On a spring tide, you could wade right across to Petroc Island, where people stood on the battlements of a ruined fort, looking down at the Driftwood.
Petroc had been owned by the Scorrier family for centuries and all of its original buildings had been converted to luxury holiday homes, unlike Gull Island, where most of the buildings were still largely owned by the families who lived there. Most people on Gull just about made enough to get them through the winter, but that was the price of living in paradise, she reminded herself, and the Driftwood provided a living for her and her family, and jobs for a few seasonal staff.
Maisie rested her gaze on the fortified tower across the channel, telling herself to get a grip. She’d accepted that with her fortieth birthday coming up on New Year’s Eve, some things probably weren’t going to happen for her and she should be content with the life she had. She should have known better than to fall for a good-looking smoothie who’d promised her the moon but legged it faster than Usain Bolt just when she needed him.
Her, Maisie Samson, of all people. Streetwise, on-the-ball Maisie who had an answer for everyone and everything. How had she let herself need someone – something – so very badly? How had she been left with a heart that resembled a smashed bag of crisps?
The memories were still painful, even now she’d physically recovered.
On Christmas Day the previous year she’d had everything to look forward to. She was happy living with Keegan, her boyfriend and boss at the brewery, and she was looking forward to the birth of her baby – Little Scrap – in the summer. She’d been thinking about what colour to paint the nursery while she worked in the pub that Christmas Day, and how she could combine her job with looking after the baby once she’d returned from maternity leave. She’d even thought she’d felt him or her kick, though it was too early according to the textbooks.
Within the hour, she was on her way to hospital and, sadly, there had been nothing that could be done to save her baby.
As it was Christmas, her parents hadn’t been able to get a flight over until it was all over. Maisie had told them not to come, and that she’d be fine. Keegan would look after her, she’d told them, thinking that although the pain of grief was agonising, her partner was by her side to comfort her.
A couple of weeks later, Keegan had told her he wanted to end their relationship.
Her parents had been horrified. Her mum had flown in to care for her and her father had immediately asked her to take over at the Driftwood, if she wanted to. They said they would stay on as part-owners and help out when required but Maisie would manage the place and have full responsibility and control of the pub.
Maisie didn’t hesitate to say ‘yes’. She wanted a new start and to leave the unhappy associations behind her, but they hadn’t all been so easy to shake off.
Maybe that was why she’d been so reckless in taking a chance with the Blond on the beach: she’d wanted a moment of escape – a moment of abandon – even if it wasn’t like her.
Who knew?
She stayed a few minutes longer, finishing her water, when she spotted something guaranteed to make her smile. A small and elderly yacht had dropped anchor off shore and a man with a long grey beard was rowing a small RIB towards the shore. Maisie grinned. She’d recognised the yacht as it had sailed into the channel.
She
