Semi-Sweet (26 page)

“Stuffy in here,” she said. “You need air-conditioning.”

He waited until she’d taken a seat. “Like I keep telling you, you’re not in New York now.”

“Don’t I know it.” She hitched up her skirt a fraction and crossed one knee over the other. “Am I taking a letter, sir?”

Ten days down she was reasonably sure she wouldn’t spend the rest of her life—or even the rest of this year—working for the
Clongarvin Voice
. But it would do to pass the time for a while—and really, apart from the lack of any trace of glamour, she had no serious
objections to the job.

The paper was a weekly, which meant their only really busy day was Thursday, and even that had been easy enough last week,
with the others still regarding her as the new girl who wasn’t expected to know her way around yet. Patrick’s schedule wasn’t
too hectic most of the time, which suited her just fine—and compared to some of the scumbags she’d come across in New York,
he was pretty much the ideal boss.

He fancied her, of course. Men were rubbish at hiding that. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her chest, he watched her mouth
when she talked, he probably lusted after her rear view when she walked away from him. And she fueled the attraction, enjoying
the attention of a good-looking man while well able to keep him at a distance.

The clothes she wore to work were carefully chosen to tease, to give just enough away without being too revealing. Her skirts
were figure-hugging, but long enough to look suitable for the office. Her tops showed cleavage, but not too much—unless she
leaned in and allowed a better view. Her blouses weren’t exactly sheer, but sufficiently fine to hint at what lay beneath.
She kept a bottle of perfume in her desk drawer.

She knew, as she scribbled down his words, that he was looking at her. Slouched in his chair, he was taking her in. Maybe
even fantasizing a little. She felt his eyes on her body as she brushed a stray hair from her face, as she bit her bottom
lip gently.

“That’s it,” he said after two letters had been dictated. “Will you get those out before lunchtime?”

“Of course.” She closed the pad and stood. “How’s Leah? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

She’d sent a text a few evenings ago, just to say hello and see the reaction. Leah’s reply, when it came, had been brief:
UP TO MY EYES, HOPE ALL’S WELL. MUST MEET UP SOON.

“She’s fine,” Patrick replied. “A bit tired, naturally.”

“Naturally…When’s she finishing up?”

“Oh, not for another month or so.” His eyes strayed to the neckline of her pale gray top. “No maternity leave when you work
for yourself.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” She pushed her hair behind her shoulders. “Well, I’d better get back to work.”

“What about lunch?” he said as she reached the door. “Have you plans?”

She turned, her face full of regret. “Actually, I have, sorry. Some other time.”

She had no plans, of course. But it was fun to keep him at a distance—until he was gagging for it.

Always such fun, the foreplay.

Una came back to work a week after Jason’s funeral.

Hannah took in the pale face, the determined smile. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? You can have longer.”

Una shook her head. “Thanks, but I need to get back to some kind of a routine…And I think Claire and Dave would like to be
on their own for a while. They’ve been surrounded by people since—”

She broke off, pulling a tissue from her bag and pressing it to her eyes. “God, sorry—I’m not going to do this all morning,
I promise.”

“Go in and put the kettle on,” Hannah told her, “and make yourself a cuppa. I’m afraid there’s only boxed milk, I forgot to
get fresh.”

But Una pushed the tissue back into her bag and began to unbutton her jacket. “No, I’m okay, honestly. Just give me something
to do and then you head off.”

Hannah glanced around the shop. “Well, I didn’t get a chance to sweep the floor this morning,” she lied, “so you could do
that.”

Una hung her jacket and got the broom from the back room. “They’re devastated,” she said as Hannah began to untie her apron.
“Completely in bits, the two of them.” She pushed the broom around the clean floor. “Dave told me Claire cries all night,
just lies in bed all curled up and cries.” She gathered up nothing in the dustpan. “She sits in Jason’s bedroom for hours
in the day. Dave hasn’t been near it—he says he just can’t bring himself.”

Hannah made no move to put on her jacket. “Listen,” she said, “there’s nothing I have to do in town today. Why don’t I stay
around here? Why don’t the two of us—”

Una straightened up, holding the empty dustpan. “No, no, don’t do that—if you stay here I’ll just feel useless. I’ll be fine,
honest.”

“But maybe,” Hannah said gently, “you’d like to talk.”

Una shook her head. “No…thanks, Hannah, I really appreciate the offer, but I think I need a distraction.”

“You’re sure?”

Una nodded. “I’m sure. See you at twelve.”

“Ring me if you need to.”

So Hannah left the shop, for once not relishing her two hours of freedom. As she walked down the street, a taxi drove by,
the driver lifting a hand in greeting. Hannah waved back, not recognizing him until he’d passed.

Wally, the taxi-driving keyboard player. Maybe nobody could afford to be a full-time musician anymore. She remembered him
making some remark about sexy buns, and she smiled.

She turned a corner and saw with a sinking heart that Nora O’Connor was walking rapidly in her direction, too close for Hannah
to pretend not to have seen her and duck into the nearest doorway.

“Hi there,” Nora said as she approached. “I was just on my way to your little shop, actually.”

Dark green skirt that hugged her hips and fishtailed out beneath. Black fitted jacket over snow-white blouse. Black boots,
snug on her calves.

Dressing up for Patrick Dunne.
The thought popped, completely unbidden, into Hannah’s head. She wished she were wearing something slightly more fashionable
than her old blue top and gray trousers. “Did you want me for some reason?”

Adam never talked about his sister’s job at the newspaper. Hannah couldn’t imagine that working for the
Clongarvin Voice
held too many attractions for Nora O’Connor—apart from its editor, maybe.

“I wanted to pick up some of your cupcakes for a meeting,” Nora said now. “Thought they’d add a nice fancy note.”

“Oh…” Hannah immediately felt ashamed. Why should she assume that Nora would make a play for Patrick? Who was she to judge
Adam’s sister—whom she hardly knew, after all? “That’s nice of you. Una is in the shop, she’ll look after you.”

“Yes, Adam mentioned you’d taken on an assistant. Business must be going well.”

“Not bad,” Hannah said. “It’s hard work, but it’s keeping me solvent—more or less.” She began to edge away. “Well, I’d better…”

“Me, too—catch you later.” And Nora was gone, leaving behind a whirl of something that smelled expensive. Off to buy cupcakes
for a meeting that Patrick would most likely be attending. Hannah wondered if he’d notice them, if he’d recognize them as
hers. Surely he’d remember her cupcakes, after all the sample recipes she’d presented him with once she’d made up her mind
about opening the shop.

They’d still had only one encounter in the months since they’d parted, but she’d caught sight of him a few times. Across the
aisles in a supermarket as she stood in the queue with her cart. Sitting in the front seat of a taxi once, thankfully not
looking in her direction. Flicking through the pages of a golfing magazine in the barber’s as he waited for the hot-towel
shave that was his weekly treat to himself.

And once with his arm curved around Leah Bradshaw’s waist as he shepherded her across the street. Hannah couldn’t be sure
if they’d spotted her and chosen to avoid a meeting. Probably—and under the circumstances, she supposed quite understandable—but
it had hurt nonetheless.

She still felt a lurch when she saw him. She still loved the look of him, the thick, dark hair, the wonderfully deep brown
eyes, the stubble that crept back a couple of hours after he’d shaved, the tallness of him, the solidity of his body. She
remembered his smell, the musk of his aftershave, the sharp tang of his sweat.

She turned another corner and realized she’d walked toward Glass Slipper without intending to. Might as well check out the
new stock—not that she could afford a pair of tights, let alone shoes, but a look wouldn’t hurt.

A sign on the window read
EVERY THING 10% OFF
. Another read
ALL STOCK REDUCED
. Geraldine sat alone on a stool behind the counter, reading a magazine. She looked up as Hannah walked in. “Hello, love—nothing
wrong?”

“No—I’m just at a loose end. Una came back this morning.”

“Yes, you were saying. How is the poor girl?”

“Still very upset, of course, but I think it’ll do her good to be back at work.” Hannah looked around. “It’s quiet here, isn’t
it?”

Geraldine closed the magazine. “There’s been nobody in yet today.”

“Nobody at all? Even just looking?”

“Not a soul.” Geraldine lifted her shoulders. “We’ve been blaming the recession, but…” She shook her head. “I’m wondering
now if that’s all there is to it.”

Hannah stared at her. “You think people are avoiding the shop, after what happened?”

Geraldine shook her head. “I really don’t know what to think, love—but in a place the size of Clongarvin word doesn’t take
long to get around.”

The shelves were filled with brightly colored shoes and sandals. There was an assortment of boots labeled
FINAL REDUCTIONS—UP TO 70% OFF
. There were two rows of slippers and a selection of sports shoes.

“Where’s Alice?” Hannah asked.

“Gone to the doctor. She says she’s having trouble sleeping.”

“I’m not surprised…How is she in general?”

Geraldine considered. “Well, she’s improved a bit since she came back, and she’s doing her best to put a good face on it,
but she looks terribly worn out—she must be worried sick about what’s ahead of them. No wonder she’s finding it hard to sleep.
I’ve tried inviting them round to dinner, but she keeps making excuses.”

“What about Tom?”

“He seems to have gone to ground—Alice changes the subject whenever I ask her about him, and Stephen says he’s made no effort
to contact the clinic about going back to work.” She got to her feet and walked toward the back of the shop. “Will you have
tea?”

“Only if you want some yourself.”

But the shop door opened just then, and Geraldine stayed to attend to a woman who entered and began walking slowly past the
footwear on display. Hannah drifted around the shop, picking up and trying on various shoes. A red peep-toe sandal with a
woven wedge sole, a lime green stiletto that would probably look a lot better below Nora O’Connor’s slender ankles.

“You’ll come for lunch on Sunday, won’t you?” Geraldine asked when the woman had left, empty-handed. “I’m doing lamb.”

“I’ll be there.”

Sunday was Easter Sunday. Last year she and Patrick had spent Easter in a small house on Achill Island. They’d driven up early
on Good Friday and stayed till Easter Monday evening. By prior agreement he’d given her a gold-wrapped Lindt chocolate rabbit,
and she’d given him a six-pack of Walkers Cheese & Onion crisps. They’d eaten Easter Sunday lunch in the local hotel and walked
it off on the beach afterward.

“When do you expect Alice back?” she asked as they were drinking their tea.

“Not for another hour, I’d say. It was after ten when she left, and you know what doctors’ waiting rooms can be like.” Geraldine
paused. “Anyone nice come into your shop?”

“Not really, no one out of the ordinary.”

Hannah knew that her mother was thinking about John Wyatt. She wondered if he was traveling to Scotland for Easter. If not,
they could well have been spending Easter Sunday together, or part of it at least. He hadn’t been back to Cupcakes on the
Corner since they’d met in Vintage. Of course it didn’t matter, she hardly knew him—but still it irked, this feeling that
she’d been hasty, that she’d thrown something away without considering its worth. Maybe she’d visit Vintage again sometime
with Adam.

When she got back to the shop, Una reported that a woman had bought two dozen cupcakes and asked for a written receipt.

“Curly auburn hair, well dressed, American accent?”

“Yes. You know her?”

“I know her.”

Two dozen cupcakes, easily their biggest order to date. It occurred to her suddenly that Patrick might specifically have asked
his PA to shop at Cupcakes on the Corner. Salving his conscience, maybe, by throwing some business her way? Not that it mattered
a damn whose decision it had been—an order was an order, wherever it came from.

Still, it would be nice to know.