At last, she stopped crying and looked up at me with red, swollen eyes and asked if I had a hanky.
‘No, but you can use my sleeve if you like,’ I joked, and was rewarded with a watery smile.
She gave a giant sniff and lifted her T-shirt to dab her eyes. ‘I need something to drink.’
I dug in the bag for the flask of coffee and started unscrewing the lid.
She shook her head. ‘I want to get plastered.’
So we gathered our things and went to the nearest pub as the light was fading and drank far too much for our own good. Then we walked back to the beach, arm in arm (mainly because we’d have fallen down otherwise), kicked off our shoes and went for a paddle in the sea, which we both found hysterically funny.
Next day, over breakfast at The Bay View Guest House, Paloma was subdued. But she talked a bit about Linda and the fun times they’d had in Bournemouth. And when we were leaving, before she got into the car, she stared out across the blue sea that glittered with diamonds in the sunshine, and said softly, ‘I miss you so much, Mum.’
On the journey home, she said the first thing she was going to do when she got back was telephone her client and apologise for her outburst.
That’s when I knew Paloma was going to be all right …
Chapter 4
‘Use the pulley! Go on, please. For old times’ sake.’
It’s the following day – a sunny morning in early May – and we’re in the garden of Honey Cottage, Paloma beaming down at me from the open window of the treehouse.
She lowers the basket on a string, a remnant from when we were kids, and I plonk the box of freshly baked cookies inside, along with the two portable coffees I’ve made. Then I stand back, arms folded, grinning as she makes a big ceremony of hauling up the goodies.
‘Double chocolate chip?’ she calls, rescuing the coffees then pulling off the cookie box lid. ‘Gorgeous. You can charge a fortune for these in your café.’ She waves one around and starts munching.
‘I’ll be charging what they’re worth, no more,’ I call back, climbing Dad’s home-made ladder. ‘Otherwise the customers won’t return. If they come at all.’
‘If you build it, they will come,’ she quotes from the movie Field of Dreams.
‘I don’t have to build it. It’s already there,’ I call up to her. ‘And I’m not sure my café will be in the same league as a magic baseball stadium and a delicious Kevin Costner in his much younger days.’
She laughs. ‘Well, maybe. But I bet he didn’t sell the best strawberry and dark chocolate shortcake this side of the English Channel. Which yours will be, of course.’
Smiling, I clamber up onto the treehouse platform. Paloma has always been the biggest fan of my baking, ever since we were kids and I discovered how to make tray bakes based on melted Mars Bars. She and Dad are both convinced this café venture of mine can’t fail.
I walk round to the door on the other side of the platform, feeling the usual heady rush of being high off the ground, among the rustling treetops.
Dad built the structure out of green oak because it rarely rots and the timbers it produces are really strong. The result is that it’s weathered the storms perfectly, the exposed wood on the outside turning a lovely silvery grey over the years, which only adds to its charms. The wooden ladder was made to look rustic but actually it’s incredibly solid, leading up to the broad platform, which appears to be magically suspended among the trees. If you look closer, you can see that the structure of the house is held firmly in place by three solid oak trees, one of them rising right up through the centre of the space.
You enter the house by a small but perfectly formed door, with three carved hearts fixed to the front. Dad used cherry wood for these. The door, which has a cute, fairy-tale quality about it, was the perfect height for a ten-year-old, but now, as adults, we have to duck a little to get in.
Paloma comes out and joins me on the wooden verandah and we lean on the sturdy rail and look down towards Dad’s old country store, visible over the fence at the bottom of the garden. It’s the building I’m crossing my fingers will soon house a busy and successful café.
Dad built his business premises on a plot of land adjacent to ours and people came from miles around to buy their farm supplies, pet paraphernalia and waxed jackets. On dry days, he’d have all sorts of interesting objects for sale, laid out on benches and racks outside the store like a colourful market, enticing people to come and browse.
The building lies stark and empty now.
Every time I catch sight of it – just a characterless box, the front doors bolted and padlocked – my heart twists. It’s a constant reminder that Dad’s no longer there, whistling cheerfully as he unpacks deliveries, arranging the displays and going out to greet customers, most of whom he’d known for years.
‘I don’t know,’ I murmur, full of doubt. ‘Do you really think I can turn that uninspiring building into a thriving coffee stop for locals and tourists?’
‘Yes, of course you can. With my creative help, of course.’
I turn and smile at her. ‘I’m counting on it.’
Paloma is a graphic designer. She’s self-employed and works from her home in a block of modern flats on the edge of the village. The fact that she can work hours to suit herself is a big plus, and she will often still be up at three in the morning, finishing a project. I don’t think Paloma would last a month if she had to be at an office every weekday for nine a.m. sharp.
‘We can source tables, chairs and lovely old
