“I promise to be sympathetic to its history,” said Annie.
Mari tsked down the line. “Sympathy is for those we pity,” she said. “It doesn’t need your sympathy; it needs your oomph! It’s serving no purpose while it slumbers.”
Annie laughed. “Okay, I’ll give it my best oomph. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t, dear. But I should warn you, you may run into opposition from my nephew. As you know, he’s keen for me to sell the place. He might not take kindly to a business starting up. Don’t get me wrong, there’s not a thing he can do about it; I’ve agreed to it, and that is that. But it won’t stop him throwing his teddy out of the perambulator!”
Annie felt her chagrin rise at the mere mention of the dreaded nephew.
“I’ll watch out for tantrums,” said Annie. “So long as it doesn’t cause problems between the two of you.”
“It won’t,” Mari said with parental confidence.
* * *
—
Annie had begun making lists for reopening the tearoom as a coffee shop the moment she’d put the phone down after speaking with Mari. So, by the time she had called Paul—in his new capacity as a friend without benefits—and commissioned him to do some building, lifting, and general handiwork around the place, she had a clear and exacting idea of what she wanted to achieve.
The whole thing needed to be done on a shoestring, not least because she was still having to draw cash out on her much-abused credit card but also because this was, after all, just a pop-up shop with a very good possibility of closing down when John Granger sold the property. Luckily Paul’s rates for mates were exceedingly matey, and Alfred was on hand as extra muscle and only required food for his services. Maeve had donated a stack of old wood left over from the building of a new barn on the farm, and Bill had brought down three unopened tubs of chalk-white paint left over from when they painted their apartment above the pub.
The first thing to address was moving the coffee machine so that it was conveniently reachable from both the café and the kiosk. Paul took the wall down to make the space open plan and then built a long counter against the far wall, where the coffee machine was replumbed into its new position, as was a sink and a five-ring electric hob with a small electric oven （all secondhand） and microwave （donated by Sally） set into one of the new cupboards. Beneath the counter, he built a series of deep cupboards and plumbed in the dishwasher.
Annie continued to open the kiosk as usual; it was important to keep her customer base happy. And being that it was only a takeaway service, the disruption from banging and drilling was minimal—at least to her customers.
The old nautical oil lamps, which Annie had lovingly restored to their brassy glory, were given to Paul, with strict instructions, and transformed into stylish light fittings; the lamps now housed electric bulbs and were attached by a long length of industrial-looking wire. The offensive strip light in the ceiling was removed and the new-old lamps were hung above the counter at different heights, wire looping between them, as though the lamps were hanging over the side of a fishing boat. Annie had rescued the kitsch floral crockery from the old cupboards and stacked the pieces on top of the coffee machine, where they teetered in a riot of ditsy floral and plush rose petals, like a Mad Hatter’s tea party.
Chapter 35
As the days went on, Annie fell into tempo with the pulse of running a business on the coast. Come hell or high water—and sometimes the weather at Willow Bay seemed to encompass both—the dog walkers and the joggers would be out for their early-morning constitutionals. Annie would open the kiosk at eight a.m., ready to catch them on their way back, wind-bitten and frozen-fingered and grateful for a hot drink. There was always a lull around nine a.m. and then, between ten and eleven, it was the turn of the spandex mummies speed-walking their pushchairs and small dogs, and the retired folks, sensibly attired against the cold and steady of pace. Skinny flat whites and tea were the orders of the hour, respectively.
During the lulls, Annie would sit in the tearoom and read by the Calor Gas fire, so as to hear the “OOOhee!” of customers calling her attention through the window. She opened the shutters of the tearoom’s large picture windows to let in the daylight and read Nicholas Nickleby—the next book club choice—or Mari’s notebook. It felt like a sublime existence, albeit fishbowl-like at times, as curious faces pressed against the glass. But she supposed it was understandable, since the place had been shut up for the last twenty years. On Saturdays and during her lunch breaks, Emily stood outside with a placard that read SAVE SALTWATER NOOK. It wasn’t a personal vendetta—though it wasn’t ideal—and she quite often bought a hot drink from the kiosk when it was really cold and chatted amiably with Annie about how business was before going back to picketing.