Page 47 of The Sugar and Spice Bookshop Bakery

Jack moves his chair closer to the table. ‘Mamma got cancer in my final year. I couldn’t focus. I flew home a lot to be with them both. And then she passed away and I flunked my exams.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s understandable.’

‘And Babbo, he was heartbroken. He’d lost the love of his life and on top of that, his son turns out to be one enormous disappointment.’

‘But you could have taken the exams again, couldn’t you? Surely under the circumstances?’

‘I intended to. I went back to London, ready to try again, but then I realised that it wasn’t what I wanted. I was just doing it for him. I think maybe with Mamma passing away like that – still so young – I realised how short life is and that I had to live my life for me, not for him. So I started doing what I’d always wanted to do – working with wood. Creating things. With my own hands. Not just designing them for other people to construct.’

‘And you didn’t tell him?’

‘Of course, I told him. But when I went home the following Christmas, everyone was under the impression that I’d started my own business as an architect. And I found out that he’d told them all that. My aunts and uncles. My cousins. The whole town. I had started my own business, but not as an architect, as a carpenter.’

‘Oh, gosh. That’s awkward.’

‘Very awkward. I mean, I could hardly tell them the truth, could I? Everyone would know my father was a liar. He’d be humiliated. But I felt like a fraud in my own home town and I couldn’t live like that. So, over the years, I’ve hardly ever been back.’

‘And they all still think you’re an architect?’

‘I guess so. At least, most of them do. One of my cousins visited me once in London. I’m sure he’d guessed, but he’s never said anything.’ He sighs. ‘It’s been nearly twenty years since Mamma died, but Babbo is still grieving for her. People feel sorry for him. If anyone suspects the truth, I think they’ll keep it to themselves. I wish I’d said something straight away, put the record straight. Pretended he’d made a mistake or said that I hadn’t told him I’d failed. Or something. I don’t know. But the more time went by, the harder it was to come clean about the whole thing.’

‘I don’t know what to say. It’s an awful situation, I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you.’ He shrugs. ‘When he was there and I was in London, it was okay. I put it to the back of my mind and got on with life. But then he got this bee in his bonnet about wanting to live out his remaining days here in Applethwaite, back where he grew up. I was pleased at first. I thought it’d be a fresh start, you know? I’d be able to visit him more if he was here. And then he had the heart attack – well, we thought it was a heart attack – and I dropped everything to rush to his bedside, and do you know what one of the first things his nurse at the hospital said to me?’

‘I can guess,’ Louise says.

‘Yeah. “He’s so proud of you. It must be great being an architect.” And then when I brought him back home to his little cottage here, I learned that he’s told everyone in Applethwaite that that’s what I do for a living. Different place. Same lie. Me being a carpenter isn’t good enough for him, isn’t impressive enough.’

‘I’m sure it isn’t that,’ Louise says.

‘It is that,’ he assures me. ‘I’m a disappointment, so he has to pretend that I’m something I’m not. And again, I can’t tell anyone the truth because then he’d be exposed as a liar. He’d be so humiliated. I couldn’t do that to him. Which means I’m stuck having to pretend. And that isn’t who I am, Louise. I hate dishonesty.’

His awkwardness in the pub when she asked him if he’d design her bookshop bakery makes complete sense now.

‘I’m so sorry, Jack. Truly. What are you going to do?’

‘I’m not sure. The night he had the heart attack, when I was driving up the motorway, I thought if he survives, I’ll move up here myself. That way we can spend more time together – we were close when I was a child. But I can’t live here, can I? I mean, I can hardly work as a carpenter here in Applethwaite if everyone thinks I’m an architect.’

‘I can see that. You know, if it makes it easier, just forget about the bookshop bakery. Really, I don’t want to add to your problems.’

‘But I’d like to do your bookshop.’ He reaches across the table and takes her hand. ‘I’ve got to stick around whilst Babbo has tests and we find out how serious his condition is, so I might as well do something useful. And Maddie’s sketches are so gorgeous – I would love to bring her vision to life. I just don’t know what he’ll think of me standing in your garden, sawing wood.’

Louise has a sudden mental image of Jack working in her garden, wearing tattered dungarees with nothing underneath. One strap has slipped half-way down his arm, revealing rippling pectoral muscles underneath. He’s straddling one of those workbench thingies, sawing at a piece of wood, making it look as effortless as if he’s cutting through one of her sponge cakes.

She shakes her head.

‘Do you think that would work?’ he’s asking now.

Louise blushes. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘Were you listening?’ He cocks his brow at her, although he sounds amused rather than cross.

‘Sorry, go on,’ she urges him.

‘It’s bad enough that my father’s telling lies,’ he says, ‘and that I’m having to go along with them, but I don’t want you to have to lie for me. What if we said I’d done the designs for your book nooks and I’m going to build them as a favour? Because my father and your mother are old friends? Would that work for you?’

‘That’d work,’ she says, and in her mind’s eye, she pictures herself bringing him a mug of tea and a slab of cake as he toils away creating her book nooks. ‘I’d still pay you though.’