Chapter 2 #2
No one was about, and for that Claire was glad.
She didn’t think she could handle any more awkward reunions; seeing Rachel Campbell had been hard enough.
Had she been imagining that slight note of hostility from Rachel?
After so many years away, it felt a little surprising, but then she and Rachel hadn’t been friends for a long time.
The beach road joined up with the high street at the train station; a woman was walking a small dog, wearing a waterproof parka and Wellingtons despite the sunshine.
She gave her a smile, and Claire smiled back, glad it was a stranger.
How many people were still living in Hartley-by-the-Sea that she’d know, or who would remember her?
A few acquaintances from primary school at most, probably. The realization was a relief.
She turned right up the high street, digging her hands deep into her pockets and lowering her head against the wind.
She’d forgotten how relentless the wind in Hartley-by-the-Sea was.
When she’d walked to school as a little girl, she’d felt as if it had been pushing her forward, like a strong hand at her back.
She’d needed the push; she’d often dreaded school, the teachers whose questions she never managed to hear and the children who thought she was ridiculous.
Rachel had been the only one who had had time for her, at least until Year Six.
But collecting a gaggle of gossipy girls as pseudo-friends hadn’t been nearly as fun as it had first appeared.
Claire slowed as she came to the little stucco-fronted post office shop with its windows full of advertisements and dusty tinned goods. She glanced at the notices taped to the inside: cleaning services, a lost cat, help wanted.
She thought of Andrew’s remark about Tesco and wondered what he would think if she told him she was working at the village shop.
Not that she wanted to work right in the middle of the village.
She craved a bit of anonymity, and standing behind the till, ringing up her neighbors’ newspapers and milk, surely wasn’t the way to get it.
And yet, a job. One small way to sort her life.
She opened the door and stepped inside, blinking for a few seconds to get used to the gloom of the little room.
The shop looked like it hadn’t changed much in the five or more years since she’d last been in it: a few shelves with basic food items, a tiny refrigerated section, a rack of sweets, another of magazines.
There was a post office counter tucked away in the back and a counter of old, scarred wood with an ancient-looking cash register at the front.
And behind the cash register was a giant of a man with tattoos down both folded forearms, scowling at her.
“Hi,” Claire ventured hesitantly, and the man’s black eyebrows snapped together.
“Are you coming in, then?” he asked, and Claire realized she hadn’t closed the door behind her. She did so now, a sudden gust of wind causing it to slam with enough force to rattle the glass. She winced, and then braced herself to turn around and face the man.
His scowl had deepened, his arms still ominously folded, biceps bulging.
With a quick, apologetic smile, Claire started to wander the shop’s three aisles, conscious the whole time of the man’s hostility.
It emanated from him like a bad smell or a malevolent force.
No wonder he needed staff. He probably couldn’t keep anyone working for him for more than two minutes.
She stared blindly at a tin of baked beans in tomato sauce and then grabbed it as well as loaf of white bread.
Beans on toast she could manage, and at this point she wanted to get out of the shop as quickly as possible.
First Rachel, now this guy. No one, it seemed, was happy for her to be back in Hartley-by-the-Sea, which wasn’t too surprising, considering she wasn’t sure if she was.
Claire took the beans and bread to the counter and waited while the man rang them up silently.
“Three pounds and fifty-four pence,” he told her, and his voice was exactly what Claire would have expected.
Gruff, gravelly, and without a shred of warmth.
She fumbled in the pockets of her coat for the money, hating that her fingers actually trembled.
She was such a mouse. But she’d been one for a long time.
“There you are.” She laid the coins on the counter and then gathered her items, clutching them to her chest as she blurted, “Are you . . . ? Are you still looking for help?”
The man gave her a flat stare. “Maybe.”
Not the most encouraging of responses, but since she’d drummed up the courage—or the foolishness—to ask about the job, she thought she might as well continue. “It’s just I’m looking for work.”
“Haven’t seen you here before.”
“I’ve been away. In Portugal. But I’m back now, for . . . for a while.”
“And how long is a while?”
“I’m . . . I’m not sure.”
“I’m looking for someone who can commit,” he stated, and handed her a penny in change.
“I see.” Claire took the penny, nearly dropping the beans in the process, and then turned to leave.
She was so busy trying to manage her purchases and closing the door without it slamming again that she nearly collided with a woman coming into the shop.
“Oh, my fault, my fault,” the woman exclaimed, and caught the tin of beans that was slipping out of Claire’s grasp.
“Sorry,” Claire said, and looked up to see the woman—about her age, with frizzing, sandy hair and an open, friendly expression—scrutinizing her.
“I don’t think I know you.”
“I’m Claire. Claire West. I’ve just . . . moved back into the village.”
“That explains it, then. I’ve been living here since August, more or less. Lucy Bagshaw.” She stuck out a hand, and Claire attempted to shake it, transferring the tin of beans to her other hand.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Moved back, you said? You lived here before?”
“I grew up here.” Now that she’d said more than a few words, Lucy’s American accent was recognizable. “You obviously didn’t,” Claire ventured, and Lucy grinned.
“Nope, although I actually am British, if you can believe it. I know I don’t sound it. I moved here from Boston. I live down at Tarn House, the bed-and-breakfast? With my sister, Juliet.”
“Right.” Claire hadn’t heard of either.
“Well, I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. I work at the primary school, teaching art. It’s only part-time, but it’s a start.”
“Right,” Claire said again.
Lucy gave a goodbye sort of nod and started to move past Claire before turning around suddenly. “You ought to come out with us some evening,” she said. “We go to the pub quiz on a Thursday evening. Have you ever been? Of course, you probably know loads of people, but if you don’t . . .”
“I don’t really know anyone anymore,” Claire admitted, and Lucy touched her arm, a spontaneous, friendly gesture that made Claire feel oddly moved.
“Then come out with us. We’re down one anyway, because Juliet’s going somewhere with Peter.
He’s taking her out to a fancy restaurant somewhere in Keswick.
Do you know Peter Lanford? Sheep farmer?
” Claire shook her head. “Anyway, the quiz is tomorrow night, seven thirty at the Hangman’s Noose. You will come?”
“I . . .” Claire shrugged, overwhelmed by the exuberant force of Lucy Bagshaw’s personality. “Sure. Thanks for the invite.”
“Good. That’s settled, then.” Lucy headed into the shop, and Claire watched her go, bemused and yet grateful for the American’s overwhelming friendliness. God knew she could use a friend.