Chapter Two
The taxi rank was unhelpfully empty, but Google maps told her it was only an eight-minute walk. Casting a doubtful look at
the lowering sky, Petra adjusted her backpack more comfortably on her shoulders and set off, trying to ignore her protesting
knees.
It may only be January, but Portneath really was picture postcard stuff, she thought as she crossed the bridge over the wide
river mouth. The little town sprawled decorously on either side of the estuary, with the town quay on one side, and wide sandy
beaches on the other. The light was fading rapidly now. On the horizon, the sky was stained red and gold, with stars already
piercing the inky blue velvet above. Lights had twinkled into life in the windows of the fishermen’s cottages lining the road
along the shore, and an avenue of streetlights delineated the main street that stretched up the hill from the quay to a little
castle on the summit.
From Jules’s instructions and Google maps, Petra knew Capelthorne’s was near the bottom of this hill, and she found it easily.
It was a cute little shopfront, with its rose-colored limewash and a multipaned bow window.
It was clearly freshly painted, sporting a coat of green gloss paint with the name picked out in bright gold lettering above.
It looked like a remnant from a Dickens novel—utterly charming—but the shop window was dark, and the sign, hanging askew in the doorway, was turned to “closed.”
With her back to the shop, Petra surveyed the scene. There! The restaurant Jules had told her about was just yards away. Freya’s.
It was early evening still—not quite six o’clock—and there were no customers at tables, but Petra could see the staff, in
neat slate gray aprons, flitting around the little wooden tables in the warmly lit interior, straightening the knives and
forks, and laying down starched white napkins in preparation for evening service. One member of the staff was standing behind
the bar area, polishing glasses and surveying the scene. Here, Petra had been told, they were keeping the key to the shop
and to the flat above. After her peculiar interaction with the man at the train station, she was dubious about further conversations
with the Portneath natives, but—hey ho . . . She walked over and pushed confidently at the restaurant door.
It was locked, causing her to rebound with some force, but a member of the staff hurried over to unlock it, opening their
mouth to explain the obvious, but Petra interrupted—she was cold, tired, and the grazes on her knees were burning. “I think
you have the keys? To Capelthorne’s? I’m—” but before she had a chance to explain, a little blond figure in chef’s whites
who had just appeared out of the room behind called across:
“Hellooo! Are you Petra?”
Petra nodded wordlessly as the woman trotted across the room and enveloped her in a warm hug.
“Gosh, poor you, you must be exhausted,” she chattered.
“I’m Freya. I’ve promised Jules and Roman that we’ll take really good care of you.
Oh no!” she added, having stepped back to take in Jules’s entire appearance.
“Your poor knees, what happened? We need to clean you up. Lucy, will you fetch the first-aid kit for me? Come and sit . . . Glass of wine? We’ve got this amazing local Chardonnay; you’ve got to try it. ”
“Do you ever breathe?” interrupted Petra. Oops, that was unintentionally rude. Again.
“Sorry!” Freya replied, unabashed. “Finn tells me all the time that I talk too much—when I let him get a word in.” She giggled.
“Jules was so thrilled you were coming. We all are.”
“Who is we?”
“Oh, you know. The crowd. Obviously, Jules and Roman aren’t around, but everyone else . . . you’ll get to know us.”
By this time, Lucy had quietly slid a green plastic first-aid box onto the table, and Freya was rummaging through it efficiently,
lining up scissors, sterilizing wipes, and strips of bandage material.
“Ouchy, sorry,” she crooned in empathy as she gently dabbed Petra’s scraped knees, cleaning off the blood and grit. Underneath,
the flesh was pink and oozing, but there were no deep cuts. She would live.
Cutting bandage strips and tenderly placing them over the grazes, Freya chattered away guilelessly.
“Capelthorne’s is the best bookshop in the world,” she was saying. “Jules and Roman have really turned it around. Well, it was Jules mostly, not
that Flo wasn’t doing a good job, but she’s ancient, bless her, and she’s adoring her retirement. That said, she won’t resist
coming in to have a good look at you, and she’ll be itching to help if you let her.”
Soothed by Freya’s chatter and succumbing to the blissful warmth, Petra was breathing in the most intoxicating scent of fresh garlic and butter.
In response to the possibility of food, despite having felt too sick to eat since the awful disaster struck, her stomach gave an enormous, resonant, and extended growl.
“Gosh, sorry,” muttered Petra, putting her hand over her abdomen.
Freya giggled again. “Music to my ears,” she said. “I love hungry people. Now, for an early supper, I recommend the lobster
linguine. Absolute simple perfection,” she declared. “And the lobster is fresh off the boats this morning,” she went on. “Roman’s
paying, by the way. He said to make sure you had a good meal on him when you arrived.”
That was lucky, thought Petra. She reckoned Freya’s wasn’t the cheapest and she was going to have to be really careful with
money.
By the time Petra had finished off a huge plate of pasta and a large glass of wine, a contented glow had suffused her. She
regretfully turned down sticky toffee pudding for another time but accepted the suggested cup of chamomile tea to round off
her meal.
Now, with her cup drained, and the key to the shop sitting by her saucer, there could be no further excuses to linger.
The little restaurant had filled up gradually as Petra ate and was now humming with life, the clinking cutlery and low rumbles
of conversation all but drowning out the gentle, rhythmic roar of the sea. All around her were rosy-cheeked groups of friends
and couples of all ages, some with children or grandchildren, and all looking as if their lives were quietly delightful. Which
they probably were.
Petra began to wonder why she had clung to her life in London.
After all, rents were exorbitant, property prices made buying somewhere to live totally unattainable, and only people with disposable income far exceeding hers could really take advantage of the delights that the city had to offer.
But then she remembered, even with the whole post-Covid working-from-home thing, it surely must be unrealistic for a literary agent to base themselves so far from where the action was.
Those human relationships, those business contacts, were key to success.
And success had been pretty elusive for her, even when she was on the spot. So that was that.
Anyhow, thoughts of her old life, and how it had imploded, were enough to make her cheeks flush scarlet again. She was now
allergic to books, and the entire publishing industry, she decided, draining her cup and placing it carefully back on the
saucer in a decisive gesture. A complete change of career was probably in order. And she had six months to think of what that
might be.
Yawning, and shivering just at the thought of venturing outside again, she gathered up the keys, hauled her backpack onto
her shoulder, and slipped out without interrupting people to say goodbye. She would have liked to thank Freya, but she could
see her through the hatch into the kitchen—a whirling dervish as she produced plate after plate of delicious food.
Petra could see herself eating at Freya’s rather too often.
The lock was tricky. So tricky Petra thought perhaps she had been given the wrong key, but just as she was seriously beginning
to wonder where she was going to sleep that night, the door succumbed, flying open so unexpectedly she nearly ended up sprawling
headfirst onto the floor for the second time that day.
Her more pleasant childhood dreams had included one where Petra was locked in a bookshop overnight.
And this little shop, with its squeaky wide-oak floorboards, crammed shelves that reached the ceiling, and twisted oak beams, dark with age, was pretty much that dream.
If the horrors of the last twenty-four hours had not happened, Petra would have been flinging on all the lights and delighting in her new domain, but now she yawned again and wondered if Jules and Roman had left her bed made up.
She trailed wearily up the steep wooden staircase, finding herself on a second floor of books—this time used ones, judging
by the faintly musty smell.
The second flight of stairs—marked with a polite sign saying “private”—delivered her straight into a narrow hallway with doors
on both sides. A quick exploration revealed a neat little kitchen, a tiny bathroom with an old-fashioned, claw-footed tub—no
shower—and a cozy sitting room with a pretty fireplace, plump blue sofa, and a dormer window with a view all the way up the
main street. It had a cushioned window seat built into it too—the perfect corner to curl up with a book.
Ah yes, reading . . . At that moment, Petra didn’t think she would care if she never read another book in her life.