“Well, that’s me told!” He smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to be nosing around. I’ll just grab the boxes and bring them down. No peeking, I promise.”
He grinned mischievously and winked at her. The gesture was so unexpected that Annie’s already crimson cheeks darkened further. She handed the keys to John. He took them and disappeared through the door to the inner hallway. It felt strange that he was so familiar with her home; he probably knew its nooks and crannies better than she did. And yet this familiarity didn’t make her feel uncomfortable or proprietorial; on the contrary, she was finding she liked it. As much as Saltwater suited her, it fitted John just as comfortably.
Chapter 51
The café emptied out and refilled, and the kiosk showed no sign of easing up either. Annie rushed off her feet was becoming a recurring theme. The chocolate pumpkin cupcakes she’d made last night were selling like, well, like hotcakes; people were buying them in boxes of four or six to take home for Halloween after the school run. Two empty pumpkin shells sat sadly on the shelf below the counter, waiting to be carved.
When John breezed back into the café with three large boxes piled one on top of the other, Annie was so busy she couldn’t think straight. The fine weather had brought with it an army of wanderers, aiming to enjoy the watery sun while it lasted. She saw John looking around for somewhere to sit to go through the boxes, but every space was taken.
“You might have to sit on the stairs,” she called to him over the noise of the coffee grinder. Four more people walked into the café and joined the queue.
“All right to sit outside?” a man in a gray hoodie shouted over.
“If you can find a space!” Annie shouted back as she handed out two large paper cups through the kiosk window and turned to the counter to take the next order from inside the café. “Thank you all for your patience, I will get to you all as fast as I can!”
There were nods and waves and noises of goodwill. She was going to have to seriously think about hiring someone; it was becoming impossible to serve the takeaway customers at the kiosk and the drink-ins inside at the same time. As she handed over the change to a woman in a wax jacket, she felt herself being gently shoved to the side. She looked up to see John looking down at her.
“If I’m here I might as well help,” he said.
Annie gawped.
“Shift!” said John. And she did.
John took over the till with only minor queries and left Annie to make the drinks. His presence caused much delight as locals chatted with him about Mari and Celeste. It was, Annie thought, rather like working with a minor celebrity. His smile was warm and genuine, and his low, gravelly laugh seemed to rumble around the tiny café. He was good at front of house too, Annie noted. Before long, he was dishing out cold drinks and serving up cakes on china plates with little cake forks, even running coffees out to customers outside.
“You’re a natural,” said Annie.
“I used to help Aunty when I was in my teens,” he answered. “Every summer. This was my summer job.”
“You spent every summer down here?”
“Aye,” he came back, passing two brimming gingerbread lattes over to a woman who seemed to be trying desperately to catch his eye so she could furnish him with a winning smile. “My mum had six kids to look after, and I was the oldest and the naughtiest. So Mari would have me down here to stay in the holidays. Kept me out of trouble.”
“Were you at risk of getting into trouble?”
He turned back and looked at her. There was that grin again. Just wicked enough to make her want to involuntarily hiccup. “Oh, I got into all the trouble,” he replied.
Annie gulped and made an unsuccessful feather pattern in a mocha that resembled a slug.
“Help yourself to a cupcake,” said Annie as she hurriedly slurped the slug mocha so he didn’t see her mistake and set about making another for her customer.
“Don’t mind if I do,” said John, reaching into the chiller.
Annie turned her back to him and raised her eyes to the heavens. What is wrong with me?
A group of women came in and claimed the larger middle table. Since she didn’t yet know all her customers’ names, Annie gave her regulars nicknames by which she identified them. These women, rather unimaginatively, were called “the swimmers.” Thrice weekly these women of all ages and statures took to the sea—rain or shine—wearing colorful swimming caps and screeching with unbridled joy as the cold water rushed at them. Rather them than me, Annie would think as she watched them bobbing about in the surf. Then they would clamor into the café, high as kites on all the endorphins that the freezing ocean had released into their brains.