Christmas at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 8
She told herself that was why she didn’t like to plan ahead. She didn’t really want to think about what else it might be: that her own mother and father… that they’d never been a family. The only families she knew had failed so badly.
‘Uh, yeah?’
Huckle cast his eyes down as he thought about what he wanted to say. He’d given up a good corporate job to move to the UK, almost on a whim, after a long-term relationship had fallen apart due to their crazy working habits. His initial idea had been to destress, downsize for a little bit, get himself some breathing space somewhere far away from home – he loved working with his bees – and his father’s British nationality had made it a cinch.
Then he’d accidentally fallen madly in love with this strawberry-blonde whirlwind of baking powder and capability, and that had been that.
Except he was stuck in an extremely remote, if utterly beautiful, corner of Cornwall, far away from reliable broadband and transportation and normal jobs. Last year, when Polly had lost her job temporarily, he’d tried commuting back to work in the States, but it had nearly torn them apart. He couldn’t be a management consultant again, he just couldn’t. It felt like it ate his soul from the inside. Even if Polly had been willing to move to America, which she wasn’t. There wasn’t much for her to do in Savannah, he knew; there probably wasn’t room for another artisan bakery in the beautiful old-fashioned town.
And anyway, Mount Polbearne was where she belonged, however much she complained about the weather. They’d both become part of this community through good times, as businesses thrived and the town was a happy place, and bad, like the previous year, when a fishing boat and its young captain, Tarnie, had been lost, breaking the hearts of everyone in the area. They were a part of it now.
But oh my goodness, he couldn’t make any money. A few jars here and there of his exquisite honey, which he sold to wholefood shops and beauty salons, wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough to pay for a wedding, even one a million times less flash than Reuben’s.
He held Polly’s small hand, muscular from kneading bread, with white crescents of flour beneath the tidy unpolished nails, and she looked up at him, concern in her eyes. He cursed himself for simultaneously thinking that money did and didn’t matter. It shouldn’t when it came to how you spent your days – free and creative, out in the fresh air or experimenting in a kitchen, as opposed to shut up in some ghastly air-conditioned office listening to boring managers and filling in spreadsheets for ten hours a day.
‘You know, about the wedding?’
Polly winced. It seemed like it didn’t matter what they did, this wedding was going to be a big deal regardless.
‘Don’t wince!’ said Huckle. ‘Seriously, that is not a good look for talking about, you know, marrying me.’
‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘It’s just… you know. Getting your family to come all that way, and it’ll have to be something really nice and special, and my family too, and it’s just so much and we’re so…’
She didn’t want to say ‘skint’, but she didn’t know how to avoid it. She never, ever wanted Huckle to go back to that high-paying job that made him so miserable. It wasn’t worth it, not at all, ever. They got by. They got by absolutely fine, they needed so little. Well, the lighthouse needed a lot, but it had stood for nearly two hundred years so far; it could survive a couple of winters more.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Well, I was thinking,’ said Huckle. ‘You know, you are thirty-three…’
‘Thanks.’
‘… and, well, I figure we seem to be giving ourselves a ton of stress with thinking about a wedding. And cash and other stupid things that we don’t really want to think about.’
He held her close to him.
‘You know,’ he said softly, ‘I couldn’t love you any more than I do. I couldn’t.’
Polly looked up at him, blinking.
‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘So much.’
‘Good!’ said Huckle. ‘Okay, this feels like a good start. Okay, listen. Without me ever under any circumstances not wanting to marry you, all right?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘What would you think if…’ He gripped the letter a little tighter. ‘What would you think if we, like, maybe did it the wrong way round?’
Polly blinked, not sure she understood him straight away. Then gradually it dawned.
‘You mean…’ she said, and her heart started to beat very fast. It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought about it; it was just she felt it was very far off. After the wedding, maybe, and everything, when the shop was stabilised and… She felt suddenly panicked. Rushed.
She realised she’d been putting it off.
‘I mean,’ said Huckle, ‘it’s not like we’ve not been practising the stuff you need to do to kind of make a baby.’
‘I know that,’ said Polly. ‘But…’
Outside the sea crashed against the rocks, and spray flew upwards. But inside everything was warm and cosy, the fire lit and a candle burning in the window. She and Huck weren’t superstitious, but the fishermen were, and Polly knew they liked to see the little light flickering as they returned to harbour, guiding them safely home.
She looked into Huckle’s face: his blue eyes, which always had an amused look about them; the broad, generous lips, always so ready to break into a smile. He wasn’t smiling now.
She reached out and took his hand.
‘Do you think we’re ready?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Huckle. ‘You’ll feed them on nothing but cake and make them obese and grumpy, like Celeste.’
‘Oh,’ said Polly.
He stroked her cheek. ‘But I don’t think anyone’s ever ready. I don’t think that’s how it works.’
Polly swallowed down her fears and indecision. After all, she should be thrilled, shouldn’t she? A man she loved dearly, to whom she was engaged to be married, had just asked her if she’d like to have a baby with him.
‘You can think about it,’ said Huckle, noting how anxious she was. He didn’t want to rush her.
‘Okay,’ said Polly. ‘Okay. Thanks.’ She turned to him awkwardly. ‘I mean, we could go upstairs now…’
‘Uh, yeah?’
Huckle cast his eyes down as he thought about what he wanted to say. He’d given up a good corporate job to move to the UK, almost on a whim, after a long-term relationship had fallen apart due to their crazy working habits. His initial idea had been to destress, downsize for a little bit, get himself some breathing space somewhere far away from home – he loved working with his bees – and his father’s British nationality had made it a cinch.
Then he’d accidentally fallen madly in love with this strawberry-blonde whirlwind of baking powder and capability, and that had been that.
Except he was stuck in an extremely remote, if utterly beautiful, corner of Cornwall, far away from reliable broadband and transportation and normal jobs. Last year, when Polly had lost her job temporarily, he’d tried commuting back to work in the States, but it had nearly torn them apart. He couldn’t be a management consultant again, he just couldn’t. It felt like it ate his soul from the inside. Even if Polly had been willing to move to America, which she wasn’t. There wasn’t much for her to do in Savannah, he knew; there probably wasn’t room for another artisan bakery in the beautiful old-fashioned town.
And anyway, Mount Polbearne was where she belonged, however much she complained about the weather. They’d both become part of this community through good times, as businesses thrived and the town was a happy place, and bad, like the previous year, when a fishing boat and its young captain, Tarnie, had been lost, breaking the hearts of everyone in the area. They were a part of it now.
But oh my goodness, he couldn’t make any money. A few jars here and there of his exquisite honey, which he sold to wholefood shops and beauty salons, wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough to pay for a wedding, even one a million times less flash than Reuben’s.
He held Polly’s small hand, muscular from kneading bread, with white crescents of flour beneath the tidy unpolished nails, and she looked up at him, concern in her eyes. He cursed himself for simultaneously thinking that money did and didn’t matter. It shouldn’t when it came to how you spent your days – free and creative, out in the fresh air or experimenting in a kitchen, as opposed to shut up in some ghastly air-conditioned office listening to boring managers and filling in spreadsheets for ten hours a day.
‘You know, about the wedding?’
Polly winced. It seemed like it didn’t matter what they did, this wedding was going to be a big deal regardless.
‘Don’t wince!’ said Huckle. ‘Seriously, that is not a good look for talking about, you know, marrying me.’
‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘It’s just… you know. Getting your family to come all that way, and it’ll have to be something really nice and special, and my family too, and it’s just so much and we’re so…’
She didn’t want to say ‘skint’, but she didn’t know how to avoid it. She never, ever wanted Huckle to go back to that high-paying job that made him so miserable. It wasn’t worth it, not at all, ever. They got by. They got by absolutely fine, they needed so little. Well, the lighthouse needed a lot, but it had stood for nearly two hundred years so far; it could survive a couple of winters more.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Well, I was thinking,’ said Huckle. ‘You know, you are thirty-three…’
‘Thanks.’
‘… and, well, I figure we seem to be giving ourselves a ton of stress with thinking about a wedding. And cash and other stupid things that we don’t really want to think about.’
He held her close to him.
‘You know,’ he said softly, ‘I couldn’t love you any more than I do. I couldn’t.’
Polly looked up at him, blinking.
‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘So much.’
‘Good!’ said Huckle. ‘Okay, this feels like a good start. Okay, listen. Without me ever under any circumstances not wanting to marry you, all right?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘What would you think if…’ He gripped the letter a little tighter. ‘What would you think if we, like, maybe did it the wrong way round?’
Polly blinked, not sure she understood him straight away. Then gradually it dawned.
‘You mean…’ she said, and her heart started to beat very fast. It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought about it; it was just she felt it was very far off. After the wedding, maybe, and everything, when the shop was stabilised and… She felt suddenly panicked. Rushed.
She realised she’d been putting it off.
‘I mean,’ said Huckle, ‘it’s not like we’ve not been practising the stuff you need to do to kind of make a baby.’
‘I know that,’ said Polly. ‘But…’
Outside the sea crashed against the rocks, and spray flew upwards. But inside everything was warm and cosy, the fire lit and a candle burning in the window. She and Huck weren’t superstitious, but the fishermen were, and Polly knew they liked to see the little light flickering as they returned to harbour, guiding them safely home.
She looked into Huckle’s face: his blue eyes, which always had an amused look about them; the broad, generous lips, always so ready to break into a smile. He wasn’t smiling now.
She reached out and took his hand.
‘Do you think we’re ready?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Huckle. ‘You’ll feed them on nothing but cake and make them obese and grumpy, like Celeste.’
‘Oh,’ said Polly.
He stroked her cheek. ‘But I don’t think anyone’s ever ready. I don’t think that’s how it works.’
Polly swallowed down her fears and indecision. After all, she should be thrilled, shouldn’t she? A man she loved dearly, to whom she was engaged to be married, had just asked her if she’d like to have a baby with him.
‘You can think about it,’ said Huckle, noting how anxious she was. He didn’t want to rush her.
‘Okay,’ said Polly. ‘Okay. Thanks.’ She turned to him awkwardly. ‘I mean, we could go upstairs now…’
