The evening was an unqualified success. Sam had outdone himself in the kitchen, and although they’d both spent more time away from their friends than they would’ve liked, the response from the guests at every table Owen had visited had been enthusiastic to say the least. He’d been a tad sceptical about Sam’s plans to try and create an immersive sensory experience—fearing it would distract from the food and turn the place into a one-off gimmick rather than somewhere people would wish to return to again and again—but he was delighted to be proven wrong.
Even the mystery boxes created by an artist in London at Sam’s request worked a treat judging by the oohs and giggles they’d elicited as guests explored their hidden contents with tentative fingers. They’d been a real talking point, too, with more than one diner assuming he knew the secrets they contained. He wasn’t sure they believed him when he swore he didn’t know, but both he and Sam had agreed to be kept in the dark. They’d tested them out, of course, to double-check there were no unpleasant surprises, and he had his own ideas what each one contained, but that wasn’t really the point. The whole enjoyment was in stimulating a single sense without the others tainting one’s judgement. From cool, silken ribbons of fabric, to smooth spheres which warmed on contact with the skin, he’d found they questioned his basic understanding of what reality meant to him and left him determined to expand his sensual relationship with the everyday world.
Speaking of which…Owen’s gaze strayed once more to the booth in the corner occupied by his friends. Friends. He still had to pinch himself over that one. Now the final course had been cleared and almost everyone was relaxing over cups of coffee and considering whether they could possibly manage one more handmade chocolate truffle, Sam had finally emerged from the kitchen to slump next to Beth. His arms were draped across the back of the booth, and his face bore the look of an exhausted, but very contented man. Although his fingers were playing lazily through Beth’s hair, his attention was focused on Libby who was using her hands as much as her words to describe something to Sam. Her whole being vibrated with the urgency of whatever it was she was trying to convey.
God, how he loved her.
Stunned by a depth of feeling he’d never believed himself capable of, Owen turned away from the group before any of them saw him, sure the naked truth would be spelled out on his forehead in flashing neon lights. An unnoticed napkin lay on the floor nearby and he busied himself with picking it up and placing it neatly on the edge of one of the booths where a member of the waiting staff would spot it. So caught up in his compelling need to do the right thing, to be the stand-up guy and accept his responsibilities towards her, he’d singularly failed to notice how she’d slipped beneath every single one of his carefully erected barriers against the world. He’d liked her well enough, found her spark and bite irresistible, her body a sensuous delight, but not once had the word love entered into his consciousness. Everything about his current campaign to win her back had centred around the fact of her pregnancy, but that had been an excuse, he realised now, to give him the thing he craved above all else. Baby or no baby, Libby was the family he’d always longed for.
The couple in the booth beside him began to stand, and he found himself caught up in a round of handshakes, farewells and promises to return again soon. Like a pebble dropped into a pond, that first movement created a ripple effect around the room until the rest of the invited guests had taken their leave. Within quarter of an hour, only their personal party in the corner remained and he had no more excuses to avoid them. Tucking his hands in his pockets, he affected his best devil-may-care attitude and propped one shoulder against the edge of the booth. ‘Well, that went well.’
Jack raised a brandy glass containing an inch of deep-amber liquid in his direction. ‘That might be the understatement of the century. The whole evening was a triumph.’ He sipped the brandy with the air of a man well fed and watered.
‘We did it. We only bloody did it.’ Sam sounded drunker than Jack, though Owen knew it to be from the same euphoria and relief fizzing through his own bloodstream rather than the contents of a glass.
Extending his hand across the table, he grinned as Sam shook it. ‘We certainly bloody did.’
Gentle laughter rose from the rest of the group followed by a huge yawn from Libby. Waving her hand in front of her face, she apologised. ‘Sorry, sorry.’
As though they’d been looking for the merest excuse, his eyes locked on her. Beneath the carefully applied make-up which ringed her blue eyes, making them shine like the jewelled highlights in her hair, he could see signs of strain. The tangle of his own emotions forgotten beneath concern for her, Owen shifted until he was crouching beside her seat. ‘Are you all right, would you like to go home?’
She started to shake her head, before changing her mind with a rueful shrug. ‘It’s all caught up with me suddenly. I can hardly keep my eyes open.’
‘Come on then.’ With a hand, he helped her up then tugged off his suit jacket to drape it over her shoulders before she could protest. ‘Let’s get you home.’ He turned to the others. ‘Thanks for making tonight even more special. Sorry to duck out. I’ll pop back and give you a hand once I’ve got Libs settled.’ The last he addressed to Sam, who waved him away.
‘Nah, mate. I’m going to send the kids home and we can sort everything else out in the morning. The dishwasher’s been on twice already so it’s only the dessert plates and glasses.’
‘If you’re sure?’ When Sam nodded, he acquiesced. ‘I’ll be back for about 9 a.m. See you tomorrow.’
Libby gave them all a sleepy wave and seemed content to allow him to steer her towards the stairs and outside with a hand to her back. The bitter winter wind cut through his cotton evening shirt the moment he stepped onto the promenade making him grateful he’d already given Libby his jacket because the odds on her being willing to accept it from him once she’d realised how cold it was were slim to none. Stubborn little thing.
She shivered. ‘Wow, that’s a wake-up call and a half.’
‘Refreshing,’ Owen said, hoping his teeth weren’t chattering too badly.
Her laugh told him she’d seen through him. ‘I forgot you’ve not experienced a proper Lavender Bay winter, yet. Wait until the wind’s howling in from the sea adding a lovely sting of salt water to its bite. This is balmy in comparison.’
‘Can’t wait.’ Reaching for her hand was as automatic as breathing, and he cursed himself when she didn’t respond to his touch. Shoving the offending hand in his pocket, he settled for a little nudge to her shoulder. ‘Last one home has to make the hot chocolate.’ Clutching the lapels of his jacket close, she darted ahead of him, her laughter floating back to him on the chilly wind. Content to watch her blue-black hair flashing under the street lights, he hurried in her wake, but not quite fast enough to catch her up, of course.
Cheeks glowing from the wind and her exertions, Libby unlocked the front door to the shop and they hurried inside the blessed warmth. Taking the keys, Owen pointed in the direction of the stairs. ‘Right, up you go and into your pyjamas. I’ll check down here and then get the kettle on.’
She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘You’re so damn bossy.’
‘Deal with it.’
Her eye-rolling response might have been more effective had a huge yawn not overcome her. ‘Well don’t think I’m going to let you get away with it too often,’ she grumped but didn’t stay to argue further.
The kettle was just clicking off when she wandered into the kitchen clad in the same pyjama bottoms he’d seen the day before and a thick hooded sweatshirt decorated with an incongruous mixture of fluffy kittens and grinning skulls. The curls in her hair had begun to droop from their earlier neat cloud and all traces of make-up had been washed from her face. She looked tiny and tired and he wanted nothing more than to scoop her up and into his bed. Instead, he turned his back and concentrated on fixing their drinks. ‘Sugar?’
‘No thanks. That instant mix is sweet enough as it is.’
When he carried the mugs over to the table, she had her hands tucked into the sleeves of her sweatshirt, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Her attention was fixed on a black-and-white image lying in the centre of the table.
Oh.
Like a marionette with its strings suddenly cut, he dropped into the nearest chair, spilling hot chocolate on the back of one of his hands in the process. He didn’t even notice the mugs were tipping until she reached over to steady and guide them down. Uncurling his fingers from the handles, he flexed then opened them, his palms itching with the need to touch the photo. He remained frozen in place, knowing the moment he slid it closer, his life would change forever.
‘It’s okay.’ Libby’s gentle tone told him she’d experienced something similar to the terror-joy flooding him like the strongest shot of adrenaline.
‘Fuck.’ Not the most profound of statements, but it was about all he could manage. He’d thought the sight of her body beginning to reshape itself to accommodate their child had been shock enough, but this was something else again.
Libby slid the photo closer and he finally girded himself enough to turn it around. Puzzled, he turned it again. And again. Was it like one of those magic eye things, perhaps? He tried squinting, but that didn’t make it any better. It was just an amorphous mass of fuzzy grey and white shadows. A nail tipped with sparkly blue polish appeared in his line of vision to trace the outline of something in the centre of the image. Oh. Okay. Now he had it. Maybe? ‘It looks like a kidney bean.’
She laughed. ‘I know. It was easier to see on the screen once the nurse pointed it out, but even so, I was very confused.’ She touched a tiny black dot. ‘That’s the heart.’
A heart. Christ. For a second, he thought his own might stop beating at the sheer wonder of it. ‘We’re having a baby.’ It came out wet; choked.
‘We really are.’ Her own voice didn’t sound any steadier than his, and when he glanced up her image wavered through a shimmer of tears. He’d never been a crier. Libby sniffled and dabbed the sleeve of her sweatshirt to her eyes. ‘At least I can blame my hormones every time I start watering like a pot.’
Owen scrubbed a hand across a knot in the back of his neck. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready for this.’
A shadow crossed her face and she hunched a little closer around her bent knees. ‘Too late now.’
Oh, hell. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. Please, Libs, you’re going to have to give me a tiny bit of leeway here because I’m making this shit up as I go along. I’m doing my best, and I won’t ever leave you stranded, I swear.’
She nodded, her chin resting on her knees. ‘Okay. Okay. We’ll figure this all out somehow.’
‘We will.’ All of it. ‘Here, take your chocolate and go snuggle down in bed before you fall asleep at the table.’
Stifling another yawn, she nodded. ‘I will, goodnight.’
‘Goodnight. And thanks for showing me this.’ He tapped the edge of the photo.
‘Of course. I’ve got the date for the next scan in my diary. Remind me tomorrow and I’ll let you have it.’ She hesitated. ‘Assuming you want to come along.’
He nodded. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Anything like that, please, I’d like to be part of it.’
Her expression softened. ‘You’re going to be a good dad, Owen.’
Touched to the core, he could only smile in response. Libby believed in him, he just had to start believing in himself.
The next few weeks were a never-ending misery of storms. From hail to horizontal rain, the sky threw everything at their little town bar actual snow. Being cooped up didn’t suit Libby one bit, as he found to his cost every time she snapped and snarled at him over the simplest things. With his own temper decidedly frayed, Owen opted for discretion over valour and kept out of her way as much as possible. The scents from the downstairs kitchen were as heavenly as the words from her lips were foul, and he found his stomach rumbling every time he set foot inside the door. The one time he’d tried to pilfer a hot sausage roll fresh from the oven after a cold, muddy day up at the farm helping Jack review the works on his mum’s cottage and the new workshop for Eliza, she’d smacked his knuckles with the back of a wooden spoon and sent him upstairs with a flea in his ear.
Thankfully, things were calmer at the restaurant. Their soft launch continued to be a success, and whilst they weren’t booked out every night, word was spreading, and they were gratified at the steady flow of new and returning diners through their door. The team had settled beneath Sam’s calm, confident guidance and one of the lads they’d taken on as part of the waiting team had already expressed an interest in transferring his college course to focus on cooking. Even when he wasn’t on shift, he could be found more often than not helping Sam with the daily prep, bending his ear with a million eager questions.
The obvious satisfaction Sam drew from mentoring the kid had given Owen an idea of his own, and he’d already reached out to the college to see what kind of construction courses they ran. There was another unexpected bonus coming through his involvement with the restaurant: people were curious about Owen’s background and once he started talking about his other business interests, a number expressed an interest in speaking to him about works they wanted doing. His notebook was filling up with new contacts, and when he wasn’t either at the restaurant or the farm, he was tucked away in his room—sitting at the desk and old captain’s chair he’d retrieved from the beach hut—sketching out plans and pulling together quotes for kitchen extensions, loft conversions and the like. It was a far stretch from the complex jobs he’d been handling through his firm in London, but it took him back to his roots, reigniting his passion for the work all over again. He’d have to take on some administrative support soon, and he had the perfect person in mind. A meeting had taken place, and Owen was hopeful the contract he’d offered would be signed and returned to him any day now.
It wasn’t the only bit of paperwork he was waiting for, nor the most important.
When his alarm went off, the first thing Owen noticed was the silence. He’d become so used to the sound of rain drumming on the roof over his head, that the absence of it threw him for a moment. Trying not to feel too hopeful, he climbed out of bed and tweaked up the edge of the blackout curtains he’d hung to block out the glare of the security lights which lined the rear alley which his room overlooked. So sensitive were some of them, that the merest puff of wind seemed to set them off. His first few nights, he’d been startled awake more times than he cared to count. Having thrown himself on Eliza’s mercy, she’d presented him with the thickly lined dark drapes a couple of days later, and he’d slept like a baby ever since.
The view which greeted him brought a broad smile to his lips. Pale pink and red streaks of the passing dawn were giving way to an icy-blue sky dotted with white fluffy clouds. The never-ending storm had blown itself out overnight, just as the forecasters had predicted. Whistling to himself, he wandered towards the bathroom to grab a quick shower.
Up and down the various businesses along the promenade and all around the town, others did the same. The morning of the Christmas market weekend had arrived, and it would need everyone’s input to ensure its success.
With his background, Owen had been assigned to the team overseeing the installation of the wooden chalets lining the length of the promenade. Installing them over three filthy days had been hellish, but as they made their way from one to the next, checking for any residual damage, there was a real sense of camaraderie and achievement among them.
‘Oh, here, the felt’s come loose on this one. Give us a hand.’ Following the gruff voiced request from Will, who was a carpenter by trade, Owen braced his foot at the bottom of the ladder, then handed up tools and nails from the belt slung around his waist as Will requested them.
‘It’s not bad, all things considered,’ he observed as Will clambered back down. Apart from the torn felt on this hut, a loose front shutter on another, and one which had lost a plank from the side wall, they’d come through pretty well unscathed. As each hut was given the all clear, traders and their friends swooped in behind them to begin decorating and filling their assigned huts with produce and wares they hoped to sell to the expected crowds.
Another team worked the opposite side of the prom, checking the decorations that had been affixed to each of the street lamps and at intervals along the iron railings. Everywhere Owen looked, people were busy, the entire seafront teaming with life, laughter and friendly banter.
A nudge at his elbow drew his attention, and Owen glanced over his shoulder to find Doris from up at Baycrest beaming up at him with a steaming mug in her hands. ‘You look like you could do with a hot drink, dear.’
‘Ah, thanks, that’s lovely.’ Accepting it, he took a quick gulp, enjoying the burn of the hot coffee through his belly. It might be bright and clear, but there was little warmth coming from the pale, winter sun. ‘I’m sorry I ran out on you and Margery the other week. How is she?’ Guilt sat heavy on his shoulders. He felt awful for not being in touch with Margery, especially after the gift she’d given him of Deborah’s letters, but he was still not sure what to say to her. He’d reconciled with the past, but whether he wanted her to be a part of his future was another thing.
She patted his arm with a gnarled hand. ‘Don’t you worry about it. I shouldn’t have sprung it all on you like that. As for Margery, she’s still feeling very guilty about everything.’
‘She’s not the only one,’ Owen admitted.
‘It’ll all come out in the wash, as my mother used to say. Give yourself a bit of time. We’re neither of us going anywhere for the foreseeable future.’
‘Are you coming to the grand switch-on later?’ he asked, having drained his coffee.
‘Oh, yes, I’m very much looking forward to it.’ She gave his arm another pat. ‘Margery will be coming down with me.’
Owen drained his mug, then handed it back to her with a smile. ‘Perhaps I’ll see the two of you later then.’ It didn’t have to be a big deal, he told himself as he walked away. A quick “hello, how are you?” to get the ball rolling and see how they both felt. He owed her a thank-you for the letters, if nothing more.