Chapter 3 Kate
KATE
The short and the long of it.
The list is growing.
To be, or not to be . . .
If music be . . .
The short and the long of it . . .
The orange card now even has its own Instagram account—tagged at the bottom of the notice.
Kate finds it on her phone, but there are only three posts repeating the quotes, each on a different colored background.
The profile simply reads: Create. Which leaves her wondering .
. . create what? Over coffee and croissant, she looks up the quotes: Hamlet—she knew that—Twelfth Night, and The Merry Wives of Windsor.
Maybe a Shakespeare company is coming to town?
But it doesn’t look that professional. Maybe a school production?
She puts her phone away and turns back to her laptop.
Luigi doesn’t mind people working in here when it’s quiet, as long as they buy a steady stream of coffee and cake, which suits Kate just fine.
She rereads the financial report she has just finished before pressing Send.
An analysis of sales for a national furniture company that is based just outside the town.
She can’t say she loves the work, but it pays the bills.
This was particularly important when Doug left.
He made a big thing of telling people, “I’m leaving Kate and the girls the house.
” Which was in her name anyway. But he had cleared out their joint bank account.
This, he forgot to mention. So, she had upped her hours and taken some accounting qualifications to up her salary, working with people who, on the whole, she likes very much.
It was the thought of the people that kept her going in each day, and it was the same people who supported her when she got the breast cancer diagnosis and had to undergo surgery and months of chemo.
Now she works three days a week, packing in as much as she can in those hours.
Still not loving it and increasingly restless, but feeling it would be ungrateful to leave.
The café is starting to fill up, so Kate puts her laptop aside and orders another coffee.
She adds a blackberry-and-apple Danish to her order.
Since she has started running again, she has been able to eat what she likes, although some things still taste strangely metallic.
The nurses said this would go in time. Luigi delivers the coffee and pastry with the nod that he reserves for locals.
Not that he is unfriendly to incomers; if anything, he is more effusive, sounding more “Italian.” Kate notices he reverts to a more nondescript accent with the regulars.
There is a mix of people in today. A familiar family with two young children and a baby.
The mom has thought to bring books and presnack snacks to keep the toddlers going until their order arrives.
A group of birders is at the big table. Binoculars beside them, serious all-weather gear hanging on their chairs—no fashion brands there.
They have the look of people who have known each other for years. Probably retired, Kate thinks.
Perhaps she could retire? That would be easier to say to her bosses. But she is only fifty-six, and she doesn’t think they would buy that. Plus, she still needs to bring some money in. Anyway, what would she do?
Over the years, she has seriously thought about taking time out to learn to oil paint.
It has been a secret dream. But these days she barely even does any drawing.
There was a time when she always had a small sketchbook in her backpack.
Would keep a visual diary of the life of the creek, her walks punctuated by the turning over and smoothing of a page, pens pulled from her worn green leather pencil case.
Then came the stillness of looking, as if for the first time.
Burrowing into and becoming part of the landscape she loved.
Her hand would flow and flick over the page, and this combination of seeing and sketching would soothe her like nothing else did.
Now she looks at the world around her and can never quite decide what to draw, and she feels she has lost something, not simply inspiration. She is too unsettled to draw, and she cannot force herself to make a start, despite knowing that drawing would be the one thing that would ease her.
Her thoughts are interrupted by the café door opening.
A man in dark jeans and a gray down jacket slips into a newly vacant spot at a table by the window.
She recognizes him from years of parents’ evenings.
Mr. Shakespeare. He taught all three of her girls.
She thinks he was Jess’s tutor for a while, too.
His feedback had been professional, well observed—sometimes humorous.
She remembers liking the man, thinking there was something about him.
Rather attractive, she decides, studying him surreptitiously over her coffee cup.
Other moms had thought so too, she recalls.
Kate has seen him around over the years.
Although she doesn’t think in this particular café—maybe they came in at different times?
But she knows she has been conscious of him when she has spotted him out walking, or shopping with a woman who she presumes is his wife.
Long dark hair flowing back from a high brow.
It always seemed there were kids around.
Maybe they had a big family? Kate never said hello, not wanting to embarrass him.
There was no way he could remember all the parents he spoke to.
But she was aware of him. Is aware of him now.
And he is on his own. Hadn’t someone said his wife taught art at the local college? She can’t recall the last time she saw the attractive dark-haired woman. It has been a while now . . .
At that moment, he catches her eye. Before she can look away, he smiles, and something in her stirs.
“Do you mind if I share your table?”
Kate looks up at the woman standing beside her, relieved to be diverted from thoughts that are spinning ludicrously offtrack.
“Of course.” She nods invitingly to the chair beside her.
“Do you mind dogs?”
“Not at all.” Kate glances down at the delicate mushroom-and-cream dog that seems to have curved its body in an arc around the woman’s booted legs (very nice boots, too). “Oh, he . . . she is beautiful.”
The woman smiles, sitting down, the dog tucking contentedly under the table by her feet. “I think so, but I know whippets aren’t everyone’s cup of tea.”
The familiarity of “cup of tea” said with a slight accent makes Kate wonder where this woman is from. A visitor?
“What is she called?”
“He,” the woman says apologetically, as if not wishing to correct Kate. “He’s called . . .” She then says a name that Kate thinks might be “Noohhaaai.”
The stranger smiles in response to Kate’s expression. “It is from a book I read when I was little.” She adds, “I’m Danish.” This is said with the same lilt of apology.
Kate thinks this woman has nothing to apologize for.
She is open and friendly, besides being one of the most elegant women Kate has ever seen.
She’s dressed in muted tones of cream and soft browns, her clothes clearly not from any high street brand, and Kate suspects they were very expensive.
It makes Kate want to rush home and throw away most of her wardrobe.
Kate also recognizes that she is a very beautiful woman.
“What can I get you?” Luigi asks, appearing at their table.
He pointedly ignores Kate’s glance of incredulity.
Everyone else has to order at the counter.
Not that she blames him. The woman’s ash-gray hair is sculpted to an exquisitely shaped head and she has cheekbones that look as if they have been chiseled from ice.
Her eyes are a glowing amber, flecked with coffee-bean brown.
Kate guesses she must be early fifties, but she doesn’t think age is ever going to mar this woman’s beauty.
It wouldn’t dare.
Despite the gentle, apologetic tone, Kate gets a sense of something edgier underneath. She is intrigued.
Once Luigi leaves, the woman returns to the subject of dogs, oblivious to Luigi’s flattering attention. Kate presumes she must be used to it. “Most people call him Noy.” A tiny grimace wrinkles her face. “Although my neighbor will insist on calling him Noy Boy.”
Kate laughs. “I’m Kate, by the way.”
“Pia,” the woman responds, holding out her hand. Pia’s light clasp feels cool and dry against her skin, and Kate is conscious of how gnarled her knuckles look compared to Pia’s long, tapering fingers. She spots a ring of what look like perfect diamonds on her forefinger.
“Are you visiting?” Kate inquires.
“No, I live here.”
“Really?” Kate rushes on, worried this sounded rude. “It’s just I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“Well, I used to spend a lot of my time in London . . .”
This makes more sense.
“. . . but now I do more and more work from home. I live about five miles out of town on the coast road.”
Kate wonders which house Pia lives in. She is imagining something modern with a lot of glass. “What do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer. I presume you live here too?”
Kate nods. “I have done for years. We first came here when our children were little. My ex-husband got a job as a manager with the wind turbine company, but our girls are grown up now and have all moved away.”
Something in Pia’s expression of polite interest decides Kate against expanding on this. Instead, on a whim, she says, “Have you noticed that orange card on the board? Each time I come in, something new is added to it.”
Pia leans forward with real interest now. “Yes! I’ve been wondering what it’s about. I thought it must be something people knew about.”
From this, Kate gathers that, despite living here, Pia feels like an outsider.
That she suspects she is one of the few people not “in” on this.
This glimpse of vulnerability surprises Kate, and she thinks there is something else tucked in there, too.
Loneliness? Kate determines that together they will find out what’s going on.
Even if it turns out to be a teaser for a school play. Surely Luigi will know?
As if the room is reading her thoughts, she hears someone at the counter ask, “Lou, you must know what that notice is about? Who put it up?”
So, Mr. Shakespeare is a friend of Luigi’s. She doesn’t think she has ever heard anyone call him “Lou” before. And he wants to know about the card, too. She is aware that Pia’s attention is also fixed on the conversation. They share a conspiratorial glance and edge a fraction closer as they listen.
“You’ll have to ask Tay about that,” Luigi comments.
“Tay? What’s she got to do with it?” Mr. Shakespeare asks, suspiciously.
Kate leans toward Pia and mutters under her breath, “Young girl who works here.”
“As I said, ask Tay about that. I’ve got no bleedin’ idea what she’s up to. She’s in later on.”
“What time?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, mate,” Luigi responds with weary resignation.
As Mr. Shakespeare turns to leave, Kate catches his eye again and they hold each other’s gaze for a moment. Kate, flushing, looks away first.
“Interesting,” Pia comments significantly.
Kate nods. You’re not kidding.
But she’s not sure she and Pia are thinking of the same thing.