‘Panic in your eyes about losing something sentimental. Felt it myself. I remember, a year after my Ron died, a friend came round and tidied away his fishing tackle in the hall. I went mad with her and she couldn’t understand why. Couldn’t explain it myself, but there are some things you just have to hold on to, you just have to keep around you.’
Diana stroked the scarf absently. She hadn’t considered the sentimental attachment. After Rachel’s revelation about Madison Kopek, she had gone home and flung all Julian’s possessions from their bedroom – shirts, shoes, a bottle of aftershave – into three bin liners, and given them to a startled Mrs Bills to store out of sight.
‘You okay, love?’ asked Dot.
She nodded. ‘I’m sorry about Ron,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t know. I remember him. He ran the café with you, didn’t he?’
The old woman smiled nostalgically. ‘Married for fifty-two years, ran this place for fifteen of them when he retired from his job in London. He was a pastry chef at the Savoy in the sixties, you know. His macaroons got served to Liz Taylor, Brigitte Bardot, Frank Sinatra. You must remember Ron’s Chelsea buns,’ she added. ‘People came from far and wide for his Chelsea buns. In fact, I remember your husband liked them. He used to ride down from the big house on that beautiful horse of his. He’d tie the horse up and get a Chelsea bun for himself and a chocolate brownie for your son. Apparently you don’t eat carbohydrates,’ she teased.
Diana nodded, feeling a pang of regret for getting rid of his clothes. She could imagine him here, standing at the counter on those Saturday mornings he went for a ride, and wished with all her heart that she had gone with him more often. Laughed with him, eaten cake, galloped until the wind took their breath away, made him happy. Happy so that he didn’t have to go looking for it elsewhere said an after-thought.
‘It does get easier, you know,’ said Dot softly. ‘Grief doesn’t ever go away, but it shows itself less often.’
She picked up a cloth and started rubbing down the surfaces.
‘This café certainly misses Ron. He’d have hated that I’ve let the place get like this.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Diana. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘You think so?’ said Dot more sharply. ‘Try that lemon drizzle cake and tell me I don’t need to change my supplier. Bloody rotten it is, but there doesn’t seem much point when I’m just waiting for a buyer.’
‘You’re selling up?’
Dot nodded. ‘I’ve had some good times here, but now? For the first couple of years it actually made things easier, because when I’m here I can still feel him around me. But now . . . let’s be honest, the café’s seen better days and so have I.’
Diana looked around the room and had to agree with Dot. It was dark and tired, and that lemon drizzle cake didn’t look too appetising. It was a shame really, as it was a good space and perfectly placed to catch the passing tourist trade that flocked in at weekends. An image started forming in her mind. One in which the café was buzzing and full of life, the tables were covered in blue gingham and home-made cakes were tied up with brown paper and string.
‘Don’t know of a buyer, do you?’ asked Dot.
‘I’ll keep my ears open,’ mused Diana.
The bell above the door tinkled behind them.
‘Are you coming?’ asked Sylvia, looking a little piqued.
‘We were just chatting, weren’t we?’ said Dot. ‘Come back whenever you fancy doing it again.’
‘I will,’ said Diana, suddenly feeling in the mood for cake.
22
From the coffee shop, Rachel and Ross had a perfect view of Chesapeake Beach. They could see cafés, ice-cream parlours and tackle shops; they could see the marina and the white charter fishi
ng boats chugging back to shore full of tourists and the big catches of the day. They could see the beautiful bay, with its silvery water glinting in the sun and holidaymakers milling around in T-shirts and shorts, holding wicker baskets and beach towels. They could pretty much see everything and everyone except Madison’s friend Laura Dale, who worked at the water park across the road from where they were sitting. Who was due to have finished her shift at least half an hour ago, but who had not yet revealed herself.
Sighing impatiently, Rachel ordered another strawberry milkshake and a slice of key lime pie that was winking at her from under a big plastic dome. One of the perils of this sort of work was all the sitting around. In her first couple of years as a journalist, she had put on over a stone in weight from drinking in the pub and snacks and coffees whilst she was waiting around for leads. It was one of the reasons she had taken up swimming again in her mid twenties – her love of the sport had tailed off completely once she had discovered boys and gone to university, but getting back in the water had restored her slim, lean physique that was easy to pour into skinny jeans.
‘Come on, come on, there she is,’ hissed Ross, hauling Rachel to her feet just as she was spooning some cake into her mouth.
Across the road, a tall, twenty-ish woman with a dark brown ponytail was leaving the water park. It had taken Rachel less than a minute to find half a dozen photographs of Laura Dale on Facebook so they didn’t have to debate whether they had the right person.
Rachel had tried the direct approach, of course, calling Laura to try and arrange a meeting, but the girl had been evasive, hostile even. And so she had decided that if the mountain wouldn’t come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain – or whatever that quote was.
They pushed out on to the street, sidestepping a moped, and crossed to the other side. Rachel had been worried they would lose the girl, but she was still there, bending over a bicycle, unlocking it from some railings.
‘Hi, Laura, can we talk?’
She glanced up, startled, looking back and forth between Ross and Rachel, then her face darkened and she turned back to her task.