Pretty Beach Amber
Stormwatch Stout
The air smelled faintly of malt and hops, mixing with the tang of the sea drifting in from the harbour. ‘What’ll it be?’ Archie asked, scanning the board.
Darby looked at the list. ‘I’ll try the Seafarer’s Pale. I think it says it’s seven per cent, though. Oh, well, in for a penny…’
‘Good choice. I’ll have the same.’
The barman, bearded, cheerful and wearing an apron splattered with chalk dust, pulled a pint and a half and put them down on an old plank of wood that served as the counter. Archie paid, slid the half towards Darby and they stepped to the side, leaning against one of the tall barrels that doubled as tables. The beer was cool, light andfabulouslyEnglish.
Archie took a sip, tipped his head to someone he knew and smiled. ‘This is what I call a beer tent.’
Darby agreed. ‘Right, I thought that earlier. It’s the sort of thing you think should be in a film, but then you remember you actually live here.’
‘Aren’t we lucky?’
‘For sure.’
Archie didn’t quite understand how lucky Darby felt to be out of the doldrums. No one, most probably, ever would. Not that it had been all luck. She’d dragged herself out of them. It felt good to be on the up. The doldrums were long gone.
29
Darby stood outside Archie's front door and tried not to gawk like a tourist. She’d walked past the row of houses enough times to know that one, they were very, very nice and two, worth a few bob. Weatherboard, three stories above the harbour wall, painted in white, ticking all the boxes, doing all the things. Darby was at his house because Archie was cooking her dinner. He continued to please every which way that he could. It appeared our Darby may have found a needle in a haystack.
After looking up at the house and then turning around and taking in the boats bobbing on the harbour, she lifted a brass knocker on the deep navy-blue front door and waited. Behind and all around her, Pretty Beach was settling into a Friday night quiet, the harbour reflecting the last of the daylight in little ripples that caught the streetlights just beginning to flicker on.
Hearing footsteps coming to the door, Archie then appeared. Dressed in dark jeans and a pale blue shirt, he kissed Darby and beamed. Fizzing and fizzles arrived; in her heart, in her body, in her face, all the areas in all the places coming back to life.
Archie stepped back to let her into the hallway. 'Perfect timing. Everything is ready and waiting for you. I hope I haven’t forgotten anything and I hope you’ve brought your appetite.'
Darby followed him into the house and had to stop her chin from dropping to the floor as she looked around. She didn’t really know what she’d been expecting, but for sure, there was a distinct lack of 1980s flowered wallpaper. Lovely cooking smells filled the air; garlic, herbs, baking bread, overall deliciousness and the house was Pinterest-level. ‘It smells amazing! How nice to have someone cook for me. Thanks for the invite.’
'Hmm, I hope you’re going to like it. I’m not a bad cook, but I prefer the basic stuff. I have a few things I can cook well without having to look at the recipe every thirty seconds and you're about to experience one of them whether you like it or not.'
The hallway was narrow with a pale wooden herringbone-patterned floor, coats hung from a row of wooden pegs, and a small table held a gigantic fancy-looking blue ceramic bowl containing keys, a candle and a couple of unopened letters. Everything was tidy, neat, though not obsessively organised, and very home-y. 'This place is absolutely gorgeous. I've walked past it hundreds of times and wondered what they were like inside.'
'I was lucky to get it, to be honest. The previous owner was a boat builder who'd lived here for forty years and maintained everything beautifully on the outside. All I've done is update the kitchen and bathroom because they were really dated. I’ve tried not to ruin what was already good about it.'
Darby liked that he’d downplayed the house because, for sure, the place wasveryspecial. It was not the sort of home most people would even think about playing down. The kitchen was a long, long, long way from hers. French paned windows on three sides framed views of the harbour, and the units were painted a pale blue-grey, topped with wooden reclaimed timber worktops. Everything was simple, functional, clean, tidy and cosy at the same time. Walking to the window that faced directly out over the water, Darby raised her eyebrows. 'How do you ever manage to get anything done with this view? I'd spend all day just staringout at the boats. It’s really nice on this side of Pretty Beach. It was way out of my budget.'
'Says the woman who has a gorgeous house in the Old Town.’
‘I guess.’
Archie raised his chin to one of the windows. ‘You get used to it, surprisingly. Though I have to admit there are mornings I find myself watching the fishing boats coming in instead of working. Not the most efficient way to run a business, but there are worse distractions to have.'
From the kitchen window, Darby could see the entire sweep of Pretty Beach harbour. In front of her eyes, working boats and pleasure craft bobbed on their moorings here and there. Lights had begun to appear in the windows of houses across the water, and the whole scene looked so pretty that Darby could hardly tear her eyes away from it.
'Drink?' Archie asked, opening a bottle of white wine that was already standing on the worktop. 'I've got this open, or there's beer in the fridge. Tea?'
This was not a tea moment. Justsonot a tea moment. 'Wine would be lovely, thank you. What are you cooking? It smells absolutely divine. I haven't eaten anything substantial since breakfast. I thought I would save myself.'
'A Persian dish. Chicken with caramelised onions, garlic, currants, cloves and cinnamon.’
‘Ooh, sounds a bit fancy!’
‘Otherwise known as chicken stew.' Archie deadpanned, poured wine into two glasses and handed one to Darby. ‘My mum learnt how to make it when we lived in the Middle East and I follow her recipe.’
