Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 59
‘It’s okay,’ said Polly, reaching out and stroking his leg. He looked at her hand, as if he had no idea what it was doing there, and she snatched it away immediately, mortified.
‘And I miss the penthouse… Savannah’s a great town.’
‘Sounds it,’ said Polly. ‘Surely you can swallow your pride now and go back?’
He smiled. ‘I guess so. I just… it’s hard, you know.’
‘I do know,’ said Polly, looking at him for a long moment. She felt stupid when he got up out of his seat.
‘Now don’t forget to take some painkillers before you go to sleep tonight; this stuff can really settle on your head,’ he said. His voice had changed, as if he was pulling himself out of his memories.
‘Thanks,’ said Polly, immediately forgetting this advice.
‘So yes. Doing something else… it definitely makes me… it makes me feel better,’ said Huckle. ‘Definitely better.’
‘Good,’ said Polly. She poked the dying embers of the fire, then looked at him. Whatever moment had been between them had faded away. But she was glad she knew now, at least; that it was no longer a mystery between them.
‘Well,’ she said, trying to perk up the mood. ‘That’s not as bad as I’d thought it would be. I really did think you’d shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.’
Huckle half smiled, but no more than that. He was staring into the fire now, as if he’d completely forgotten she was there. Polly wondered about Candice, what she was like – she’d bet she always had her nails done – and how Huckle’s lovely dream of a family in the country had turned so sour. She sighed.
‘Well, I’d better turn in,’ she said.
Huckle had made her up a lovely little single bed, crisp white sheets tucked in with a heavy embroidered patchwork quilt over the top. It was cosy and fragrant in the little thatched cottage, and she could feel sleep creeping up on her very quickly. Just before she gave in to it completely, she sneaked a last peek out of the tiny mullioned window. Huckle was still exactly where she had left him, staring mournfully into the flames, the empty flagon of mead discarded by his feet.
Chapter Nineteen
At first Polly couldn’t figure out where she was. There was a heavy scent of honeysuckle coming through the little window, and a buzzing sound in the air. There was a second wonderful scent too, of coffee brewing, then joined by bacon frying. She sat up happily, then realised, looking at the thoughtfully placed Advil and pint of water beside her bed, that she had forgotten to take her medicine. She did so now. The sun was bright through the curtains.
‘Oww,’ she said, pushing open the little arched wooden door. Huckle was up already, wearing loose farmer’s boy dungarees with no T-shirt. The effect should have been ridiculous but was actually rather lovely; he had a little chest hair, not too much, and it was soft and golden. Polly realised she kind of wanted to stroke it, and promptly put her hands behind her back.
‘Morning.’
Huckle smiled his lazy smile at her.
‘Hey.’
He seemed in much better spirits than the night before, back to his normal laid-back self.
‘How are you?’ she said. ‘Apart from the dungarees.’
He looked at her for a long moment, then said, ‘You know, actually I feel okay. I feel fine. I’m glad I told someone.’
Polly shook her head. ‘Maybe you had a lucky escape. Maybe you just weren’t right for each other.’
Huckle nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah. Clearly. That’s what I try to think… well, on good days. Yeah. How are you feeling?’
‘Bad,’ said Polly. ‘I forgot the Advil and the water and stuff last night.’
‘Here,’ said Huckle. He poured her a large glass of apple juice. ‘Drink this.’
‘I thought you Yanks drank orange juice.’
‘Your orange juice is unspeakable,’ he said. ‘It’s got bits in it. Your apple juice, on the other hand, just about passes muster.’
Polly gulped the lot down thankfully.
‘That’s better,’ she said. The door to the cottage was wide open and the sun was pouring in. It was a radiantly beautiful day.
‘Coffee?’
‘Yes!’
‘Bacon?’
‘Yes!’
‘Pancakes?’
‘WOW! I think I’m in love with you!’ said Polly. It was meant to be humorous but came out suddenly all wrong. ‘I mean with pancakes,’ she amended hastily. ‘You wear dungarees. I’m in love with pancakes.’
‘Actually, they’re overalls.’
When the pancakes arrived, they were crisp on the outside, soft and yielding on the inside, served with crackling bacon and a thick swoosh of maple syrup.
‘Okay, this is the best breakfast I’ve ever had,’ said Polly through a mouthful. ‘Seriously, if you ever think you’re getting skint, open a B and B. I’d move in.’
Huckle smiled. ‘Well I don’t think I’m quite there yet. But glad you like ’em.’
After they’d finished, Polly would probably quite happily have crawled back to bed, but Huckle asked if she’d like to come and see the bees, and she agreed that she would, with some trepidation. Huckle had a spare suit and put her in it, then took her down to the hives.
It was fascinating. Huckle set up the smoke machine to calm the bees down when he got in amongst them; he scooped up some of the honeycomb, but not so much that they would get overexcited. He pointed out the great fat queen, unmistakable and so exceptional that Polly goggled at her, feeling fear and fascination in equal measure.
He showed her how to card off the honey from the combs, and let it plop in golden rounds into the jars, with the sticky scent and the buzzing and the wild flowers blooming all around them, and she enjoyed herself hugely.
Just before lunch, though, she knew she had to get back.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek and he drew her in for a hug.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I needed a friend. Can you keep it to yourself?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘Can you keep it to yourself that I accidentally slept with a married guy even though absolutely everybody within a hundred-mile radius knows already?’
They shook on it.
Even with Huckle’s revelations, it still counted as the nicest evening she’d had in a long time, and she had a spring in her step as she walked. Huckle had offered to take her on the bike, but she’d turned him down; she could do with clearing her head, and it was a lovely day.
‘And I miss the penthouse… Savannah’s a great town.’
‘Sounds it,’ said Polly. ‘Surely you can swallow your pride now and go back?’
He smiled. ‘I guess so. I just… it’s hard, you know.’
‘I do know,’ said Polly, looking at him for a long moment. She felt stupid when he got up out of his seat.
‘Now don’t forget to take some painkillers before you go to sleep tonight; this stuff can really settle on your head,’ he said. His voice had changed, as if he was pulling himself out of his memories.
‘Thanks,’ said Polly, immediately forgetting this advice.
‘So yes. Doing something else… it definitely makes me… it makes me feel better,’ said Huckle. ‘Definitely better.’
‘Good,’ said Polly. She poked the dying embers of the fire, then looked at him. Whatever moment had been between them had faded away. But she was glad she knew now, at least; that it was no longer a mystery between them.
‘Well,’ she said, trying to perk up the mood. ‘That’s not as bad as I’d thought it would be. I really did think you’d shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.’
Huckle half smiled, but no more than that. He was staring into the fire now, as if he’d completely forgotten she was there. Polly wondered about Candice, what she was like – she’d bet she always had her nails done – and how Huckle’s lovely dream of a family in the country had turned so sour. She sighed.
‘Well, I’d better turn in,’ she said.
Huckle had made her up a lovely little single bed, crisp white sheets tucked in with a heavy embroidered patchwork quilt over the top. It was cosy and fragrant in the little thatched cottage, and she could feel sleep creeping up on her very quickly. Just before she gave in to it completely, she sneaked a last peek out of the tiny mullioned window. Huckle was still exactly where she had left him, staring mournfully into the flames, the empty flagon of mead discarded by his feet.
Chapter Nineteen
At first Polly couldn’t figure out where she was. There was a heavy scent of honeysuckle coming through the little window, and a buzzing sound in the air. There was a second wonderful scent too, of coffee brewing, then joined by bacon frying. She sat up happily, then realised, looking at the thoughtfully placed Advil and pint of water beside her bed, that she had forgotten to take her medicine. She did so now. The sun was bright through the curtains.
‘Oww,’ she said, pushing open the little arched wooden door. Huckle was up already, wearing loose farmer’s boy dungarees with no T-shirt. The effect should have been ridiculous but was actually rather lovely; he had a little chest hair, not too much, and it was soft and golden. Polly realised she kind of wanted to stroke it, and promptly put her hands behind her back.
‘Morning.’
Huckle smiled his lazy smile at her.
‘Hey.’
He seemed in much better spirits than the night before, back to his normal laid-back self.
‘How are you?’ she said. ‘Apart from the dungarees.’
He looked at her for a long moment, then said, ‘You know, actually I feel okay. I feel fine. I’m glad I told someone.’
Polly shook her head. ‘Maybe you had a lucky escape. Maybe you just weren’t right for each other.’
Huckle nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah. Clearly. That’s what I try to think… well, on good days. Yeah. How are you feeling?’
‘Bad,’ said Polly. ‘I forgot the Advil and the water and stuff last night.’
‘Here,’ said Huckle. He poured her a large glass of apple juice. ‘Drink this.’
‘I thought you Yanks drank orange juice.’
‘Your orange juice is unspeakable,’ he said. ‘It’s got bits in it. Your apple juice, on the other hand, just about passes muster.’
Polly gulped the lot down thankfully.
‘That’s better,’ she said. The door to the cottage was wide open and the sun was pouring in. It was a radiantly beautiful day.
‘Coffee?’
‘Yes!’
‘Bacon?’
‘Yes!’
‘Pancakes?’
‘WOW! I think I’m in love with you!’ said Polly. It was meant to be humorous but came out suddenly all wrong. ‘I mean with pancakes,’ she amended hastily. ‘You wear dungarees. I’m in love with pancakes.’
‘Actually, they’re overalls.’
When the pancakes arrived, they were crisp on the outside, soft and yielding on the inside, served with crackling bacon and a thick swoosh of maple syrup.
‘Okay, this is the best breakfast I’ve ever had,’ said Polly through a mouthful. ‘Seriously, if you ever think you’re getting skint, open a B and B. I’d move in.’
Huckle smiled. ‘Well I don’t think I’m quite there yet. But glad you like ’em.’
After they’d finished, Polly would probably quite happily have crawled back to bed, but Huckle asked if she’d like to come and see the bees, and she agreed that she would, with some trepidation. Huckle had a spare suit and put her in it, then took her down to the hives.
It was fascinating. Huckle set up the smoke machine to calm the bees down when he got in amongst them; he scooped up some of the honeycomb, but not so much that they would get overexcited. He pointed out the great fat queen, unmistakable and so exceptional that Polly goggled at her, feeling fear and fascination in equal measure.
He showed her how to card off the honey from the combs, and let it plop in golden rounds into the jars, with the sticky scent and the buzzing and the wild flowers blooming all around them, and she enjoyed herself hugely.
Just before lunch, though, she knew she had to get back.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek and he drew her in for a hug.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I needed a friend. Can you keep it to yourself?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘Can you keep it to yourself that I accidentally slept with a married guy even though absolutely everybody within a hundred-mile radius knows already?’
They shook on it.
Even with Huckle’s revelations, it still counted as the nicest evening she’d had in a long time, and she had a spring in her step as she walked. Huckle had offered to take her on the bike, but she’d turned him down; she could do with clearing her head, and it was a lovely day.
