I came over and I think the red looks brilliant. A real zip of colour. You can’t keep this place the same. Not without turning it into a mausoleum, and Eleanor would be horrified at that.’
She knew he was right, but still…
Sam squeezed her hand. ‘Hester Bradshaw hates it.’
Beth lifted her head at the mention of the local busybody. ‘Really?’
He nodded, solemnly. ‘Really, really. Full on dog’s bum pursed lips and puce-faced hates it.’
She was probably going straight to hell, but it made her feel much better. ‘What about other people?’
‘It’s generated a lot of interest, you were the main topic of conversation over the bar at lunchtime.’
She shuddered, just imagining what some of the talk would be like, about how she was dishonouring Eleanor’s memory by changing things so quickly. ‘Oh, boy.’
‘They’ll move on soon enough. Once the season kicks off, there’ll be plenty for them to talk about.’ Her tummy did a funny flip because he wouldn’t know it, but he’d hit on the next big thing that was keeping her up at night. Was she actually going to go through with opening the shop up?
The list of independent suppliers and artists she’d drawn up in a fit of enthusiasm sat unactioned beneath the counter downstairs. There was always something else to do, something more pressing on her time—or so she kept telling herself. The floors were spotless, the cabinets sparkling, windows sanded, washed and painted.
What she hadn’t bothered to do was anything with the stock itself. She’d come across things on the shelves that needed getting rid of because of damage or age, but had found herself resolutely dusting them off and putting them back. Thinking about the stock meant really making a commitment to the place. All the cleaning and tidying up—and even the decorating—felt justifiable because it would increase the marketability of the place. She could pull the escape cord, put down the paint brushes and throw up a ‘For Sale’ sign tomorrow if she felt like it.
As though sensing the nerves and uncertainty bouncing around inside her, Sam placed his hand on top of hers. The touch steadied her, and she focused on the neatly trimmed ovals of his nails. They looked a damn sight better than hers, a result of all those years working in a kitchen she guessed, though he’d always taken pride in his appearance. He squeezed her fingers, bringing her rambling thoughts back to the problem at hand. ‘I’m not ready to make a commitment.’
He laughed. ‘That’s a big step up from holding hands.’
It was the perfect thing to say to shake her out of the doldrums, and Beth couldn’t help but smile. ‘Silly bugger. I was talking about the emporium.’ Although come to think of it, she really liked the feel of his hand on hers—warm, but not clammy. She turned hers over so they were palm to palm and he threaded his fingers through hers.
A perfect fit. Beth stared at their joined hands, watching with a kind of distant fascination as her thumb stroked the side of his finger almost of its own accord. ‘How do you always know the right thing to say?’
‘I wing it.’
It was her turn to shake her head this time. ‘Don’t do that. Don’t deflect.’
Sam eyes deepened to a stormy blue-grey, and her world narrowed down to two points of connection—the intensity in his eyes and the warm heat of his hand in hers. Her breath caught, and she could feel all her good intentions crumble to dust.
His mouth opened, drawing her attention from his eyes to his lips and then he sat back in his chair, breaking an invisible thread between them as the action pulled their hands apart. He blinked and the storm in his eyes had passed, leaving only the calm cerulean blue of the summer sea. ‘I’m not the one who’s deflecting. You still haven’t told me why you’re sleeping in your old room.’
Nonplussed, she tucked her hand into her lap, curling it into a ball as though she could keep hold of the sensation of the calluses on his palm pressing into her skin. ‘If I pack Eleanor’s things away then it’s not just an acknowledgement that she’s gone, it’s me deciding to stay.’
Sam grunted, a small noise of understanding. ‘I know what you mean. I came rushing back here when Dad got ill, and once it became clear his recovery would be limited, I let myself start to dream I could maybe make a future here. But he’s not ready to let go and as selfish as it might sound, I’m not sure how much longer I can put my life on hold.’
Her heart ached at the raw pain in his voice. ‘I don’t think you’re being selfish, at all. Is your dad’s condition permanent then?’ She remembered the many tearful conversations she’d had with Eliza when Paul had first fallen ill.
‘It’s manageable, if he follows the doctor’s orders.’ Clearly, that was a big if. ‘His lungs are shot to pieces, so he won’t ever get his fitness back to the level needed to run the pub. It’s a really physical job.’
‘You guys have been butting heads, I take it?’
He snorted. ‘Like a pair of prize rams at the country fair.’ Sam scrubbed at the tangle of curls on his forehead. ‘I just wanted to try something a bit different, keep my eye in, but he was having none of it.’
Beth listened as he told her about his idea for a gourmet night and his dad’s negative response. It was tough enough for her to make changes to the emporium with Eleanor gone. Trying to do it with Eleanor peering over her shoulder would be close to impossible. No wonder Sam was frustrated. And as for his dad…Paul had always been this vital presence when they’d been growing up—a big bear of a man whose booming laugh had seemed to fill the whole beach as he’d tossed them into the sea with endless patience for their cries of ‘Again, again!’
She stood up and opened the tumble dryer. Scooping out the tangle of warm clothing, she began to smooth and fold the material as she ordered her thoughts. ‘It must be really hard for him.’ When Sam frowned, she held up her hand. ‘Let me finish. Your dad’s always been a hands-on guy, the one everyone relied upon to fix things.’ He’d moulded his son in the same vein. ‘Having to sit back and watch you doing all the things he feels he should be able to do must be killing him. And then to have you making changes on top of that…’
Sam stood up so fast the legs of his chair scraped on the tiled floor. ‘So what? I’m supposed to just fill in for him. Keep everything exactly the way it’s always been? I’m suffocating!’
Hurrying over, she placed a hand on the thick towelling covering his heart. ‘No! No, Sam, that’s not what I’m saying, not at all.’ She stroked the front of the dressing gown, trying to soothe his raw feelings. ‘Maybe you can find a way to do what you want to without changing the essence of what The Siren is.’
His shoulders slumped. ‘I don’t see how that’s possible.’
Neither did she. Returning to the laundry, she finished folding their clothes as she racked her brain for a solution. She pictured the pub in her mind’s eye—the familiar layout of the main bar, the sprawl of rooms above that were a mixture of family rooms and guest accommodation, the old skittle alley where she, Eliza and Libby had played when bad weather kept them confined indoors. The wooden floor had been perfect for bouncing a ball, or skipping on. Eliza’s parents hadn’t minded them scuffing up the place, it hadn’t been used for years. Oh. ‘What about the skittle alley?’
‘What
