The smell had brought Harri stumbling out of his room in grey flannel pyjama trousers and an ancient Stereophonics t-shirt with a fluffy dark grey cardigan over it. She could have sworn he had the same one at Aber. He’d switched his lenses of last night for dark rimmed glasses. ‘Did I sleep in?’
‘You look so cute,’ she blurted, not once thinking she shouldn’t. Hedidlook cute.
‘I try,’ he said, making a brief attempt at a sassy catwalk strut just to make Annie laugh.
‘You’ve got a kind of Ryan Reynolds thing going on these days, especially with the eyeglasses.’ A tiny part of her brain wanted to mention his jawline and his smile being similar too, and maybe the broadness in his shoulders, but she kept that to herself.
‘He’s at least a foot taller than I am,’ said Harri.
‘Well,’ Annie shrugged, ‘just don’t stand beside him any time soon.’
‘Got it. Hey, are these floorboards even more warped than they were last night?’ He lifted a bare foot, rubbing the sole. ‘What with the wonky beams and the wonky floors, a man could get seasick in here.’
‘I thought the place had shrunk overnight,’ joined Annie. ‘Whole place istopsy turvy.’ She overpronounced the words just to make him smile. He’d always been tickled by her accent.
She set his buttered scone and his juice on the desk by the till laptop, telling him to sit down, making sure to ruffle his bed-head hair which, she was remembering now, always stuck up in the mornings and couldn’t be brought under control other than with a shower.
‘You sleep okay?’ she asked, aware she had circles under her own eyes.
‘Better than I have in years,’ he said, before seeming to think better of it. ‘You know, after I got used to the sound of the sea.’
‘Oh yeah, the sea! What a racket!’ she mugged with a dismissive sweep of her hand, hoping Harri couldn’t see through her bravado.
Annie had lain awake listening to the distant sounds of waves breaking and retreating for a long time, willing them to lull her to sleep and to feed her gentle dreams, a lullaby soundtrack keeping at bay memories of the mess she’d left back home. She’d had no such luck and lay ruminating in the strange moonless darkness for much of the night.
‘Someone should do something about that noisy ocean,’ Harri said. ‘Shushing and splashing at all hours.’ His brown eyes twinkled in the harsh shop lights. ‘We should go for a walk later,’ he said as he started upon demolishing the scone. ‘Go see the beach for ourselves.’
‘I’m not going anywhere ’til I’ve sold some books,’ she told him, leaving her breakfast and busying herself at the circular display table by the door. It was set out with books on Perspex risers. ‘Do you know what this is?’ she asked him, knowingly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Check out page two,’ Annie told him, indicating the open binder in front of him on the cash desk.
Harri flipped to the front cover. ‘Instructions for Borrowers,’ he read.
‘That’s us,’ she smiled. ‘I’ve read the whole thing.’
‘What time did you get up?’ he remarked in what looked like genuine awe. She shrugged smugly with a laugh and he turned to page two and read aloud.
‘The shop and cafe are yours to do with as you like. Any takings belong to the Borrow-A-Bookshop community charity, although you may avail yourselves of petty cash to cover modest cafe ingredients costs, special event expenses, etcetera…’
‘Skip that bit,’ she told him.
‘Um, okay. Let’s see…’ He was scanning down the paragraphs. ‘Keep your own opening hours as you see fit… There’s a ramp over the doorstep into the cafe for better accessibility… Tie up all bin bags and cover with blanket provided to stop scavenging seabirds and wildlife… Our team of local volunteers will help out on a casual, drop-in basis…Ah-hah!’ He pinned a fingertip to the page. ‘The display table by the door is curated by Borrowers on the last day of their holiday and left in place for the duration of the next guests’ stay. Please leave your own selection of books to reflect your reading tastes or any display on a theme close to your hearts on the day you leave. Previously, we’ve enjoyed displays on the themes of, for instance, foxes, favourite children’s books, even original handwritten poetry.’
‘Fun, right?’ She was glad to see Harri seemed happier this morning than he’d been last night. Maybe the sea air was helping.
‘Very fun. What did the people before us pick out, then?’
‘Umm,’ Annie looked at the titles. ‘It’s kinda random. Not sure what theme they were going for. There’s a Chaucer, something calledThe Parliament of Fowles?;A Life of Saint Dwynwen, whoever that is; and, uh, this one looks really old…’ She inspected an antiquarian volume, reading from the frontispiece. ‘A Young Man’s Valentine Writer…’ She shrugged, placing it gingerly back on display. ‘That one’s priced at fifty pounds.’
‘Maybe it’s all Valentine’s themed?’ said Harri, reaching for his orange juice. ‘Saint Dwynwen’s the Welsh answer to Saint Valentine, sort of.’
‘Ah, okay. The rack of Valentine’s cards should have been big enough of a clue.’ She palmed her forehead.
Their two pairs of eyes fell upon the rack of red and pink greetings cards on the display table. They were of the hippiefied, handmade variety.
Harri’s face had fallen, only a touch, but Annie noticed the change.
