Page 50 of The Bookshop By the Loch

His mouth twitched with a fleeting smile. “Good morning, Lexie.”

Isn’t it odd, questioned an inner voice. My father was standing there, more like a regular customer than my own dad. The realisation of that, made my heart sink a little with the sadness of it. “Morning.”

“Busy day ahead?” he asked, mustering up a casual smile.

“I hope so, although it is a bank holiday Sunday, so it could go either way.” I found myself pushing and pulling pens and post-it notes around on top of the counter, before I forced my hands still. “How are you?”

Duh! What a bloody stupid question!

If Dad thought the same thing, he hid it. “I’m not too bad thanks. Slept pretty well, all things considered. Think I’m still a bit jet-lagged.” He fumbled around in his trouser pockets. “My room at The Drawbridge is very comfortable and breakfast was good.”

Oh dear. This was painful. It was more like chatting to Mrs Hegarty or Flora Simmonds, rather than my own father. We would be talking about the weather and the state of the local roads next.

Dad glanced around himself, as though searching for something else to talk about. “How long has The Drawbridge been there?” he asked.

“It opened several years ago now. It used to be the union halls and social club…”

“For the local fishermen,” supplied Dad, cutting in. “Good grief. Yes, I remember now.”

Another awkward hesitation.

“I was thinking of going to pay your mother a visit.”

The shop doorbell trilled again, interrupting our conversation and bringing with it the couple who’d been gazing at the display of books in the window. The young woman made straight for the section boasting a selection of the latest romantic comedies.

She slid two novels out and brought them up to the counter to pay for them. “Thank you so much,” she said in a rich Welsh accent, before leaving with her partner, the Book Ends tartan ribbon handles fluttering on the gift bag.

Once they’d gone, Dad resumed the conversation. “And what did she have to say? Your mother? About me, I mean?”

“She was like me. Shocked.”

“Like I said, I don’t want people feeling sorry for me.”

I let out an agitated tut. “You can feel empathy for someone, without feeling pity for them.”

He glanced down at the bookshop floor and nodded.

“So, what do you want?” My question came out more sharply than I’d intended. But all this manoeuvring and sidestepping was exhausting.

He pushed his hands into his chino pockets. “I don’t know. No. That isn’t true. I think I do.” He let out an agonised sigh. “Shit! Who am I kidding? I know what I want.” He tapped over the wooden shop floor, looking more like a condemned man. “I know I’ve no right to ask this of you and your mother, Lexie, after abandoning you both the way I did.”

He drew in a long, low mouthful of air. “But if there was any chance that both of you could find it in your hearts to forgive me, it’d mean the world.”

I felt as if my emotions had been thrown into a washing machine and put on a crazy speed cycle.

Dad read my confused expression. “Sorry. I know all this must’ve come as a huge shock. It’s a big ask.”

I chewed my lip. “Dad, I think we need to take things very slowly. I can’t speak for Mum.”

“Of course.”

I eyed a lady outside the bookshop windows, strolling past with her woolly little dog. “You said you’re here for a few weeks?”

“Yes. I return to Washington on the 18th of June.”

What should I do? What did I want to do? I didn’t want to come across as unfeeling, but right now, I was struggling to make sense of everything.

“Can you speak to your mother?” asked my dad. “See what she says. Ask her if she feels she’ll ever be able to talk to me?”