She shoved her hands in the pockets of her dress. ‘Does Saint Dwynwen get a day of their own too?’
‘Uh, yep,’ Harri replied, his eyes still fixed on the cards. ‘It’s only just gone actually. Twenty-fifth of January.’
Harri seemed to be lost in a memory. She wished she hadn’t asked now.
‘Everyone in Port Talbot was celebrating,’ he was saying. ‘My manager let me bake some coffee cookies iced with daffodils and love hearts to sell in return for donations to the local hospice. All gone by lunchtime, they were. Didn’t get so much as a taste.’
Annie watched him snap out of self-pity, trying to compose his face into an unbothered smile. It wasn’t going to work on her. Her friend was sad and she wouldn’t let him stay that way.
‘There’s always Valentine’s Day coming up,’ she suggested. ‘There’s no telling what Cupid’s got in store for you before then.’
Not that she wanted Paisley back in his life with her judgy, grudging ways. She’d never say it, not now, but Paisley had been a pain in Harri’s ass going way back. She’d have come to England for this bookshop holiday way sooner if she hadn’t thought Paisley might decide to come too; she didn’t want to make trouble for her friend in his relationship. But if it made Harri happy to get back together with her, she would be there for him, putting on the performance of her life in the role of Best Supporting Friend.
‘I should go get ready so we can open up,’ Harri said, hopping off the stool.
When he emerged after his shower he was in the same cardi but with a heather-grey henley underneath, and he was wearing dark cargos rolled at the ankles and thick socks showing over the same black hiking boots he’d clomped around the shop in last night. His hair had settled in damp choppy waves and he’d shaved too. In the winter morning light he didn’t look like he’d changed all that much in nine years. There was still something boyish about him. She was glad he’d kept his eyeglasses on.
After he’d unbolted the side door that led into the cafe, he came back and approached her by the shop door, his phone at the ready to capture the moment she turned the sign so it read OPEN.
Annie grinned for the picture, and then they took a selfie together. Up close, Harri smelled of moisturiser and shampoo.
Swept up in the excitement of it all, Annie went so far as to swing the door open, peering out into the dull, rainy courtyard where a raggedy palm tree stood in a huge terracotta cauldron. There wasn’t a soul out there. She immediately shut the door again and Harri caught one last picture of her grimacing as cold rain hit her face.
‘Suppose we’d better bake something to serve the hordes of tourists?’ she said, wiping the spots away with her sleeves pulled down over her chilled hands. She couldn’t help her heart lifting. This felt absolutely right. They should have done it years ago.
‘And this is the tulip,’ Harri said proudly as he shook the frothed milk into the coffee cup and handed it to Annie. ‘A latte art classic.’
Annie lifted the cup and took a considered sip. With a frothed lip she declared it a ‘masterpiece’.
‘Why, thank you!’ Harri snickered, before drinking his espresso con panna, his coffee shop favourite, made with a single shot of strong coffee and a small dollop of lusciously thick whipped fresh dairy cream on top, served in one of the demitasse glasses he’d brought from home. It was strong enough to keep him going through his ten-hour barista shifts in Port Talbot, smooth enough to gulp down on busy days. He enjoyed making elaborate drinks for the customers, enjoyed even more making sneaky off-menu speciality drinks for his favourites, but his own tastes were simple.
Annie had asked him for a latte so that’s what she got; only he knew he’d ground some of his best small batch beans for their drinks, and that it had to be up there with the best quality and freshest coffee on this side of the globe.
‘You any warmer?’ he asked.
‘Much, thanks.’
Satisfied, he opened the notes app on his phone and typed a few words.
Madagascan Robusta from the Mumbles Roastery: 2 Feb, Clove Lore.Toasty with tobacco notes, lifted by a sharp, berryish bite. Smoky andvelvety smooth. Annie liked it, but I can tell it isn’t ‘the one’ forher yet.
‘What’s that you’re doing?’ enquired Annie, hands wrapped around her mug.
‘Just my coffee notes.’
She lifted a brow.
‘If I try something new or come up with an idea, I write it in here. What? That’s a normal thing to do. You keep notes about the books you read, right?’
Annie didn’t say anything. She used to do that, yes. Nowadays, not so much.
‘I just happen to want to remember the good coffees and keep track of things I could do better, or…’
‘I’m not judging,’ she cut in. ‘I think it’s adorable. Is the best coffee you ever tasted in there?’
‘Hmm,’ he considered this for a while. ‘I’ve had my successes,’ he conceded, ‘and some failures…’
Annie tipped her head.
