Snowflakes at Lavender Bay

by Sarah Bennett

  Michael nodded. ‘He works hard to take care of us.’ It sounded like words he’d picked up from someone else and had adopted as a mantra to remind himself. ‘Jack said if I could score a goal for Daddy, he’d film it on his phone so I could show him later.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to make sure you score.’ An idea came to him, sure he’d end up looking a bit of a tit, but what would it matter in the big scheme of things. ‘Hey, Michael, we should work out a celebration routine for when you do score, just like they do in the Premier League.’

  Eyes bright for the first time that morning, Michael grinned. ‘Can we?’

  ‘Sure, but let’s talk about it over there so no one can overhear and nick our idea.’ Owen nodded over to a quieter spot not far from the water and they laid their plans.

  By the time their names were called, Michael was raring to go. Delighted at his enthusiasm, Owen took his place beside him in the miniature marked-out pitch. ‘Let’s smash ’em!’ he said, holding up his hand for a high-five.

  ‘No mercy!’ Michael smacked his little hand against Owen’s as he completed the battle cry they’d come up with, and then the game was on.

  It was hot, chaotic and the most fun Owen had had in a long time. At the end of the first five-minute half he was bent over at the waist panting from a combination of exhaustion and too much laughter. Their opponents were pretty hapless, and it was not through want of trying that the score remained goalless. Accepting a bottle of cold water from Sam, Owen chugged half of it down then made sure Michael had a good drink too. Using a towel the other man handed out to him, Owen rubbed the sweat from Michael’s face and arms. ‘All right, champ?’

  ‘We nearly had them just before the whistle!’ Bouncing on his toes, Michael showed no signs of fatigue. ‘I’m gonna score for sure next half.’ He glanced towards Jack who gave him a thumbs-up, his phone held ready in his other hand.

  ‘I’m ready, buddy, don’t worry. Now let’s see you score.’

  Owen tossed the towel to Sam, the whistle blew, and they were off again. The kid on the opposite team kicked the ball towards his dad, missed his mark and groaned as the ball slid past his dad’s foot and over the sideline. Thinking it was a game, Bastian lunged for the football, tugging his lead out of Noah’s hand in the process, and scampered off down the beach shoving the ball with his nose. The whistle blew, and Owen joined in the chorus of laughter as a red-faced Jack chased after his dog. That only made things worse, of course, and soon half the spectators were involved trying to rescue the ball from the Lab, who barked excitedly at all his new friends.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Taylor’s going to tell him off.’ Eyes wide as saucers, Michael had his gaze fixed on the small woman who was marching down the beach towards Jack. From the wagging of her finger, it did look indeed like she was giving him a talking-to.

  Owen gave Michael’s shoulder a gentle nudge. ‘Maybe she’ll give him detention.’ The boy looked horrified for a moment as though detention was a fate worse than death, before breaking out into giggles that shook his whole body. ‘And Bastian, too,’ he gasped. ‘She’ll make him sit in the corner!’

  Order finally restored, with Bastian banished back to the blanket and Sam standing guard over him, they recommenced the match. The minutes flew past, and though they pressed forward it seemed they were destined for a goalless draw until Owen dummied a kick to the left, sending his adult opponent in the wrong direction and leaving a free space for Michael to run into. Owen passed him the ball and held his breath as the kid faced off against his classmate who’d dashed back to cover the goal. Michael got his foot perfectly under the ball and sent it flying past the keeper’s shoulder and straight into the back of the miniature net.

  With a scream of delight, Michael threw out his arms and zoomed around like an aeroplane until he came to a stop facing Owen. They nodded once at each other then exchanged the complicated routine of hand slaps they’d come up with before flapping their arms like a pair of demented chickens as they turned in a circle. Cheers rose from the spectators and uncaring of how ridiculous he might look, Owen turned to them and bowed with a flourish as the whistle blew signalling the end of their match.

  ‘We won, we won!’ Michael took a flying leap at Owen who had no choice other than to catch him up in his arms. Flipping the boy around so he could cling to his shoulders, Owen carried him off the field like they’d won the World Cup, not the first-round robin in a kids’ friendly.

  The rest of the afternoon passed in a whirl of laughter. Owen and Michael made it through to the knock-out stages, but neither were bothered when they lost in their quarter final. The two boys had a whale of a time—when they weren’t running around the beach, they were splashing in and out of the shallows with Bastian. The simple joy on their faces hurt and healed Owen’s heart in equal measures. Beneath the pang of jealousy that he’d never experienced anything like this as a kid himself was a surprising warmth that he’d played some small part in a special day. Whatever difficulties the boys might have faced, they retained a sense of innocence Owen hoped neither would lose for a long time to come.

  When they finally trudged up the beach, clothes stiff with dried salt water, hair full of sand and stinking like only men and boys could do after hours running around in the baking sun, it felt like the five of them were a little band of brothers. It wasn’t just the kids; Owen had found himself really enjoying the company of both Sam and Jack. Like light and shade, one full of quick laughter, the other more thoughtful, though no less amusing in his responses, the pair were so easy to talk to that he found himself already looking forward to the many more weekends to come. It’d been a long time since he’d had friends, far too long if he was honest with himself.

  The fact Jack had taken on someone else’s child—even his brother’s kid—filled Owen with admiration. He couldn’t imagine being thrust into that situation; he’d never pictured himself having kids and wasn’t sure he’d be equal to the task. Mucking around on the beach for a couple of hours was one thing, but the idea of being solely responsible for the health and wellbeing of a child? Owen knew all too well how badly that could turn out and was in no hurry to risk repeating the mistakes of his own past. As fun as the afternoon had been, he wasn’t sorry to be handing Michael back to his parents.

  Leaving Jack and the boys with a round of high-fives and a big hug from Michael, Owen followed Sam into the pub for a quick pint. He had plans for the evening, but not wanting to risk anyone prying into them, he feigned the need for an early night—even going so far as to persuade Eliza, who was serving behind the bar, to rustle him up a sandwich to take up to his room with a second beer.

  A hot shower, a change of clothes and a quick check to make sure the coast was clear, he let himself quietly out the guest entrance down the back stairs and took a circuitous route towards the beach. Stopping the first young lad he spotted, Owen took an envelope out of his pocket and offered it to the boy. ‘How would you like to earn yourself five quid?’

  Chapter 10

  Two days. Owen had been back in Lavender Bay for two whole days and hadn’t so much as walked past the front door of the chippy. Libby knew this because she’d spent the same two days with her eyes glued to a certain spot on the promenade railings. It was one thing for Libby to decide it’d been a mistake to sleep with him, it was quite another for him to prove it so blatantly by avoiding her.

  The kids’ beach football match Owen, Jack and Sam were involved with had finished ages ago. It had been a huge success, or so she’d heard from the scores of families who’d come through the front door for the past couple of hours, tired, happy and starving after hours spent running around in the Sunday afternoon sun. Libby hadn’t attended the event herself—though she’d normally have been down there cheering on every team—because the last thing she wanted was for Owen to think she was gawking at him. Bloody man! He had her second-guessing herself all the time and then didn’t have the decency to show his face.

  Well, at least Sunday was early c
losing so she only had to hang on for five more minutes and then she could go upstairs and sulk in the bath. She checked the clock: two minutes left, close enough to switch off the fryers. Her hand was inches from the switch when the buzzer beneath the front door mat sounded. With a sigh, and the falsest of smiles, Libby looked up to greet the customer only to find a young boy of about 10 clutching a fiver in one hand and an envelope in the other. ‘Can I help you?’

  The boy thrust the envelope onto the counter. ‘This is for you, and can I have some chips please?’

  Libby studied the envelope, but didn’t touch it. Her name was scrawled in an unfamiliar bold black script. She didn’t need to know the writing to guess who it was from though. ‘Where did you get this?’

  With a shrug, the boy pointed back over his shoulder. ‘Man on the beach gave me a fiver to deliver it to you.’ His face clouded. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

  Shaking her head, Libby scooped a large portion of chips into the centre of the pile of paper in front of her. ‘Well, your mum probably wouldn’t like you accepting money off a stranger, even for something as simple as delivering an envelope, would she?’

  His face fell even further. ‘No.’

  Poor kid, it wasn’t his fault a certain someone had taken advantage of him. ‘Hey, don’t worry. It’s just a friend of mine messing about, but I think you should be more careful in the future, and you should tell your mum about what you did. Now, do you want salt and vinegar on these?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Clutching his chips and the change from his precious five-pound note the boy slouched from the shop.

  The second he’d cleared the steps, Libby swung the closed sign and bolted the door. For the next half an hour, she ignored the envelope and stuck diligently to her clean-up routine. If Owen thought he could ignore her and then she’d come running, he was in for a disappointment. She had a hot bath and an e-book she’d pre-ordered ages ago waiting for her, and that was the only thing she planned on reading. With a huff, she swept the envelope into the just-emptied bin, turned off the lights and brushed past the beaded curtain hanging between the shop and the back area.

  She made it halfway upstairs before coming to an abrupt halt. Wasn’t she just as guilty of ignoring Owen? Worse, really, because at least he was making an effort to communicate. Two steps back down and she froze again. Why send a letter rather than come in person? Perhaps he wanted to let her down gently and thought it would be easier in writing. The idea he might not want to see her again tied her stomach in knots and she started back up the stairs, not ready to face that possibility.

  Her foot hovered above the final tread. But what if he did want to see her, but was worried she would reject him? ‘This is ridiculous!’ Stomping almost hard enough to put her foot through one of the treads, Libby marched back down and into the shop to snatch the envelope out of the bin.

  ‘Everything all right, lovey?’

  At her dad’s voice, Libby stuffed the envelope in the front pocket of her trousers then turned around. ‘What? Oh, everything’s fine thanks.’ When he stared at the waste bin still clutched in her free hand, she plastered on a smile. ‘I thought I’d lost one of my rings so was just checking the bin.’ The clean, empty bin. God, she was a terrible liar.

  Either her dad hadn’t noticed or was too nice to say anything about her odd behaviour. ‘That’s a shame, lovey. I’m sure it’ll turn up once you stop looking for it.’ It had been his solution for finding lost things for as long as she could remember, and the familiarity of it was enough to brighten her mood.

  Hooking her arm through his, she rested her head against his shoulder. ‘Wise words, Dad.’

  ‘What’re your plans for this fine evening?’ he asked as they made their way upstairs to their family home. ‘There’s one of those crime series you love starting tonight, if you fancy it?’

  Conscious of the envelope burning a hole in her pocket, Libby demurred. ‘I’m not sure, Dad. I’ve been stuck in all day, so I might pop out for a bit of fresh air.’

  ‘Whatever you like, lovey. Shall I DVR it and we can watch it later?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. I’m going to get changed, I’ll see you in a bit.’ With a quick peck on his cheek, she hurried up to her private haven on the second floor.

  Most of their accommodation sprawled over the first floor, but Libby had chosen one of the attic rooms as a child. Then, as now, she’d loved the view it afforded out across the sea. Her dad had extended the windowsill to create a bench seat which her mum had covered in gaily coloured cushions. It was her spot. For thinking, dreaming, or spying on gorgeous, frustrating men. Whatever her mood was, curling up on her little bench always made her feel better.

  Sinking down on one of the tattered cushions, Libby drew out the crumpled envelope and stared at it. Five minutes—and a failure to develop any kind of X-ray vision—later, she gave into temptation and ripped it open. Her eyes scanned the brief note, little bubbles of excitement fizzing inside her.

  Mr Owen Coburn cordially invites Ms Elizabeth Marie Stone to join him for supper this evening at 8 p.m.

  Location: Third hut from the left, The Beach, Lavender Bay.

  Dress code: clothing optional

  Clothing optional? He should be so bloody lucky. With a skip in her step, Libby headed to the little en-suite bathroom her dad had installed when she’d turned 12. If Owen wanted to see her naked again he was going to have to work for it, but best to be prepared…just in case.

  With a quick rub of her palms against the front of her best jeans, Libby glanced over her shoulder, then tapped on the door of the beach hut. The beach around her was mostly empty. Those who’d finished their holidays would be well on their way home by now, and the locals would be going through their regular Sunday evening routines. The door swung back and her breath caught at the sight of Owen clad in an olive green short-sleeved shirt which turned his tanned skin to a delicious shade of caramel. He’d teamed it with a pair of cream chinos and his feet were bare. It really was criminal for a man to be so good-looking. ‘Hi.’ It was about all she could manage.

  ‘Hi.’ He scrubbed at the back of his neck with one hand. ‘I wasn’t sure you were going to show.’

  That admission of uncertainty did more to disarm her than anything else. ‘After such a charming invitation, how could I resist?’ She gave him a quick once-over. ‘I see you didn’t follow the suggested dress code either.’

  He laughed. ‘Can’t blame a man for trying.’ Stepping back, he swept his arm wide. ‘Come on in.’

  Scanning the room, two thoughts crossed her mind in quick succession: one, he really was trying, and two, she was in deep trouble. A bed with an old-fashioned brass frame dominated one half of the small space, its mattress draped in a mish-mash of patchwork quilts, blankets and cushions.

  Not wanting to think too hard about how comfortable it looked, her eyes skipped over to a battered wooden desk with an old captain’s chair in front of it and a mismatched cabinet beside it. The top of the desk held several platters of cold meat, cheese, olives and a crispy-topped cob loaf. Beside a couple of china plates draped with cotton napkins sat an ice bucket with what looked like a bottle of champagne nestled inside it and a pair of mismatched glasses. A bowl of strawberries and a pot of clotted cream adorned the cabinet. ‘What’s all this?’

  Slipping past her, Owen lifted the champagne from the ice and began to twist off the wire cage covering the cork. ‘I did promise you supper.’

  ‘Yes, but how did you manage’— arms outstretched, she turned in a half-circle —‘all this?’

  With one of the napkins wrapped about the cork, Owen eased it from the bottle’s neck with the softest pop, rather than the brash, showy bang she might have expected from him. Another point in his favour—they were beginning to rack up. ‘The furniture I picked up after touring around the local antique shops yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Antique shops?’ Had he been shopping at the emporium? That would be bound to raise questions with Beth
.

  ‘Not the one you’re thinking of, don’t panic.’ Owen handed her a glass full of sparkling golden liquid. ‘The food, I sourced from the local supermarket through one of those click-and-collect orders.’

  He was still missing the point. ‘But how did you get access to this hut?’

  ‘Oh, that?’ He gave her a disarming smile. ‘I asked the Barneses about how I might go about renting one.’

  ‘You did what?’ Humiliation burned across her cheeks. What on earth had he told them, that he wanted a…a love shack?

  ‘If I’m going to be spending more time down here, I need an office I can work from in peace. I can rig up the laptop to my phone for internet access, and I quite fancied something with a sea view.’ He reached for her free hand. ‘Annie and Paul are letting me stay in Sam’s old room which is incredibly generous of them, but completely ruinous to my plans for you.’ He pressed a kiss to her palm.

  Relief flooded through her, leaving her giddy before she’d taken so much as a sip of her champagne. ‘What kind of plans would those be?’

  Sliding his arm around her waist, her pulled her close. ‘Lots of nefarious plans which require adherence to the dress code.’

  ‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ Her words might have held more impact if she hadn’t cuddled closer to his chest.

  ‘When it comes to you, Libby, I’m not sure of anything other than I can’t get you out of my head.’

  Oh, Lord. He knew all the right things to say. A pang of worry marred her excitement at the effort he’d gone to. Perhaps he knew what to say because he’d had a lot of practice. She wasn’t exactly an expert when it came to relationships. What if this was all just a bit of flash to make sure she fell into his arms? What if he had a girlfriend back in London and she was just a convenient amusement for when he was staying in the bay? He leaned down for a kiss, but she stopped him with a hand to his chest. ‘Don’t hurt me, okay?’