Chapter Thirty-Five
By Friday evening, the long north-east twilight washed the harbour front in a pale amber glow. Lydia stood in the centre of the lower green, clipboard beneath her arm and a tape measure slung over her shoulder, directing the final preparations.
Ben Carter manoeuvred a flatbed trailer across the turf while James Fellows unloaded timber frames.
Near the stage, Ethan worked beside Simon, helping to route the audio cables.
The stocks had arrived earlier with William, who had returned home to settle Ollie and the younger children before the early start tomorrow.
Lydia had thanked him and watched him drive back towards Sandy Lane. Since then, her gaze had strayed uphill more often than she cared to admit.
“Lydia, we need a final measurement for the coconut shy!” someone called.
She crossed the grass and checked the position against her plan. Around her, neighbours raised marquees, secured bunting and carried tables into place. The Carnival was no longer coloured squares on a page. By morning, the whole harbour would be transformed.
Yet even amid the noise and activity, William’s absence left a space she could feel.
She clicked the tape measure shut and lifted her chin. Tomorrow he would be here.
The thought pleased her far more than it should have.
? ? ?
The following morning, the harbour front at six o’clock was washed in a cold, brisk mist rolling off the North Sea, but the air already carried the electrical hum of a village waking up.
Bunting snapped against the lampposts, and the smell of wet turf mingled with the rich aroma of bacon rolls drifting from the refreshment marquee.
Lydia stood near the slipway, her master plan clipped firmly to the clipboard in her hand. The sun was rising into a clear sky, promising another warm summer day. Her mind worked with rapid, administrative precision — the mode she entered whenever a major event depended on her.
“The main street market stalls need to align exactly with the kerb line, Ben!” she called, her voice carrying clearly across the green. “If we leave a two-metre clearance, emergency vehicles can pass without hitting the canvas.”
“Right you are, Lydia!” Ben Carter shouted back.
She moved across the green, directing volunteers into their sectors. She guided Mrs Pennington’s team as they unloaded crates of crockery into the tea tent, mapped out the entry queue lanes with low stakes and rope, and checked the safety lines around the children’s games arena.
At half past seven, a test tone sounded from the speakers. Simon and Ethan were carrying out the final sound check on the harbour-front stage. Ethan looked up from the mixing desk and gave her a confident nod.
Just beyond the stage, the Parker family came down the slope.
William walked first, carrying a large canvas bag stocked with the day’s essentials.
Ollie strode beside him in a neon yellow high-visibility vest, his bright blue plaster cast held out proudly as he pointed his plastic ruler toward the lower beach plot.
Mia and Sophie followed with castle moulds, while Jake trotted at the rear, his red toy car already testing a route along the sea wall.
Lydia offered William a brief good morning as they crossed paths — a quiet acknowledgement of the peace they had found after Tuesday’s emergency — before she was pulled away by an urgent query from the coconut shy crew.
By nine o’clock, the sun had burned through the coastal mist, and the first wave of holiday crowds filtered down the High Street.
The noise rose into a dizzying wall of sound — dogs barking, cutlery clattering, children shouting, and the youth band tuning up by the water.
Lydia’s clipboard was covered in scribbled amendments; two ice-cream vendors had tried to claim the same turf, the hook-a-duck pump was leaking, and Mark was caught in a discussion with a council official about parking permits everyone had believed were already settled.
Her chest tightened with the sheer, non-stop pressure of keeping the entire village on its tracks. She stepped into the narrow, shadowed alley behind the old harbour warehouse to draw a single uninterrupted breath — unaware of the footsteps approaching behind her.
“Lydia.”
The liquid, accent-curled syllables cut through the harbour noise like a blast of freezing water. Lydia froze, her fingers tightening around the edge of her clipboard. She turned slowly, her expression hardening into a wall of finality.
Miguel stood at the entrance to the alley, travel-rumpled after the flight and long drive north.
His dark hair was neatly combed, and his tailored jacket looked out of place against the weathered stone.
He dropped his small leather travel bag onto the gravel, his warm brown eyes fixed on her with an intense, rehearsed regret.
“What are you doing here, Miguel?” Lydia asked.
“I flew into London yesterday and drove all the way up here.” He stepped closer, his hands held out towards her. “Please, Lydia. What happened between us was a terrible mistake. We can repair this.”
“There is nothing to repair. We ended twelve months ago.”
“I was weak,” he said. “You wanted to wait until marriage, and I—”
“And you chose someone else.”
His gaze dropped briefly. “I know I hurt you. But I realise now what I threw away. Come back to Spain with me.”
Lydia stared at him. “You’re blaming my standards for your decision to betray me?”
“No, I—”
“You cheated because you wanted what was easy, Miguel. Then you lied to me about it. I will not return to that.”
“Lydia, please.”
“No.” Her voice remained calm and certain. “I’ve built a life here that is honest and entirely my own. I am not going back to Spain, and I am never going back to us. Leave, Miguel. Do not contact me again, and do not come back.”
For a moment, he seemed ready to argue. Then something in her expression stopped him. He picked up his travel bag and walked out toward the High Street without another word.
Lydia remained in the shadow of the warehouse, her hands steady against her clipboard.
When she finally drew breath, the air tasted clean and sharp with salt.