we started out, your mum and I made a point of learning what people liked, thinking it added a personal touch when we asked someone if they’d like their usual order. Then one Thursday Bill Curtis came in, same as he always does, and when I said “the usual?” he burst into tears. Poor sod had just been laid off and he didn’t know how he was going to pay for supper, never mind tell his wife when he got home. Your mum took him out the back and told him in no uncertain terms that until he was back on his feet, Thursday supper was on the house. Wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I agreed with her. Took him four months to get a new job, another year after that to catch up on overdue bills and the like. The moment he was square again, he insisted on paying us back for those free suppers, not that we expected him to, but his pride had taken enough blows so we didn’t argue.’ Mick wiped his hands on his apron then put an arm around her shoulders. ‘This place is more than a chippy. We’re a community centre, a safe haven for people in trouble. I don’t have a lot, but what I have got I’ll share with anyone that needs it. Asking people what they want rather than assuming I know gives them the space to change their order without any sense of embarrassment, do you see?’
She did, and her heart swelled with love for his big, generous soul. Libby leaned into the reassuring bulk of his body. ‘I see what you do, Dad, and I think it’s brilliant.’
With that memory warm in her heart, Libby took a deep breath, then opened her heart. ‘I’ve found my place in the world, Eliza, and it’s right here.’ She gestured around the shop. ‘I love what my parents built here, and I want to keep playing my part at the heart of our community, but I want to do it my way. Ignore the smell of hot fat and vinegar and picture little wooden tables painted in pastel shades laden with pretty plates full of cakes and sandwiches, sparkling cutlery and real cotton napkins. Replace the fryers with a glass-fronted refrigeration counter holding fresh-baked quiches, flaky sausage rolls and glass bowls full of salad. Shelves along the back wall full of specialty teas and coffees and a fridge full of traditional bottles of lemonade, ginger beer and elderflower water. I’ll paint the walls soft lemon and buttermilk with watercolour paintings of scenes from around the bay, and hang frothy lace curtains at the windows.’
A long silence followed the tumble of words and butterflies began to chase each other around Libby’s stomach. It was the first time she’d let anyone else in on her plans for the future, and she could hardly bear to meet Eliza’s gaze. Her best friend had the kindest heart and would say all the right things, but would she mean it? If she looked into Eliza’s eyes and saw pity, it might break her heart. Needing to keep busy, she took a cloth to the already spotless counter and began to clean it.
‘Libs?’ Soft fingers touched her arm, stilling her hand mid-sweep. She couldn’t bring herself to turn around. It mattered too damn much. Eliza released her only to slip her arms around Libby’s waist and prop her chin on Libby’s shoulder. ‘God, Libs, it sounds wonderful. Just perfect.’
The husky warmth in those words eased the tension holding Libby’s frame rigid. ‘You really think so?’
Eliza gave her a squeeze. ‘I know so. Watching you today was a revelation. Feeding people, taking care of them, it’s in your blood.’
Blushing, Libby stared down at the cloth now wound between her fingers. ‘I’m not exactly in Sam’s league. A few sarnies and cakes won’t hold a candle to the Cordon Bleu experience he’ll be offering.’
A finger jabbed in her ribs, making her turn with a yelp to meet a soft scowl from Eliza. ‘Don’t do that,’ she admonished. ‘Don’t talk yourself out of it before you’ve even started. Sam’s restaurant will be for people wanting a one-off experience, somewhere to celebrate a special occasion. What you’re talking about is a place people will return to time and again for everyday comforts.’
Everyday comforts. Libby liked the sound of that. She’d never seen herself as in competition with Sam, that was just her insecurity digging in its claws. Deep down, she knew her plan was a sound one. The café would fill a gap in the current market, offering healthier alternatives alongside luscious cream teas. Friday lunch club would continue, but she’d offer salmon quiche or tuna melts and salad in the summer, and thick bowls of hearty chowder or fish pie in the winter. She also had plans for a pensioners’ afternoon tea special once a fortnight. Lavender Bay had plenty of takeaways and pubs serving hearty meals and one or other of them would likely expand their menu and add fish and chips—and good luck to them. The day she never had to wash the smell of the chippy out of her hair again couldn’t come too soon, not that she’d ever admit that to anyone other than Eliza or Beth—and they’d never say a word.
‘You know I’ll make the curtains and whatever for you when it’s time. I’m making all the soft furnishings for Sam’s restaurant, and I’d love to help you in whatever way you need.’ And there it was, the reason why Libby had told Eliza before anybody else. In the same way they’d pitched in to help Beth fulfil her dreams with the emporium, Libby knew they’d throw their all behind her.
Eliza had always been a whizz with her sewing machine, whereas Libby could barely manage to sew on a button. Stick her in the kitchen, though, and that was another story. She’d learned to bake at her mother’s hip and the café was a way of honouring those precious moments and keeping them fresh in her mind. Beth was the organised one, who would help her sort out the business side of things. Libby had experience helping her dad keep the books for the chip shop, but it would still take a lot of work to adapt to a more extensive menu. Work that would be much easier with Beth to guide her through it.
Eliza removed the apron she’d been wearing over a mint green shirt and matching capri pants and hung it on one of the pegs. ‘So, what does your dad think about your plans?’ Libby screwed up her face but didn’t say anything. Her dad would be 65 next year and the years of hard work were starting to show. He’d dropped a few hints about retiring after his birthday, and that was one of the reasons she was hoping their accountant might be raising the topic at today’s meeting.
She hadn’t mentioned it herself, because she didn’t want her dad to feel like she was pushing him out the door. When he was ready to take that step, she’d sit him down and go through her ideas. ‘You’re going to have to tell him some time.’ Eliza laughed. ‘Listen to me, Little Miss Assertive telling you what to do, when I’m just as bad.’
Libby slung an arm around her friend’s shoulder and leaned close until their heads were touching. ‘We’re hopeless. Remember when we were kids how we couldn’t wait to be all grown-up and be in control of our lives?’ She sighed.
Humming sympathetically, Eliza nodded. ‘We thought it would be so exciting, only no one told us how difficult it would be. I can’t for the life of me remember why we were in such a hurry.’
‘Because we wanted to have all that great sex we kept reading about in those copies of Cosmopolitan we used to steal from Beth’s mum.’
‘Ha! We should sue them for false advertising because we’re still bloody waiting.’ Eliza pulled back to regard her. ‘Well, I am, at least, although you’ve been very quiet in that regard. Any scorching hot love affairs you want to tell me about?’
As it had far too frequently in the past weeks, the image of Owen Coburn sprang to mind, all cocky smile and hard-bodied perfection. The fluttering that followed dissolved into a deep stab of humiliation. He’d stood out—a bright flame among the usual Saturday night crowd in The Siren, and she’d floated across the bar like a mesmerised moth driven by a fatal combination of bone-deep loneliness and a haze of hormones. And damn, had he burned her with that incredulous look in his eyes.
Men who looked like him probably had women throwing themselves at him all the time. He’d have his pick of gorgeous women with pretty
