I’ll get you a refill, shall I?’ Not waiting for an affirmative, he returned to the bar, ignoring the derisive snort behind his back that could only have come from Libby.
Eliza followed on his heels. ‘Better make those spritzers, Sam, and heavy on the spritz or we’ll all be crying again.’
He lifted the hatch to let her join him on the business side of the bar, pressing a kiss to the top of the unruly sandy curls they’d both inherited from Pops, through their dad. ‘How are you holding up, kiddo?’
Her arm slid around his waist, and she burrowed deeper into his side. ‘Bloody awful. Poor Beth, she’s been so brave all week she had me fooled into thinking she was coping all right with losing Eleanor, but she’s absolutely shattered.’
His attention strayed once again across the room. Libby had an arm around Beth’s shoulders and their heads were pressed close together as they whispered about something. He saw Beth shake her head, followed by a frown from Libby as the willowy brunette slipped out from beneath her arm and headed towards the bar. A couple of people stopped her on her way, no doubt offering some condolence or other which she accepted with a gracious smile and a few words.
Unable to stop himself, Sam stepped around Eliza to intercept Beth on the threshold of the door leading to the private areas of the pub. ‘Everything all right?’
‘What? Oh, yes, fine thanks, Sam.’ Jesus, could she hear the lie in her voice as clearly as he did? He ground his teeth to choke back the words, forcing a smile he knew wouldn’t reach his eyes. Luckily, she was too distracted to notice much of anything. Holding up the phone in her hand, she gave him a rueful grin. ‘I just need to check in with work, my boss keeps texting me.’
From the little he’d overheard the girls talking about him, her boss sounded like a right knob. ‘I thought you were on leave?’
‘Me too.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s a bit noisy in here, you don’t mind if I pop in the back?’
Freeing one hand, he pushed open the swing door to the family area. ‘Help yourself. Mum’s in the kitchen, and I think Dad’s having a lie down so the lounge will be quiet.’
Beth placed one foot on the bottom step, then paused to glance back at him. ‘Thanks. I might go out in the yard, I could do with a bit of fresh air.’
‘Of course.’ Sam grabbed his jacket from the peg by the back door. ‘Here, put this on, and mind your step. The sun doesn’t get high enough this time of year so it’s likely to still be icy in a few spots.’
A more natural smile played upon her lips, but she let him help her into the coat without protest. ‘Thank you.’
The thick length of her hair was caught in the collar, he unhooked it, his fingers accidentally brushing against the nape of her neck. She froze at the unexpected caress, and feeling ten types of awkward himself, Sam tweaked her nose just as he had when she’d been a little girl. The weird tension between them snapped and she gave a little giggle.
He zipped the jacket up to her chin until she was all but swallowed up by the padded material. ‘Don’t get cold, all right? I’ll see if Eliza can give me a hand rounding people up. They’ve all had a good feed and a couple of drinks on the house by now. More than enough to pay their respects.’
Her shoulders drooped, as though the promise of not having to face any more well-wishers had drained the last of her reserves. ‘If you could, I’d appreciate it. I’m…I’m about at the end of my tether.’ The hitch in her voice scrapped him raw. For all Eleanor meant to him, she’d been Beth’s guardian and primary carer for the best part of ten years now.
Her features crumpled for a second before she forced her eyes wide open and heaved a breath. If she needed to be strong, to stand on her own two feet for just a bit longer, he would have to let her. Even if it felt like he’d swallowed a handful of glass. ‘Consider it done, Princess.’
Growing up, the three girls had played elaborate games of dress-up. Eliza and Beth had always been princesses. They’d rope Sam in whenever they could, but never to play the heroic prince—that had been Libby’s role. No, Sam had been relegated to playing the bad guy, a dragon to be slain by Libby’s sword or an evil robber baron intent on stealing the kingdom. The flashback to those childhood days did the trick, just as he’d hoped and they both laughed. Her spine straightened, and she tilted her neck in a haughty angle as she gave him a mock-dismissive wave.
He nodded his head towards the door. ‘Go and make your call, and when you come back, I’ll make you something special. Tequila Sunrise, perhaps?’ The girls had snuck down to the bar one night when they’d been all of fifteen and experimented with cocktails, to their eternal regret and the permanent detriment of the bathroom carpet.
Beth pulled a face. ‘Don’t ever mention those again! Just when I start thinking you’re a nice man, Samuel Barnes, you go and ruin it.’ She was laughing though, the smile she gave him was as soft as the words were harsh. A blast of cold air sent a shiver through him, so he shut the door behind her and nipped upstairs to let his mum know he was going to try and wind the afternoon up.
With the remains of the buffet cleared and the last few stragglers having at least moved closer to the exit, Sam made a start with wiping down the dark wood tables, one eye fixed on the door to the back. It had been at least twenty minutes since Beth had stepped outside and she’d yet to appear, leaving him in a quandary. He’d always acted on instinct, making decisions based on his gut, and it had served him well so far. His teachers had encouraged him towards university, advised him he could have his pick of subjects and tried to tempt him with the world beyond the bay.
He’d always known what he wanted though—working in the pub had given him a taste for the hospitality industry, but he’d had no intention of following family tradition. There’d been a Barnes behind the bar of The Siren since the place first opened to serve the once-thriving fishing community at the turn of the previous century. Sam hadn’t been satisfied with pulling pints and making hotpots, though. Rushing home from school, he’d eschewed cartoons for the multitude of celebrity chefs gracing the airwaves with their grand creations. Pops had uttered a few choice words, but his folks had been nothing but supportive and encouraged him to dream as big as he dared. They’d all assumed there’d be years ahead of them before any decisions would have to be made about the future of the pub.
He’d planned everything meticulously, working hard to get the grades he needed for his catering course of choice. Winning the placement at the Cordon Bleu in Paris had beyond his wildest dreams, and having gained his Grand Diplôme, he’d landed a gig at a top-flight London restaurant. Several years of insane hours in that high-pressure atmosphere had been enough to alter his initial plans and he’d put the feelers out until he’d found the perfect fit. Tim Bray had transformed an average hotel restaurant in a small market town on the East Coast into one of the most sought-after bookings in the country. Sam had spent the last three years working for Tim, soaking up everything he’d taught him like a sponge whilst harbouring dreams of a place of his own one day.
Then his dad had taken ill. A nasty chest infection over the summer had deteriorated into bronchitis and eventually to a diagnosis of chronic pulmonary disease. The doctor had pointed the finger firmly at Paul’s upbringing in a busy, smoke-filled pub. With his condition worsening, Sam’s mum had been running herself into the ground trying to care for him and keep the pub going, leaving Sam little choice.
Deciding to put the best face on things, he’d convinced himself that running a seaside pub would at least give him the management experience he needed if he was ever going to have a place of his own. The bay had gradually worked
