Page 31 of Carry Me Home

‘The whole village knew I was back before I’d unpacked my car. Dot has a network.’

‘Dot has several networks. She’s very organised.’ He moves to the counter and leans against it, arms folded. ‘Need help with anything?’

‘I’m nearly done.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

I look up from the till. He’s leaning against the counter in the way he does – patient, steady, unhurried – and the golden glow of the lights I have hanging is doing something to his face, catching the line of his jaw, the slight shadow under his eyes. He looks tired. I wonder if he’s been sleeping. I wonder if he always looks this tired and I’ve just never noticed because I wasn’t looking, and then I wonder why I’m looking now, and then I stop wondering because that particular line of inquiry has a shape I’m not interested in examining.

‘The window in the back is stuck,’ I admit. ‘It’s been stuck for months. I keep meaning to fix it and then I don’t.’

‘Show me.’

I lead him to the back room where there are shelves of ingredients, the second fridge, and the big mixer I use for bread. The window, which overlooks the tiny herb garden, has been painted shut since at least last summer.

Tom examines it for approximately three seconds. ‘You need a knife. A blunt one.’

‘I have knives. Lots of knives. Are we talking cheese, butter or a bog-standard dinner knife?’

His lips tip in a curve. ‘Butter.’

I head back to the café, grab a butter knife and bring it back, watching as he tests it against his thumb, nods. The confidence of it – the way he just knows, the way he always just knows – is either reassuring or annoying. I can’t decide which.

‘Hold this open,’ he says, and shows me where to press.

We work in silence, him running the knife along the seal, me holding the frame steady. His hands are close to mine on the wood. Not touching. Just close. I find myself watching them – Tom’s hands, long fingers, neat nails, a small scar on his right thumb I’ve never noticed before. He has a way of working that’s completely absorbed, completely still except for the movement itself, like everything else has been set aside.

‘You’re staring,’ he says, without looking up.

‘I’m supervising. It’s a legitimate management technique.’

He glances up, and for a second we’re very close in the narrow back room, his face level with mine because he’s leaning into the window frame, and there’s paint dust on his forearm and the evening light is coming through the glass at an angle that makes his eyes lighter than usual. Something catches in my chest. Not a thought. Not anything I could name. Just a catch, like fabric snagging on a nail.

The window gives with a reluctant crack. Tom pushes it open and the evening air rushes in, cool and salt-tinged, carrying the sound of the gulls and the harbour.

‘There,’ he says, satisfied. Straightening. The distance returns. ‘What else?’

‘That’s it.’

‘That’s not it. You have a list. You always have a list.’

‘I don’t always have a list.’

He just looks at me.

‘Fine.’ I retrieve the list from under the till. ‘The table by the door wobbles. The light in the bathroom flickers. The back door sticks when it’s humid. And before you say it – I know I should have fixed these before I left. I know.’

‘I wasn’t going to say that.’

‘What were you going to say?’

‘Give me twenty minutes.’

‘Tom, you don’t have to⁠—’

‘Twenty minutes, Nina.’

He takes the list from my hand – his fingers closing over mine for a second, warm and dry, before he slides the paper free – and disappears into the back of the café. I stand there, holding my hand, because something happened to it. Not something real. Not something I could explain. Just – his fingers were warm, and the list is gone, and my hand feels different without it.