“I haven’t got around to trying it yet,” she admitted.
“Then your timing is perfect because this one is fresh out of the oven.” He handed off the drink to the customer waiting at the end of the bar before slicing a thick wedge off the end. He slapped it on a plate and slid it across to her, stepping back to look at it like he was presenting his homework. “I’m still trying to figure out if the balance of cherry is right.”
“I’m sure it’s delicious.”
Ellie accepted the plate and gave the glossy rich surface of the loaf a sniff. Just from the first inhale, she knew it was going to taste delicious, a far cry from the plastic-wrapped prepackaged loaves and cakes Happy Bean used to sell.
“Does it pass the sniff test?” he asked, nibbling his lip.
“It does,” she said, giving the plate another dance under her nostrils. “Sorry, I’m smelling the cherries. I smelled something recently that I thought was the scent of cherries, but now that I’m smelling the real thing, I’m not too—”
Ellie cut herself off mid-sentence when she realised the woman at the end of the counter, whom Oliver had handed the cup to, was staring at her with an expectant smile. Just like that, Ellie was bracing herself to apologise about how weak the coffee was or how the milk wasn’t frothy enough.
“You do not recognise me again,” the woman stated, her voice giving her away as Zara, though the ringlets had gone, replaced by sleek black hair with a precise middle parting. “And that is why I say my hair is my superpower. I am like the Clark Kent of Meadowfield.”
“Zara! Of course,” Ellie said, shaking her head at the mistake, feeling a flush in her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I—”
“No offence taken, dear Ellie.” Zara patted Ellie on the shoulder as she passed, and in a softer voice, whispered, “Between you and me, I did not recognise myself in the mirror when I installed this hair on for the first time either. Do not go too far, okay? There’s something in my shop that I need to show you. I will be right back. These tourists have not figured out there is another end to South Street yet. Somebody needs to put up a sign.”
“What’s your poison?” Oliver asked, rubbing his hands together. “How about a peppermint tea Frappuccino?”
“How about tea, the boring way?”
“Strong English Breakfast with a splash of milk?”
Ellie grinned. “Perfect.”
“Just like Dad,” he said with a wink, producing a white porcelain teapot from under the counter. “Sit down, and I’ll bring this over.”
As Ellie slid into the seat across from Willow, the wooden chair creaking slightly under her weight dragged Willow from the pages of her book. She inhaled, peering up at Ellie with a surprised smile, and unless she was trying something new with her make-up, two dark shadows around her eyes.
Ellie watched as Willow’s eyes lifted from the pages of her book, a surprised smile spreading across her face. Dark shadows circled her eyes. Unless she was trying a new make-up look, she didn’t sleep much following her rescue mission at St. Mary’s graveyard.
“Sorry, I...” Willow motioned to the book, her voice trailing off. “A little too lost in my own world.”
Eager to ease the tension, Ellie fell back into her comfort zone. “Reading anything good?”
“Oh, it’s just...” Willow held up a copy of Foundation by Isaac Asimov. “A friend gave it to me a while ago. Classic fifties sci-fi isn’t my usual genre of choice, but I needed some escape.”
As Willow spoke, her eyes darted around the room, as if she could see and feel things Ellie couldn’t. Willow had always been on the sensitive side. Too sensitive, Carolyn always said during the wedding planning, and Ellie lost count of how many times Carolyn’s blunt assessments had brought tears to Willow’s early-twenties eyes. The Willow before her now, in her forties, had a little more steel in her spine, but she was still tuned to a more emotional frequency.
“Is this about the murder?” Ellie asked, her voice low.
Willow hesitated, then nodded. But before she could elaborate, her eyes flicked to the door, and a look of relief washed over her face. Ellie turned to see Sylvia entering the café, her arrival seeming to ease Willow’s tension. Ellie couldn’t help but wonder if things weren’t okay between them after all.
Sylvia settled into the chair beside Willow, her tweed jacket rustling as she adjusted her position.
“You wouldn’t believe the attitude on Amber’s apprentice next door,” Sylvia began, her voice tinged with exasperation. “Absolutely dreadful.”
Ellie’s mind flashed back to their earlier conversation. “Sylvia, you mentioned a Blackwood earlier? Did you mean Emma?”
Sylvia’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Oh yes, Emma Blackwood. She might be the worst of the family, if you ask me. She’s over there arguing with Amber right now, telling her she can’t have access to the company emails.”
Just then, Oliver approached with a steaming pot of tea, setting it down in front of Ellie. “This one’s on the house.”
Sylvia’s eyebrows shot up. “Oliver, you’ve never given me so much as a crumb for free!”
“That’s because you’re not my half-sister.”
“Of course!” Sylvia exclaimed, her eyes widening. “I hadn’t put the two together. So, it’s true then? What people are saying? That Oliver’s father had a drunken fumble with Carolyn at The Drowsy Duck and along came Ellie, ending his and Angela’s marriage?”
Ellie felt a flush creep up her neck, uncomfortable with the casual discussion of her family’s history. Oliver shrugged, his expression more neutral. If the old gossip came up as often as it used to in the village, he’d been far more exposed to the blasé way people discussed their origins.
“That’s the gist of it,” he stated, stepping back from their table, the circular black tray held up like a shield, “but it depends on who’s telling the story. I was four years older than Ellie, but neither of us really knew what happened for real around that time.”
Ellie shifted in her seat, unsure how to respond to this public dissection of her family’s past. She focused on pouring her tea, grateful for the distraction as the conversation continued around her.
“It must have been quite the scandal,” Sylvia continued.
Clearing her throat, Ellie tried to keep her voice steady. “Maybe, but historically speaking, it wasn’t the most shocking thing that could have happened in the mid-90s.”
“But in a teeny tiny village like this?” Sylvia’s eyebrows shot up. “In the circles I moved in, that would be quite uncouth.”
Oliver returned, setting a steaming cup of chamomile tea in front of Sylvia. “The circles you used to move in brush shoulders with the royals, and they have more scandalous relationship drama than anyone. How many times have you been married again, Sylvia?”
Sylvia’s mouth opened, then closed, her cheeks flushing. Ellie felt a wave of relief wash over her, grateful for Oliver’s intervention. She’d never been one for gossip, especially about her own life.
“It’s four, if you must know,” she delivered the number like she wasn’t bothered, sniffing back so her two front teeth protruded from her top lip. “And four ex-husbands it shall remain. They say you have to kiss a few toads to find a prince, but mine all stayed toads.” Seeming eager to change the subject, Sylvia leaned forward again. “So, have you heard about these silly riddles?”
