Lola nodded, her heart sinking, wishing he’d picked something a little bit more flattering. ‘Yes, I really was. I hope I have.’
‘You have, Lola,’ Tristan said, leaning over the counter and giving her a long, ponderous look. ‘I always wonder what drew you here, of all places.’
All Lola had ever told anyone was that she had been travelling around when she’d stopped in Polcarrow, seen the café and risen to Alf’s challenge to keep him supplied with fresh scones. That had been the moment she knew deep in her soul that she had to come and live here. Lola hadn’t told anyone anything about Ruby, about the connection she was sure her grandmother had with Polcarrow. Somehow it felt fanciful. Why else would she have kept a postcard hidden? Lola had expected to find something of Ruby in the small fishing village, but there had been nothing. Then again there was no reason for there to be. However, there was a sense of home, something that Lola had been searching for for a long time, and that, she had decided, was enough.
Lola flashed a smile at Tristan and repeated the same response she’d uttered on numerous occasions, ‘I was called here, on the wind, you know. My sixth sense heard there was a village in need of tea and cake and I answered the call.’
Tristan laughed. It was the answer she’d always given when travelling, had loved the way it kept her shrouded in mystery. No one she’d met on her travels had really revealed their true self to anyone and it had become habit. However, now, seeing Tristan turn her response over in his head, the urge to tell him everything was growing stronger. How wonderful it would be to confide in someone, to reveal her true self.
‘One day I’ll find out the truth.’ He flashed a heart-melting smile at her and Lola wondered how he hadn’t been snapped up by anyone yet. Generous of nature and six foot tall with broad shoulders, his sea blue eyes and blond hair were a winning combination. Lola had always thought she preferred dark-haired men, but Tristan had completely overruled this preference.
Lola wished she could find the words to unravel her whole life to him, the way he was currently unwinding his damp winter layers. She watched him hang his coat up, drank in his strong, tall frame, the whole unexpectedness of how much she liked him. The urge to cross the friendship barrier tingled in her fingertips. There was a pause as they took each other in, sneaking that extra look they so often found themselves doing, before the moment was broken by Scruff’s barking as Alf, Freya and Angelo came through the door.
‘Ugh, Scruff, no, not in here!’ Alf groaned as the dog gave himself a shake, sending water droplets all over the floor and anyone unfortunate enough to be close to him.
Freya made a face. ‘Yuck, I’ll go and get the mop.’
Was that disappointment in Tristan’s eyes, Lola wondered as he went to help Alf out of his coat. At almost ninety, retired fisherman Alf was considered the unofficial head of the village. He didn’t go anywhere without his dog, Scruff, who in turn liked to go anywhere he might be slipped a treat. Alf and Scruff had adopted Lola’s café as their second home and Lola would not have had it any other way.
Coats all hung up to dry, everyone settled themselves at the table. Freya mopped the floor and Lola pulled out her pad. ‘What is everyone having?’
‘Earl Grey, please,’ said Tristan.
Alf pulled a face before turning to Lola. ‘I’ll have a mug of strong fisherman’s tea, a proper brew, that is. Not that muck you drink, Vicar.’
‘It’s what I like!’ Tristan protested, glancing at Lola for support.
‘There’s nothing wrong with the comfort of familiarity,’ Lola said diplomatically, even though she sometimes wanted to ruffle Tristan’s habits, see what was underneath that neat, held-together exterior. ‘What’s everyone else having?’
Taking down Freya and Angelo’s orders, Lola retreated behind the counter to get started on the drinks, only to be followed by Freya.
‘I’ll do Angelo’s coffee and my hot chocolate; I want lots of marshmallows. You make the teas,’ she said as she began the process of steaming the milk. Lola was grateful for all of Freya’s help, employing her had been her best decision since opening. Freya ran the front of house leaving Lola free to bake and provide tarot card readings from the kitchen door.
Lola had invited Freya to stay with her over the summer after her life in London had imploded. They had been friends for years, bonding over a summer working in a terribly run cheap cocktail bar. Freya’s skills with the coffee machine, coupled with the rugged Cornish seaside that inspired her paintings, had helped her decide to settle permanently in Polcarrow. Freya was currently renting the spare bedroom in Lola’s quaint cottage, but Lola knew it was only a matter of time before Freya moved in with Angelo up at Bayview House. Angelo, a sculptor currently on sabbatical, had been another summer waif and stray Lola had taken under her wing, and she prided herself on matchmaking the artistic couple.
Lola placed the teapots and cups onto a tray, including Alf’s trusty blue and white Cornishware mug, and carried the drinks over to the table, setting them down in front of Alf and Tristan.
‘What was your brother like?’ Tristan asked as he poured out his tea.
Alf shook his head disapprovingly at the pale colour, stirred his own tea, poured it and showed the dark brew to Tristan. ‘That’s what you need, Vicar. Charlie? Well, it’s strange because in a way he’ll be forever twenty-two and I’m nearly ninety. He’s more of a memory now than a person. Seventy five years is a long time.’ He took a satisfied slurp of his tea. ‘My ma was heartbroken, inconsolable, carried his photo everywhere in a locket. Broke the family up. My sister moved away, couldn’t face it here anymore. He wouldn’t have been on that boat if it wasn’t for the woman he was planning on running away with.’ Alf shook his head bitterly. ‘We never mentioned her again. Nor him really, too painful. I had to get on with it, running the business, fishing, stepping up. I know he had dreams but maybe I did too, and they got put aside. I had responsibilities I never expected. No time for sentiment. I missed him, God, did I miss him. His guiding ways, his good nature. It’s been so long sometimes it feels like he was never here.’
Lola reached out and squeezed Alf’s hand. Her own loss was rawer. Not that she’d told many people about Ruby, part of her wanted to keep the memories to herself.
‘Enough of all this sadness, what’s been has been, it doesn’t do to dwell on it. I don’t understand people’s desire to keep dredging up the past,’ Alf said after a few moments of silent reflection. ‘Come on, Lola, it’s halfway through November, what are your plans for Christmas?’
Lola clapped her hands together in delight. ‘I’m so glad you asked! Before meeting you earlier I whipped up some special scones I’m hoping to trial. Hang on, let me get them.’ Darting into the kitchen, Lola emerged moments later with a plate piled high with golden scones. ‘Cranberry and orange,’ she explained, placing them onto the table, ‘with brandy infused cream.’
Passing around plates, napkins and knives, everyone tucked into the scones, which received thumbs up and sighs of delight. Lola chewed thoughtfully and made a mental note to add a pinch more cinnamon.
‘Lola, that scone was smashing, I hope they stay on the menu.’ Alf patted his middle. ‘Your scones remind me of the ones my mother used to make. Or at least they’re the closest imitation I’ve ever found.’
Lola froze. Should she tell him the recipe came from Polcarrow? Could it have been Alf’s mum who’d shown Ruby how to make the scones? Even the thought was ridiculous, so she decided not to say anything. She didn’t even have any proper concrete proof Ruby had spent much time in the village. ‘They’re one of the first things my grandmother taught me to make after fairy cakes. She used to make scones every Sunday for tea.’
‘These are divine, Lola,’ Tristan said almost in awe.
Giggling, Lola replied, ‘I’ll take that as God’s approval then. Alf?’
Alf crumbled up a bit of scone and let Scruff lick his fingers. The dog barked his approval and Lola gave him a quick scratch behind the ears. Scruff loved everything she baked, even if he wasn’t meant to get his paws on it.
