Читать книгу The Lavender Bay Collection - Sarah Bennett - Страница 17

Chapter Seven

‘Where’s the rest of the wine?’ Sam frowned as the drayman from the brewery unloaded the last of the stock into the rear yard. ‘I ordered two-dozen from the new quality range featured in the latest promotion.’

The man dumped a tray of soft drinks on top of the nearest stack then pushed back the cap on his head to scratch at his fringe. ‘Didn’t see nothing other than the usual wines on the manifest. Let me fetch it from the cab.’

‘All right. I’ll be back in sec.’ With a lurking sense of suspicion Sam jogged inside and up the stairs. ‘Dad, have you seen the orders folder?’ He stuck his head around the corner of the kitchen door to find Paul sorting through the previous night’s takings—the takings Sam had already tallied, checked and made up ready to pay in later. His gut tightened in annoyance at the sight.

Not making any attempt to disguise what he was doing, his dad waved his pen in the direction of an open folder on the other side of the table. ‘Is there a problem?’

Sam started leafing through the paperwork. ‘I’m not sure, I ordered some new wine but it’s missing from the delivery.’

Paul capped his pen. ‘Oh, I cancelled that. People don’t want to waste their money on over-priced plonk. This isn’t your fancy restaurant where customers will pay over the odds for a pretty label.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Sam rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the headache he could feel brewing. ‘And it didn’t occur to you to mention that to me?’

‘Mind your tone. It’s still my name above the door to this place. And no, it didn’t occur to me to tell you I’d cancelled it any more than it occurred to you to run the idea past me in the first place.’

Ouch. He had a point, but still… ‘I talked to Mum about organising a gourmet evening, something a bit different to draw people in while it’s quiet. When I saw the deal, it seemed like an ideal chance to get some decent wine in. I was going to plan the menu around it.’

‘Hello?’ A shout came from down below, cutting off whatever response his dad might have made.

‘Shit. I left the drayman, hang on a minute.’ Still seething with frustration, Sam ran back downstairs to apologise for the mix-up and sign off the delivery. He waved the man off, then secured the tall metal gates protecting the rear yard.

The stacks of cans, bottles and casks of beer seemed to mock him when he turned to face them. He should go upstairs and have it out with his dad, but in the mood they were both in, one or other of them was likely to say something they’d regret. A bit of manual labour would help him work off the edge of his temper. Unhooking the keys from his belt, Sam unlocked the double doors to the cellar and began to transfer the new stock down the short flight of steps.

He’d just about finished when the side door next to the rear gates opened and his mum came bustling through, a number of empty carrier bags folded in her hands. ‘Well that’s Beth’s freezer all stocked up. Good idea of yours to give her some of our leftovers, there was only half a lump of cheese and some tomatoes in her fridge. Some homecooked food will do her the power of good. She’s making really good progress next door, I’m so proud of how well she’s coping. Everything all right with you, love?’ She beamed at him on her way inside, then suddenly drew to a stop. ‘No, you’re not all right if that thundercloud lurking on your brow is anything to go by.’

Sam couldn’t help but smile. His mum had always had a funny term of phrase, and he hadn’t heard that one for years. ‘Just a misunderstanding with the stock, nothing to worry about.’

Annie picked up the manifest from the top of the last remaining stack. ‘Did the brewery make a cock-up? That’s not like them.’

Hefting a couple of the trays, Sam shook his head. ‘Dad cancelled that new wine I talked to you about.’

‘Oh. I see.’ The edge of the manifest crumpled in her fist. ‘Stubborn old fool.’

Arms aching, Sam put the trays back down then moved to give her a quick hug. ‘It’s okay. I should have talked to him about it.’

Annie patted his back. ‘And he needs to recognise how much you’ve given up to help us, darling.’ She looked up at him, the lines of strain on her cheeks clear at such proximity. ‘I don’t tell you often enough how much I appreciate it. How much we both appreciate it. I’ll have a talk with him, okay?’

Sam nodded. ‘We’ve been doing crisis management for what, six months now? There’s too many blurred lines. I know he’s finding it hard to deal with taking a back seat, but it’s like he doesn’t trust me to do anything.’ And now he sounded like a whining child. He puffed out a breath. ‘It’ll be fine, Mum. I’ll admit I was looking forward to playing around in the kitchen again, but it’s no big deal. Don’t say anything to Dad, yet.’

‘Well, if you’re sure…’Annie didn’t sound convinced.

‘I am. Let me have a think about things and then we can all sit down when tempers aren’t running hot.’

‘Okay, but not too long. I don’t like seeing you unhappy.’ She cupped his cheek. ‘Please try and remember than none of this is about you. Your dad is so proud of you, and he’s always been your biggest fan. We’ll talk him around.’

Not feeling as confident as her about that, Sam made himself smile. ‘Sure thing, Mum. I’ll get the last of this stock sorted and then make a start in the bar.’

‘Good boy.’

He shook his head. ‘You’re still going to be calling me that when I’m fifty, aren’t you?’

Annie laughed. ‘Of course. You and Eliza will always be my babies, even if I have to stand on a chair to look you in the eye these days.’ She patted his hand before turning towards the back door. ‘I’ll fetch you a cup of tea in a bit.’

She was never going to stop fussing, so why fight it? ‘Cheers, Mum.’

Although she’d promised not to say anything, it was clear from the sheepish looks his dad was casting him from his seat next to Pops that Annie had bent his ear. It was a quiet lunchtime, a few locals scattered around the place. Mind turning over how to tackle the problem with his dad, Sam polished a few glasses, one ear on the latest gossip being passed back and forth.

Things continued to move apace at the emporium, giving the locals plenty of gossip fodder. The latest talking point was the apparently shocking decision by Beth to repaint the emporium’s window frames and front door in scarlet red. A new sign had been ordered, according to Pops, who’d heard it from one of his pals up at Baycrest whose nephew was a carpenter and joiner.

‘I hear she’s replacing the canopy as well.’ Hester Bradshaw sniffed to show him what she thought of that as she and the Major waited for him to pour their usual gin and dubonnet and half an ale. ‘I admit the place was looking very shabby, but I’m not sure red is quite the thing for Lavender Bay, do you, Ronnie?’

The Major harrumphed and stroked his fingers over his moustache. ‘Not the thing at all. It’ll look like a bloody stick of rock.’

‘Or a tube of toothpaste,’ she added through lips so tightly pursed they reminded Sam of a dog’s rear-end. Giving her a non-committal smile, he wondered what she said out of earshot about the pub sign swinging over The Siren’s front door. It had been commissioned by Pops, way back in the day, and if the namesake mermaid it featured didn’t draw sailors to their doom with her beautiful voice, her generous boobs would certainly draw them off course.

His mum wandered in from the back to join him, lifting the tea towel from where it was draped over his shoulder and began to polish the already-spotless glasses waiting on the rack beneath the bar. ‘Evening Hester, Ronnie, how are you this evening?’

‘Mustn’t grumble.’ The Major raised his half-pint in salute and sucked the foam through his thick moustache.

‘I was just telling your son about the new colour scheme next door.’ Mrs Bradshaw whispered the two words as though she was saying something obscene.

Annie flicked her tea towel at a non-existent spot of dust, the gesture dismissive. ‘Well, I for one think it looks wonderful. I’m delighted to see Beth making a few changes around the place. Hopefully her efforts will spur a few others into having a spruce up.’ She turned to Sam. ‘Speaking of which. It’s about time our front had a makeover. I’m bored of that white everywhere. What do you say?’

He stroked his chin, pretending to give the matter serious consideration while he tried to disguise the grin tugging at his lips. His mum could be a right wind-up merchant when she got in the mood, and the sparkle in her eyes told him what she thought the Major and his interfering wife could go and do. ‘I think you might be right, Mum. Something vibrant—a nice sunny yellow, perhaps? Or something bolder like an azure blue.’ He glanced towards Hester whose cheeks had turned an alarming shade. ‘Puce, perhaps?’

His mum covered a laugh with a cough, giving him a nudge with her elbow as she leaned past him to grab another already-clean glass. ‘Mmm…yellow. You could be onto something there, Sammy. I’ll have to have a chat with Emma up at Bunches and see about redesigning the baskets and pots. Lots of orange marigolds…’

Sam bit the inside of his cheek. The cascading floral display outside the pub was his mum’s pride and joy. She spent hours planning the designs with her friend from the florist’s and they were always subtle hues of lilac, pink and blue. If Hester stopped and thought about it for a moment, she would know Annie was pulling her leg. But that would require a sense of humour, something the woman sadly lacked.

The Major tucked his hand under his wife’s elbow and steered her away from the bar before she had an apoplexy. She was still chuntering away about tasteful design and calling an emergency meeting of the improvement society, but Sam let it drift into the background. It seemed like everyone in town had an opinion on the changes Beth was making, perhaps it was time he checked it out for himself.

He turned to his mum. ‘Will you be all right here for a bit on your own?’

She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything more than, ‘Yes, love.’

On a whim, he took a detour upstairs to dig around in the freezer. His hand closed on a Tupperware box and he withdrew the delicate pistachio macarons he’d made a few weeks previously. Sam pushed against the wooden gate in the fence surrounding the rear of the emporium and was stopped short by the resisting lock. Pausing to rub his shoulder, he stared up at the back of the building. Eleanor had never kept the gate bolted, but he should have thought that Beth might do so. The first-floor sash window had been pushed up and the strains of a radio competed with a metallic bang and the kind of language even Pops might blush at.

The swearing paused, and Sam cupped his free hand to his mouth and called out. ‘Hey, Beth, are you there?’ It was a stupid question. Of course she was there, for there was no mistaking the slight husk in the stream of invective that followed.

‘Useless, no good bloody bastard!’ Beth shoved her head out the open window. Her normally shiny hair had been yanked up into an untidy knot, and there was not a scrap of make-up on her sweaty face. ‘Whatever it is, Sam, I don’t have time.’

Feeling abashed, he stepped back. ‘Sorry, I just thought you might fancy a brew and a bit of a treat.’ He held up the Tupperware container like a peace offering.

The deep frown between her brows softened. ‘What’s in the box?’

Sam shook his head, taken another couple of steps back towards the pub. ‘Never mind. You’re obviously busy so we can catch up some other time.’ He turned away.

‘What’s. In. The. Bloody. Box?’

He bit his lip. He knew he had her, but forced himself to shrug. ‘Just some macarons I baked the other…’

‘Don’t move! You stay right where you are, Sam Barnes!’ He grinned—she’d always had a sweet tooth. Not ten seconds later he heard the soles of her shoes slapping against the cobbles of the back alley then the bolt scraped back.

The front of her T-shirt was soaking wet, the thin cotton moulding to her breasts. She followed his gaze, then quickly folded her arms across her chest. ‘Sorry. I’m just having a spot of bother with the sink. You did say macarons, right?’ Keeping one arm banded across her front, Beth reached with the other for the box in his hand.

Feeling like a letch for staring, Sam let her take it without resistance. She prised open the lid to inhale the rich scent of the sweets with a throaty moan that made the skin on the back of his neck prickle. His eyes strayed to the front of her wet top then skittered away. ‘Having a spot of bother?’ He waved a hand towards her saturated clothes, careful to keep his gaze fixed over her left shoulder.

‘What?’ Beth dragged her attention away from the macarons. ‘Oh, shit, the sink!’ Her trainers squelched as she turned and ran back towards the shop. Sam followed hard on her heels.

They hit the threshold of the upstairs kitchen together, and stopped. The cupboards beneath the sink stood open, bottles of cleaning products and cloths scattered all over the place. A steady flow of water leaked from one of the pipes lining the back wall adding to the rapidly spreading pool which covered most of the black-and-white checked floor tiles. ‘Jesus Christ, what happened?’

‘The dishwasher wasn’t working properly, so I tried to check the connections, but the tap has seized. I thought I’d turned the stopcock the right way.’ Her explanation ended in a small wail of despair. Sam edged past her, feet splish-splashing through the puddle. Knowing there was no other way around it, he grit his teeth in preparation for the shock of the cold and sat down in the water so he could lie back in the cupboard and examine the problem.

The on-off tap for the cold-water pipe was stuck fast, as she’d said. ‘Shit.’ He ran his eyes frantically over everything, trying to trace the pipe back to the source. The stopcock Beth had mentioned was wedged in the far corner and there was too much crap on the shelves between him and it.

Sam dragged his eyes from the tangle of pipes to see Beth still hovering in the doorway. ‘Look, this will take me a minute or two. You’d better grab some towels to mop up before the water starts soaking into the carpet out there.’

‘What? Oh, God!’ Beth stared down at the rapidly spreading puddle for a second then dashed away.

Using his arms to sweep the bottles aside, Sam wriggled out of the cupboard and back into the other side. His fingers closed on the stopcock, and he muttered a prayer of thanks as, after a grunt of effort, it gave way in his grasp and the hiss of water from the pipe slowed, then stopped. He dropped his head back in relief, cursing as the cold water soaked into his hair.

Sliding back out, he narrowly missed cracking his head on the edge of the shelf as Beth dashed back into the room to throw an armful of bath towels onto the floor. Dropping on her hands and knees, she spread them out, the pale pastel shades deepening in seconds as the towels absorbed the worst of the water. She sat back on her knees with a sigh of defeat. ‘This is hopeless. I’m hopeless.’

‘Nonsense. A small plumbing mishap is hardly an excuse to throw a pity party. You’ve taken on an awful lot with this place, so it will take a while to get your head around everything.’ Ignoring the uncomfortable chafe of wet denim against his legs, Sam crawled about on his hands and knees, using the towels to soak up the last of the water. With the worst of the mess sorted, he set about gathering them back up, holding the sopping wet bundle in his arms. ‘Let’s dump these in the bath tub and then we can wring them out.’

Beth led the way and Sam paused at the kitchen door until she’d cleared the hallway before rushing after her, trying not to drip too much water onto the carpet. He chucked the towels in the bath with a soggy thud, sending splashes up the tiled wall. ‘I’ll tell Dad you need a remedial class,’ he said, hoping to get a laugh. Paul had insisted on teaching both him and Eliza the rudimentary basics of plumbing, car maintenance and anything else he could think of that they might need to know. Beth had joined in with a lot of the lessons.

She held her arms out to the sides. ‘Look at the state of me. Oh Lord, look at the state of you! You’re soaked through as well.’

Sam pushed the wet curls off his forehead. ‘It’s just a bit of water, no harm. Come on, grab the end of this and twist.’ He held out the corner of one of the towels, then grabbed the other end. Working in opposite directions, they squeezed the worst of the water out, hooked it over the shower screen, repeating the action with the rest of them. ‘They should be all right to go in the tumble dryer now.’

Beth shoved a loose strand of hair off her face. ‘Thanks, Sam. Sorry to be a whiny baby earlier. You’re very good at all this practical stuff.’

He went to tuck his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, grimacing at the cold, wet denim. ‘I’ve had lots of practice, after so many years in all those different kitchens—and my fair share of cock-ups along the way. It must be the day for whining, I had a right session myself earlier.’

She cocked her head, concern drawing her brows together. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Just a few stresses with Dad, that’s all.’

Beth laughed. ‘Let me get changed and stick the kettle on and we can commiserate together, yeah?’

‘Sounds good. Can you lend me a towel to dry off ?’

Beth winced. ‘Those are all the towels from the airing cupboard, sorry. Hold on a sec, I’ll grab you something to put on and we can put your stuff in the dryer.’

It would probably be as easy to nip home and change, but she was gone before the thought occurred to him. Oh, well. He tugged off his sodden T-shirt and began to wring it out over the bath. ‘Here, you can use thi…’ He turned as Beth’s voice trailed off to find her holding out an oversized white bathrobe, her mouth open in a perfect ‘o’ shape.

Her eyes roamed down over his bare chest before flicking back to his face, the look of surprise on her face expanding as though suddenly realising what she’d done. A bright flash of colour heated her pale cheeks. ‘Sorry, I’ll leave you to it.’ The robe dropped to the floor and she dashed back out.

There was no getting around it, Beth had definitely been checking him out. Not quite sure how to feel about it, especially given his own roving eyes earlier, Sam quickly stripped the rest of his clothes and tugged on the thick, fluffy robe. The luxuriant material drew the clammy cold from his skin in moments. After squeezing the worst of the wetness from his clothes, he folded them into a neat pile. Grabbing a hand towel from the railing to dry the back of his hair, he wandered out of the bathroom to see if he could make her blush again.

Having been in the flat numerous times over the years to help Eleanor out with one thing or another, he knew his way around. Sam walked to the end of the hallway, and tapped on the door to the master bedroom which stood slightly ajar. When there was no response, he eased it open a fraction wider and stopped dead. Other than a thin film of dust, nothing about the room had changed since Eleanor had occupied it.

A flannel night gown, the kind that buttoned to the neck and had elasticated frills on the sleeves lay across the end of the floral bedspread. He could recall the one and only time he’d been in the room—to reseal the edge of the window when it had begun to leak the previous winter. Eleanor had scoffed at him when he’d asked her where her duvet was, insisting sheets and blankets were preferable to being ‘choked by some huge marshmallow monstrosity’. The plain flannel garment was about as far removed from something he could image Beth wearing as the fur-lined tapestry slippers sitting neatly beside the bed. The pots and jars on the dressing table looked untouched.

So where was Beth sleeping? Backtracking, he checked the larger of the two spare rooms and found it too dusty and unused, the mattress stripped bare, the pillows uncased. The third bedroom—a single with faded boy band posters still decorating the walls—had a neatly tucked in quilt on the bed and a suitcase on the floor, its contents spilling out into a small circle around it. What on earth was she doing, cramming herself in there? Utterly bemused, Sam made his way back to the kitchen.

Beth had found a mop from somewhere and was tackling the last of the water on the floor. Her own wet jeans had been replaced with a soft pair of yoga pants which clung invitingly to the delicious round curves of her bottom. The bathrobe did nothing to disguise his rising interest in the view she presented, so Sam side-stepped to shield his lower half behind a kitchen chair before speaking. ‘Do you want me to stick these in the dryer?’

She set the mop aside, and held out her hands. ‘Here, I’ll do it. I’ve already put my things in there. I got distracted clearing up. Can you put the kettle on while I sort this out?’

‘Sure.’ Sam made a pot of tea, then rescued the box containing the macarons from the hallway. Beth opened the window to hang the hot air pipe outside then switched on the dryer. She gathered cups mugs and plates from the cupboard and joined him at the table. He poured their tea, adding a splash of milk to his mug before doing the same to hers after Beth nodded. Her eyes strayed to the still-closed Tupperware box, and he placed a hand over the top of it. ‘If you want one of these, you have to promise to be honest with me about a few things.’

Her head shot up to meet his steady stare. ‘Like what?’

‘Like whether you regret giving up your life in London to run this place, and if you don’t, why are you camped out in your old bedroom?’

A stubborn frown etched between her brows, and he thought for a moment she would refuse to answer. He knew what it was like to be thrown a curve ball by circumstances, and he didn’t want her ending up feeling trapped the same way he had lately.

With a sigh she folded her arms and sat back in her chair, every line of her body rigid with tension. ‘They’d better be bloody good macarons.’

Sam grinned then removed one from the box, placed it in the centre of a plate and slid it towards her. ‘They’re very good, I promise. The toast of Paris once upon a time.’

Beth rolled her eyes at his boast. He watched carefully as her teeth sank into the gooey treat. Her eyelashes fluttered, then closed as she chewed the small bite. She swallowed, and opened her eyes, her pupils dilated to fill most of the deep-brown irises. ‘Oh, bloody hell. You weren’t kidding.’ She stuffed the other half of the macaron into her mouth.

The funny little noises she made had him crossing his legs under the table, and he slid the plate away from her. ‘Right, if you want more then start talking.’