Not that Callan expected Josie to make time for him. Not that he wanted her to. She was under his employ. Their relationship was purely professional. That, and he wasn’t interested in spending time with anyone other than Mia.
An impatient tug on his earlobe brought him back to reality.
‘Mia, cut that out.’ He jerked his head back and tried to ignore the hurt that flashed through Mia’s eyes at being told off. So much for keeping calm … He’d apologise to her later. In private. ‘Right then. We’d best be off. See you … when we see you. Before three.’ He waved half-heartedly at Josie but avoided eye contact. The realisation that he’d noticed the colour of her eyes, that he’d noticed something about a woman who wasn’t Abigail, saw unease swarming in his stomach. It mixed with the guilt from snapping at Mia and settled dark and heavy. Uncomfortable.
He pressed his nose into Mia’s hair and breathed in the pear scent of her shampoo. The familiar fragrance centring him, reminding him of what was important. Of who was.
***
Josie inhaled the heady, heavenly, sweet and spicy aroma of the fruitcake wafting through the kitchen’s air. A smile played about her lips as she recalled the conversation with Callan earlier. The way he’d blamed the recipe for the stodge that was the cake mixture had been too cute. Josie had taken one look at the mixture and seen that the dried fruit hadn’t been steeped in the liquid long enough and that too much flour had been added. The mush was now safely in the bin.
It was the opposite of her mixture, where dried fruit was steeped in hot tea, before being combined with self-raising flour and baked for two hours. The result was a gloriously pungent fruitcake, which held an almost malty flavour, and was good by itself, sliced and slathered with butter or served warm with custard.
From the front room came a melodic ‘yoo-hoo’.
Josie made a mental note to ask Callan about installing a small bell on the counter along with a sign instructing customers to ring it if the front was unattended.
Smoothing her hair back, she adopted an open smile. The morning hadn’t been the busiest she’d experienced in all her years of customer service, but it had been steady.
No doubt people were coming in to see the latest face to arrive in the village. She’d seen that often enough to expect it.
The scent of the stylishly dressed woman reached Josie before she did. White Diamonds. The same perfume her mother had worn. Her heart slammed against her chest, as it always did when for an irrational split-second she believed her mother had sought her out, returned to find the daughter she’d abandoned when Josie was 12 – the age when, with her mind and hormones and body in flux, she’d needed her mother most.
‘So, you’re the girl I’ve heard so much about. Welcome, my dear, welcome.’ Josie’s hand was encased in the woman’s tissue-soft palm and pumped twice before being let go. ‘My name’s Margo. I’m Callan and Mia’s neighbour. Owner of the sewing and embroidery shop, among other things.’ Margo stopped and sniffed the air. ‘That cake’s smelling delicious. Every bit as good as Abigail’s. My little sewing club is in for a treat. I take it this is your doing?’
Josie shrugged her shoulders. ‘It was, not that Callan needed me to do it.’ She crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘I just had a bit of spare time so thought I may as well help him out.’
‘Piffle.’ Margo let out a hearty laugh. ‘If you can cook as well as his dearly departed wife then you know as well as I do that Callan needs as much help in the kitchen department as he can get. Please tell me he’s letting you loose back there?’
‘Front of house, mostly.’ Josie smiled apologetically. ‘He seems to want to do it all himself.’
‘That’s his problem, you know.’ Margo leaned in towards Josie, her demeanour turning conspiratorial. ‘Since Abigail passed, he’s not allowed any of us to help one iota. I’ve offered a thousand times, if not two thousand, to take that little angel of his off his hands for a few hours so he can have a break, even if only to go to the pub for a quiet beer, or to bake another batch of his horrifically hard cupcakes without little Mia underfoot. But he won’t have it. He’s determined to make out like he’s okay, but how could he be? He lost the love of his life.’
Josie pressed her lips together and gave a polite nod. Talking about Callan’s private life seemed wrong. A crossing of the boundaries between employer and employee, especially with him not being here to defend himself, doubly especially when the woman talking to her was a complete stranger.
‘I see I’ve put you in an awkward spot.’ Margo touched Josie’s forearm. ‘I apologise. I care deeply for Callan and Mia, and I did for Abigail, too. My family left years ago and they’re not ones for visiting, so I began to see those three as my adopted family.’
Shame tugged at Josie’s heart. Margo’s family had done to her what Josie had done to her father. Not visited. Kept away.
Though why Margo’s children stayed away, Josie had no idea. From where she stood, Margo was the opposite of her emotionally distant father. She seemed kind, caring. A person who put others first, who wanted to help. Who wanted to live life, without waiting by windows, staring longingly at the front door, hoping for the past to return, while ignoring the person who was right in front of you, begging you to see them. To love them.
‘Oh, look at me feeling all sorry for myself.’ Margo waved her hand and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘It’s not like they hate me. It’s my own fault really. I raised two wonderful, successful children. My eldest, Sebastian, lives in Australia and works in IT. He flies over when he can, but he works all hours, and I’m terrified of flying so couldn’t even contemplate the flight over that kind of distance. They’d have to give me an elephant-sized amount of sedation.’ Margo rolled her eyes towards the ceiling and gave a small, mock-despairing shake of her head.
‘And your youngest?’ Josie prompted. ‘Where are they?’
‘Oh, you probably won’t believe this to look at me, but Megan’s a model. Constantly on the move. New York, Milan, Paris. Wherever her agency sends her. She gets her looks from her father. He was tall, handsome, a good man too. I don’t know what I did to deserve him.’ Margo’s smile disappeared as sadness flashed through her blue eyes for a millisecond before being covered up with a brighter smile, that didn’t quite hit her eyes.
‘I take it your husband’s no longer with us?’ It was Josie’s turn to comfort, and she did so tentatively, allowing her fingers to lie feather-light on the back of Margo’s hand.
Margo’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears. ‘No. He passed just over a decade ago. I miss him every day. I miss them all. No wonder I keep trying to insert myself in Callan’s life. He must think me a nosey old busybody.’
‘He wouldn’t. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to think badly of anyone.’ Josie straightened up and put her hands on her hips. ‘And don’t you for a second say your daughter didn’t get her looks from you. Women much younger would kill for those cheekbones and eyes of yours. I hope she calls you every single day to thank you for those wonderful attributes you passed on to her.’
Margo let out a light, fragile laugh. ‘Maybe not every day, but we aim for a good catch-up phone call or a video chat once a week. She’s a good girl is my Megan. As is Sebastian. They may be hundreds of miles away but they’re always close.’ She tapped her heart.
The shame that had begun to abate returned full force, not just twisting Josie’s heart but turning her gut to rock. Her father wasn’t that far away. Not compared to Margo’s children. Maybe she needed to make more of an effort. To call more. Try harder to connect. But how could you connect with a man who never called first, who kept conversations short, and ended phone calls after two minutes? Who always sounded vaguely surprised to hear from her, like he’d forgotten she even existed?
‘So how long are you planning to stay in Sunnycombe?’
Margo, rummaging about