The Little Bookshop at Herring Cove. Kellie Hailes
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would soon be taken away and replaced by a stone wall running the length of the land designed to keep non-paying guests out.
‘Though I guess since you’ve bought the farm, we won’t be enjoying produce from there for much longer.’ Sophie picked up the pile of bent, rusty nails that he’d pulled from the pallets and jiggled them in her hand.
‘No, I suppose not.’ Where the vegetable plots currently sat were earmarked for part of the golf course.
Sophie humphed her disapproval, then crossed her legs and wiggled back and forth, getting comfortable, like she was settling in for a serious chat.
‘So, I saw how much you offered Natalie next door. It’s a lot of money for a building that run down.’
Alexander nearly spat out his mouthful. The agreements between the Fletcher Group and their vendors were meant to be confidential. Monetary arrangements were not to be disclosed.
Sophie pointed a finger in his direction and waggled it back and forth. ‘And before you get all grumpy that Nat told me, we’re like sisters. We tell each other everything.’
Alexander thought back to Natalie’s website and the surprise on Sophie and Ginny’s face. Not everything, apparently, but he wasn’t going to bring that up and risk shaking the barely even ground he and Sophie were currently on.
‘Well, it’s what the land is worth. And I’m not here to play games.’
‘Yet you’re here, building me shelves, talking about building a new sign, painting walls. It feels a lot to me like some kind of game is being played.’ The edge was back in Sophie’s tone.
Of course it was. All the shelving in the world wasn’t going to give her reason to trust him. And he had the distinct feeling that it would take a lot more than just words and promises to allow Sophie to trust him. Only time and consistency could do that.
The former he didn’t have a lot of. As for the latter, he’d said he was going to help her out, and he was a man of his word.
‘There’s no game-playing here, Sophie. You know our plans. We’re going to build a resort here. We believe more good will come from a Fletcher resort than from letting this village continue its descent into a ghost town.’ Alexander picked up the hammer and gripped it. Embraced its solidity, its ability to create, to help. ‘The thing is, I hate the idea of destroying someone’s livelihood in order for me to get what I want.’
Sophie turned to face him, her eyes steely. ‘Is that how you see it? You think stamping a fancy resort in the middle of a beautiful village is a good thing? A way to change people’s fortunes? Their lives?’ She dropped the nails on the ground and fisted her hands, her knuckles blooming white. ‘What that tells me is that you don’t really see this place at all. You see pound signs. You see your family name on another building. You see a chance to expand your fortunes, not ours. Not everyone in this village is motivated by money. Not even Nat. She has her reasons for selling that aren’t money-oriented at all. And if those reasons weren’t there, she’d have told you to bugger off, that I’m certain of.’
Sophie picked up the plate and pushed herself up. ‘The thing is, Alexander, you weren’t born here, you weren’t raised here, you can’t see how special this place is. You’ll do what you think needs doing to make your goals happen. You’ll take Herring Cove, our home with its beautiful heart, and rip the soul from it, then you’ll leave and never step foot in it again. Never look back.’
Alexander tried to formulate a comeback. Failed. Sophie was telling the truth. There was no argument. That was exactly how the Fletcher Group went about business. Find a viable spot. Follow the format with complete disregard to what made a place special, then move on.
He focused on the lengths of wood in front of him, unable to face Sophie’s antipathy for one second longer. Not because he couldn’t handle it from her but because it was a reflection of how – if he were honest – he felt about the family business. Its impact on communities. Its impact on the people who lived there.
It was a feeling he’d tried to suppress for years. One that was his secret shame. If he ever voiced his concerns out loud to either of his parents he’d be letting them down. Not living up to their expectations of who he was meant to be.
Yet he’d heard whispers of what happened to communities once Fletcher money transformed their quiet, peaceful villages. And they weren’t pretty.
Early issues were of infrastructure struggling to cope. Sewerage systems with burst pipes. Roading that crumbled under the increased volume of traffic. Road rage breaking out on bank holidays, putting pressure on the local police force.
He’d heard reports of increases in drunk and disorderly behaviour and petty theft. Not to mention the ‘us’ and ‘them’ mentality between those who were born and bred in the area and those who came to holiday in their flash cars, complete with sense of entitlement, rubbing up villagers in the wrong way, creating a friction that couldn’t easily be smoothed over.
‘The thing is, Alexander.’ Sophie’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat. ‘The thing is, you’re not the one who has to pick up the broken pieces. The broken people. You don’t have to hold things together. And while I have no doubt that a Fletcher resort will bring money, opportunities and people to Herring Cove, it won’t strengthen its soul. This place is not just where I live, not just where I work. It’s as much a part of me as my heart is. It is my soul. And you’re threatening to destroy it, which is why I’m going to have to ask you to put down that hammer and leave. You being here is just a reminder of everything you’re planning to take away. And I’ve lost enough.’
The strength in Sophie’s voice stopped Alexander from an attempt at rebuttal. There was no pity in her voice. No ‘poor me’. Only a strong self-belief that she could handle whatever life threw at her, and his helping was only seen as interference.
He sucked in a breath and focused on the hammer, still in his hand. Pondered what his next move should be.
Quick footsteps on pavers followed by the click of the back door shutting told him he was alone.
Sophie didn’t just have a point. She was right. But her being right couldn’t change the future. The deal was going through. The resort was happening. He couldn’t stop it, but he could say sorry in his own way.
He’d promised Sophie he’d help out. And he didn’t break promises. Not to too-cute-for-her-own-good bookshop owners, not to his parents, not to anyone.
Especially not to himself.
His sense of self, his sense of worth, was riding on his doing the right thing by Sophie, because he was beginning to wonder if what they were doing in Herring Cove might very well be the wrong thing.
Sophie tried not to let the ripple of ever-growing irritation break through her customer-ready smile. Why was Alexander still out the back? What part of ‘leave’ did he not understand? And why was he still hammering away, physically and metaphorically?
‘That noise has got to be driving you balmy.’ Mr Johnson, a loyal customer who made a point of coming in every couple of weeks to buy a book, usually an autobiography or thriller, covered his ears with an empathetic grimace.
‘I’ve got a guy helping me build some new shelving.’ Sophie silently congratulated herself on not adding ‘annoying’ and ‘pain-in-the-arse’ before ‘guy’.
‘New shelving?’ Mr Johnson’s eyebrows rose. ‘Does that mean business is picking up? Is Herring Cove seeing a turn of the tide? Is fortune finally favouring us? Is there a chance we can kick that horrid Fletcher resort out of the town before ground is broken?’
Sophie placed Mr Johnson’s latest book of choice, an autobiography of some past-it politician, in a brown paper bag stamped with All Booked