24

 

 

GWYNN ENTERED THE stores from the garden entrance, her cloth bag over her arm. She passed through the low-ceilinged rooms holding shelves of aprons, of wash buckets, of boxed matches—which made her think of Giles Trevelyan. On impulse, she picked up two small boxes; she never knew when she might need some, but she always knew when Giles would. A new package of tapers for the candle holders on the shelf, in case she wanted to throw an intimate dinner party: the idea was rather pleasant. A bit further toward the front of the shop was a shelf full of emergency oil lanterns. There hadn’t been a power cut since she’d been in the cottage, but it was now November, and that was the Atlantic Ocean at the end of the village, and the forecast for this evening had been especially grim.

“How are you settling in, then?” Leah at the counter asked as Gwynn set her lantern, tapers, and matches down. Leah’s look was kind, concerned. Again Gwynn thought how motherly she seemed. “A bit lonely in that old cottage, I should think.”

Gwynn looked up, surprised at the tone. “It’s all right,” she said quickly. “Mary Tennant comes in every other morning, you know. Like she did for my great-aunt.”

Leah nodded. “Ah, that’s so. A good woman, Mary. Keeps you company, like? Someone to talk to.”

“Yes.” Despite the oddness of the conversation, Gwynn didn’t want to appear unfriendly. “Everyone’s been kind. Mary’s taken me to meet her father, up to his cottage. I’d need some batteries for the flashlights, too, I think. And have you any wax buttons, for the candleholders?”

“I think we might still have a package or two,” Leah said thoughtfully. She frowned for a moment. “Had a bit of a run on them lately.”

It was difficult to imagine there being a run on anything in this shop—in this village. Except, in the summer months, on postcards and ice cream cones and sunscreen. But the season was long over, summer visitors having left the village to the residents and to its own devices. Gwynn followed Leah through a wide doorway, ducking her head under the low lintel as the hand-lettered sign above warned her to. Leah turned to the right, still frowning, pausing to hand off a couple of packages of batteries, and led the way to a heavy oak dresser, the shelves of which held tea towels and sponges. She opened one of the deep drawers in the lower half and smiled.

“Here they are,” she said triumphantly. She pulled out a pair of cellophane wrapped packages and held them up. “How many do you need? Fifteen buttons each package.”

“I’d better take them both. It’s always nice to have candles on the dinner table, isn’t it?” Gwynn smiled brightly at Leah. Probably she wouldn’t use that many buttons in a year, but then again, who could tell? Candle-lit dinners for one, Leah probably thought, unless Mary wanted to bring her father over to keep her company, like. In her lonely old cottage. Gwynn breathed a sigh of relief that no one knew about Colin—though they probably would before long in a village this size.

At the counter once more, Leah totted up the purchases on the block. Gwynn handed her a note and took her change. She tucked the purchases into her cloth bag and said her thanks. She turned to go.“You’re welcome to come on down here any time, if you’d like someone to talk to,” Leah called after her. “We could have tea, like. You know. Another woman to talk to when you’re feeling a bit down?”

“Thanks,” Gwynn said, puzzled. “That would be nice.”