Spring at Lavender Bay. Sarah Bennett
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the world she needed to talk to more than Eliza and Libby would never pick up the phone again. What was she going to do?
‘Stick another one in here, and stop mooning over that bloody girl, lad.’
Samuel Barnes dragged his eyes away from the corner table where his sister was huddled with her two best friends to fix a baleful stare across the bar taps. Honestly, he didn’t understand what got into his grandad’s head sometimes. He’d known both Beth and Libby since they were knee-high and they would never be more to him than surrogate sisters. And, even if he were inclined towards either of them—not that he was, of course!—he’d hardly be trying to hit on one of them at a wake. ‘I’m not mooning, Pops, just checking the girls are all right. It’s been a bloody tough day for all of them.’
Blue eyes, still as bright as the ones he saw in his own reflection every morning, twinkled back at him from his grandad’s deeply lined face. The shock of curls on his head might be pure silver now, but Joe Barnes was still trouble in a tweed cap. ‘My mistake. That’s what happens when us old farts get dehydrated.’ Pops waggled his empty pint glass and Sam took it from him with a shake of his head.
After placing the glass in a half-full rack beneath the bar, he selected a fresh one from the shelf above his head and pulled a fresh pint from that month’s guest ale. Saucy Sal was proving to be a popular choice amongst the regulars, although that might have as much to do with the busty blonde winking out from the beer tap label as the golden-brown ale itself. Sam sighed; it was a long way from the vintage wines he’d recommended to customers at the Michelin-starred restaurant he’d worked at until the previous autumn. ‘Make the most of it, Pops,’ he said as he placed the pint on the towel in front of his grandad. ‘I’m cutting you off after this one.’
‘Cheeky whelp, you can’t cut a man off in his own damn pub! You’re not too old for a clip round the ear. We’ve got to give Eleanor a proper send-off, you know.’ It had been a good few years since Sam’s parents had taken over running The Siren from Pops, but he still acted like lord and master of the place given half the chance. Now, thanks to his dad’s recent illness, Sam was the one with the dubious honour of being in charge, and Pops sought to take advantage of his relative inexperience at every opportunity.
‘I know, but I don’t want another complaint from the warden because you woke the other residents up with your singing and carrying on.’ Sam struggled against the smile wanting to rise at the memory. They’d celebrated his dad’s fiftieth birthday in as much style as he’d been up to. Sam had pulled out all the stops and cooked them all a four-course meal, choosing the perfect wines to complement each dish.
After a generous brandy nightcap, Sam had left his mum to settle his dad in bed whilst he walked Pops back to the sheltered accommodation flats about half a mile along the front. The fresh air had hit them both, and it hadn’t been entirely clear who’d held who up, but Sam was accepting no responsibility for the rousing chorus of ‘She was only a farmer’s daughter’ Pops had insisted on singing as Sam fumbled with the key to his grandad’s door.
Pops waved a dismissive hand. ‘Bah, she’s as uptight as that awful perm on her head.’
This time Sam couldn’t hold back his snort of laughter. ‘What am I gonna do with you, Pops?’
His grandad winked then eased himself off the stool to join his cronies in their favourite spot. ‘Well, you could fetch me a bite of something from that buffet. Your ma’s done us proud again today. Eleanor would be right pleased with everything.’
Sam nodded. Pops was right. Mum had pulled out all the stops to make sure their erstwhile friend and neighbour had the send-off she deserved. He’d offered to do the catering, but his preferred style of cooking had been deemed too fancy for the occasion, and his mum had been happy to help, leaving him free to help Beth manage the logistics surrounding Eleanor’s funeral.
A sudden lump formed in his throat at the realisation that feisty, funny Eleanor Bishop would never again perch at the corner of the bar to sip the single dry sherry she treated herself to on the way home from church on Sunday mornings. She’d been a fixture of the place his whole life, slipping him and Eliza a lemon sherbet or an Everton mint from one of the ever-present paper bags she kept behind the counter in the emporium.
When he’d found himself unexpectedly back in Lavender Bay, his dreams on hold, she’d been the first to welcome him back—and to offer a sympathetic ear during those first frustrating weeks as he juggled his own disappointment and his father’s wounded pride. With regret, he let the memories go. There would be time enough to mourn her later, in private. Someone needed to hold the fort until they could usher the gathered mourners from the pub.
As no one else currently waited at the bar, he ducked under the side hatch and grabbed a plate from the end of the buffet table. After a quick glance to where the girls sat, he took a second plate. Heaping them both with sandwiches, sausage rolls and mini quiches, he delivered the first to his grandad’s table to a champion’s welcome, then made his way to Eliza’s corner.
The girls had claimed it as their own from the first day they’d been old enough to drink. He could vividly recall a rare weekend visit home from his training placement at the Cordon Bleu in Paris when he’d found them ensconced with a bottle of wine, filling the bar with laughter. They’d been home from their second year at university, and seeing them so grown-up had been a shock to the system. Though Eliza and her friends were only three years younger, the age gap between them had seemed huge growing up. When he’d thought about them, they’d been this amorphous collection of pigtails, terrible taste in pop music, and annoying interruptions. That weekend, they’d diverged into distinct personalities, and that age gap had narrowed considerably.
He’d found Beth particularly distracting, but that had been a moment of madness. A surge of youthful hormones, alcohol and opportunity. The bottle of wine the girls had split had been followed by several large vodka and tonics, leaving them all a little unsteady on their feet. Worried about the way she’d almost fallen out of the door, Sam had followed her out, almost tripping over himself thanks to several pints and an enormous brandy Pops had poured for him.
When he’d straightened up, she’d been standing on the railing that lined the edge of the promenade, arms flung out like she was Rose standing on the prow of the Titanic. With her hair streaming out behind her, and a flush on her cheeks from the booze and the chilly wind, she’d looked as tempting as the mermaid who decorated the pub’s sign swinging over his head.
He’d crossed to her without thinking, her name on his lips. Startled, she’d turned too fast and lost her balance to tumble the short distance into his arms. It might have been all right if she hadn’t hooked her arms around his neck, pressing their bodies up close so he couldn’t fail to notice the womanly curves, the way his hands slotted perfectly at her waist, as though the sculpted indent had been carved to fit only him.
Her fingers had knotted in the curls at his nape, and then they were kissing, hot and wet and frantic—a clumsy clash of lips and tongues. God only knows what might have happened had Libby not staggered out of the bar at the moment to screech in disbelief at the sight of them. Her shocked laughter had doused his passion as effectively as a dip in the sea and Sam had come to his senses. With a muttered apology, he’d fled back into the pub and brushed it off as a stupid mistake. Thankfully, that brief flutter of attraction had passed, and he’d tucked her firmly back into the like-a-sister-to-me box where she belonged.
Sliding the plate onto the table, he studied their red-rimmed eyes with a surge of brotherly concern. ‘I thought you might be hungry.’
Beth glanced up at him. Her hazel eyes, which could morph from brown to green to blue depending on her mood, stood out huge in her pale face. Her chestnut hair had been dragged up in a high ponytail, the strands dull and lifeless. A jut of collarbone he’d never noticed before poked out from the too-loose neck of her navy blouse, and he had to shove his hands in his pockets before she saw them clench into fists. Voice husky with tears, she thanked him