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  ‘Are you going to put her in one of your magazine articles?’

  ‘I wasn’t planning on it,’ Mason said, rubbing Latte’s ears.

  ‘Oh. She’ll be disappointed, won’t you?’ Latte let out a yip, and Summer laughed. ‘See?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ a voice called through the hatch, ‘are you open?’

  Summer got up from the table. ‘I’d better …’

  ‘Sure,’ Mason said, standing. ‘I should go and … get dressed, for a start.’

  ‘Your feet must be freezing.’

  ‘Thanks for the sandwich. It was worth the wait.’ He went to give his coffee cup to her just as she picked it up, and his hand landed on top of hers. She waited for him to take it away, but he didn’t.

  ‘Your hands are cold,’ he said.

  ‘It’s February.’

  ‘Valentine’s Day,’ he added.

  ‘Come back for a cookie if you’d like to, they should be ready soon.’

  ‘Whether love, lust or nookie …’ Mason quoted.

  Summer swallowed. ‘It’s just a rhyme …’

  ‘Excuse me,’ the voice called again, ‘I’d like one of those cookies!’

  ‘Sorry!’ Summer pulled her hand away and, leaving Mason and his empty coffee cup at the table, and with her heart thumping in her chest, went to greet her customer.

  The day was taken up serving a constant stream of customers – Valerie had been right about that – and baking, replenishing plates with fresh cakes and cookies, the whoosh as the coffee machine frothed milk for cappuccinos. Willowbeck was attractive even on a grey day, so with a whisper of winter sunshine and a hint of spring in the air, the water and the towpath were busy with boats and strollers. The Canal Boat Café was noticeable in its red and blue livery, Summer and Valerie were encouraged to their tasks by gentle yips from Latte, and on three occasions customers ventured inside the boat and sat at the tables.

  The interior was still barer than Summer would like: the still-dirty windows needed to let in the light rather than fracture it, the bunting had to be replaced and the scratches on the tables repaired. It could be homelier, but the heating system was up to date, the café remained warm even when the hatch was open, and decoration could be worked on at a more leisurely pace.

  As it got to five o’clock and the sun had almost bowed out for the day, Summer closed and locked the hatch, untied Madeleine’s red and blue gingham apron and gave Valerie a hug.

  ‘I can’t come tomorrow,’ she said softly.

  ‘You can’t?’

  ‘I’m working on several commissions at the moment, and I can’t afford another day away from the studio.’

  ‘So this is it?’ Valerie asked, her voice high with panic.

  ‘No,’ Summer said, drawing the word out. ‘No, I don’t think so. But I – let me think. Thank you, Valerie, for asking me to come back. I didn’t think I’d want to, but …’

  ‘You know it’s where you belong?’ Valerie’s smile was hopeful.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed myself,’ Summer settled for. ‘And it hasn’t been as … painful as I thought it would be.’ She smiled, but the truth was, today especially, she’d been too busy to think about anything but who needed serving, what needed removing from the oven, and what had happened between her and Mason that morning. She hadn’t failed to notice that he’d never returned for his cookie.

  ‘You’ll be back,’ Valerie said. She was much more positive than she had been on Saturday, and she said the words with conviction. ‘And in the meantime, I’ll struggle along. But don’t leave it too long.’

  ‘I won’t, I promise. Come on, Latte.’ She clipped the lead on the Bichon Frise, and stepped out into the dusk.

  Her feet echoed on the towpath, a sudden burst of laughter coming from the hill as someone opened the door of the pub. She found herself slowing as she passed The Sandpiper, and could see that the lights were on behind the thin curtains. She gave an involuntary shudder, not of cold, but of longing.

  There was nothing more magical than walking in the dark, staring into lighted windows and imagining the families, couples, conversations happening in that safe, snug world, locked away from the night. That feeling was magnified when she was on the river, both because the outside was more inhospitable, the icy depths of the river thrilling in their danger, and because she had never felt as cosy as she had curled up on her mum’s boat on a cold winter’s night, the woodburner flickering away as they watched a film, or talked over low music.

  Now, she imagined Mason sitting at a desktop computer, large in the compact space, scrolling through photos, or reading a book, a glass of red wine at his elbow, his feet bare. She was surprised by the vividness of the picture that formed, the desire to see what the inside of The Sandpiper was like.

  Each boat was individual, but all, in Summer’s mind, were beautiful. A place where you could feel safe and calm. Mason’s presence, she was sure, would only add to the effect.

  As she got back into her car she thought of her mum’s boat, and how behind the galley it was just a shell. It wasn’t right, the space being so empty and hollow. She didn’t want to go back to the boat permanently. She didn’t think she was ready, but as she drove to her flat the ideas were already brewing in her mind. Willowbeck and The Canal Boat Café were trying very hard to work their way back into her thoughts.

  Over the next three days she worked solidly on her commissions; a sign for a new boutique, and one for a pub that had changed its name to ‘The Daft Duckling’, which made her laugh at least ten times a day.

  She was part of an artists’ co-operative that had a small gallery and studio space on the outskirts of Cambridge. It had been started a few years ago by a group of people she’d gone to art college with, and who offered her the opportunity to be involved at a time when she was struggling to sell her work and make contacts. Now there were around thirty artists involved, using the studio and holding exhibitions in the gallery. It was friendly, with the marketing and finances shared out equally so she never felt under too much pressure.

  She loved the attention to detail, and being able to create things that she knew would last for years, and she got on with the other artists she worked alongside. But now, her concentration was wandering. She found herself coming up with cookie recipes, wondering which flowers would work best as table decorations as winter turned to spring, trying to decide which of the artists in the co-operative could source her the best fabric for new bunting. Even Latte, usually the picture of docility on a cushion nearby, was restless, sniffing around the studio, poking her nose into everything.

  As Summer worked on her pieces and tried to keep her dog from becoming a fluffy canvas, her mind also drifted back to Mason. She had been in his company for less than an hour, but his serious face, occasionally lit up with the most transforming smile she’d ever seen, his dark eyes – even his bare feet – returned to her thoughts on a regular basis. Almost as regularly as she received a call or a text from Ross.

  Summer sat back on her haunches, clutching her takeaway coffee cup in her hands, and appraised her sign. She’d nearly finished the ‘Daft’ and would soon start to flesh out the sketch of the duckling itself. She knew her work was good, but she wasn’t being as meticulous as she usually was. Her phone beeped, and she sighed.

  Ross owned an art supplies shop in Cambridge, and it was one that Summer used often. His prices were good, his customer service excellent. She’d struck up a friendship with him over the course of the previous year, but he’d twisted things on their head by making it clear, one night when Summer was rushing in for more paint and he was about to close up, that he wanted more from their relationship.

  His directness had caught her off guard, mainly because Summer had never seen him as anything more than a friend. She’d never felt an attraction to him, had never seen any passion in him. He was nice, but he had no conviction – except perhaps about getting Summer to go out with him – and Summer couldn’t imagine being with someone who lived their
life on the surface, who didn’t feel deeply about anything. She had remained firm, friendly but adamant, right up until the point where her mum had died.

  She closed her eyes now, thinking back to what had happened, how Ross had been there to comfort her, to listen to her, to hold her when that was all she wanted. One night, when Summer couldn’t face going back alone to her flat, she had gone to the pub with him. She had felt safe and comforted, and she had let him come back with her.

  She had known – even while it was happening – that it was a mistake, that it wasn’t what she wanted, but she had needed to feel something other than the pain of losing her mum, and she had used Ross as a sticking plaster. After that night Summer had apologized, explained that she wasn’t in the right place for a relationship, and that she just wanted to be friends. He had been understanding – too understanding – and said that he was fine with friendship.

  Summer knew that he wasn’t, that he had chosen to stay close to her rather than lose her altogether, and she hadn’t been strong enough to cut off contact completely. Partly, she felt guilty about the way she had treated him, and partly she knew that he’d be there for her without question. She had lost Valerie’s friendship and the warm hub of people she knew in Willowbeck because she couldn’t face going back there, and Ross seemed somehow to fill that gap. Summer knew it was wrong, but she knew it would be more hurtful to him if she backed away completely. She felt stuck, and while she was uncertain, Ross was the opposite. He remained as unwavering, and as present, as ever.

  She politely declined his text inviting her to a local arts festival that weekend, and began packing up her things, cleaning her brushes, setting the easel out of the way to let her sign dry. There was only one person who could help her sort through the muddle inside her head, and that was Harriet.

  Whereas Summer had always loved the freedom that being on the water gave her, her best friend Harry was firmly rooted on the ground. As Summer pulled up to the picturesque white cottage, she smiled at Harry’s ability to make the garden glow with colour, even in winter. The beds were full of blue and pink hyacinths, snowdrops and some early wild primroses. Harry had a wreath on her door all the year round, and currently it was heart-shaped and made of red twine, with sprays of white carnations and baby’s-breath woven through it.

  Harry opened the front door, her smile wide on her oval face, her mahogany brown hair falling glossily over her shoulders. ‘Sum, come in. Kettle’s already on.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Summer said, hearing the relief in her voice at the comfort that came from spending time with her best friend. She followed Harry into the large kitchen, simply designed in wood and cream, but with Harry’s creations giving it a homely touch. Felt stars hung from the dresser, homemade, pastel cushions sat on the chairs, a small flock of crocheted sheep adorned the side by the toaster. A stack of paperwork and un-opened envelopes was partly covered by a half-knitted hat on the kitchen table, and Summer moved the pile to one side.

  ‘How are you, Harry?’

  ‘We’re good, good.’ Harry nodded, taking something out of the oven, the delicious smell growing in intensity.

  ‘What’s that?’ Summer asked, hurrying over to peer at the tray.

  ‘Orange and cinnamon cake.’

  ‘Wow, is it …’

  ‘In your honour.’

  ‘Where are the boys?’

  ‘They’ve gone fishing.’ Harry laughed. ‘Greg showed Tommy one of those ridiculous shows on some obscure Discovery channel, trying to be all casual as if he’d accidentally come across it, and Tommy seemed genuinely keen. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Greg look so pleased. I might lose them both to the river, which would be ironic.’

  Summer smiled and rolled her eyes. Ever since they’d met, Harry had teased Summer about her hippy mother, and hadn’t been at all surprised after Summer’s parents had divorced that Madeleine had bought the boat. Harry had often visited Summer at The Canal Boat Café, and accompanied her on trips up the river when custom was slow, but at the end of the day she had always been happy to get back to dry land, and her solid, rooted home. Summer had never even managed to convince Harry to go camping with her, let alone give up her stability and her soft furnishings and try life on the water.

  ‘I can’t believe Greg’s waited this long to take him,’ Summer said. ‘Do you think Tommy’ll catch the bug as badly as his dad?’

  ‘I guess it depends if they catch a fish.’ Harry winced. ‘We’ll just have to see. He was meant to be going go-karting with some friends this morning, but we ended up having to cancel, so I hope it cheers him up.’

  ‘No hope of getting him interested in crochet or baking?’

  ‘Hey, there’s lots of time yet,’ Harry said, waggling her finger. ‘He’s only ten.’

  They sat looking out over the country-cottage garden, a couple of sparrows fighting over one of the feeders, and Summer felt her tension drain away.

  ‘So,’ Harry said. ‘Tell me. You didn’t come here just for delicious cake.’

  ‘But it is delicious.’

  ‘Sum?’

  ‘OK, OK. It’s just … everything’s complicated at the moment.’

  ‘Are we talking about Ross?’ Harry’s voice was soft, tentative.

  Summer shook her head. ‘No, I mean, that’s not changed. But it – it’s my fault, I know that. No, this is the boat.’

  ‘The Canal Boat Café?’ Harry sat up, dark eyes wide. ‘What about it? Are you thinking of going back?’

  ‘I have gone back,’ Summer said, ‘that’s the thing.’

  ‘Really? When? Tell me everything. Are you OK? How did it feel?’

  Summer sighed, added another sugar to her tea, and told her.

  What felt like hours later, when Summer was entirely full of orange and cinnamon cake and empty of words, she waited for her friend to deliver her verdict.

  ‘You know what I think,’ Harry said, ‘you’ve known what I think all along. That boat is your mum’s legacy. It could be your café, Summer, your boat. It’s a thriving, unusual, beautiful business, and it’s yours for the taking. It’s an amazing opportunity.’

  ‘It’s not quite so thriving now.’

  ‘But it could be, if you put your heart into it.’

  ‘But Mum—’

  ‘Maddy would want you to do it, more than anything. You can make this your own, Summer. You can start again, with Summer’s café. Your mum will always be there, in your heart, but she would want you to do it in your own way, not hers.’

  ‘You sound like Valerie.’ Summer laughed quietly, and Harry gave her a sympathetic smile.

  ‘That’s who Valerie is. It’s her way of coping, and she’s only trying to help.’

  ‘I know, it’s just not how I cope. Believing that Mum’s looking down on us, guiding us. She must know that saying things like that will never comfort me.’

  ‘OK then, how do you cope?’ Harry collected crumbs on the end of her finger.

  Summer shrugged.

  ‘By shutting yourself off from everything that reminds you of Maddy. But by doing that, Sum, you lose the good along with the bad. Don’t you think you should try and let the memories back in?’

  Summer felt the tears spring too easily to her eyes, the familiar well of grief open up inside her. ‘But you know what I did,’ she whispered, ‘you know why it’s so hard for me. How can I think of everything we did together, all the fun we had, without being reminded of that?’

  Harry leaned forward and put her hand over Summer’s. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But it will happen. Of course it will take time, but you’ll find a way to forgive yourself. Maddy would never have blamed you – nobody blames you, except you.’

  ‘But I can’t shut me out, can I?’ The tears fell, and Summer wiped them with the palm of her hand. ‘I miss her so much. And I can’t help but wonder, if it hadn’t been for me, if it hadn’t been for what I did, would she still be here now?’

  Harry shook her head, and kept shaking, her g
aze never dropping from Summer’s. ‘No. You have to stop thinking like that. It was bad timing, that’s all. Terrible, tragic timing. But you’re not responsible for her death, Sum. I’m not saying you haven’t made mistakes – everyone has – but you have to move on from them. You need to tell Ross again, flat out, how you don’t feel about him, and you need to get back on that boat and make it work.’

  ‘It’s a shell.’

  ‘So fill it with things that make you happy.’

  ‘I can’t bake.’

  ‘A, that’s not true, B, I can help, and C – what will happen if you don’t? No café can survive solely on someone else’s Jammie Dodgers. That boat is yours, Summer. Embrace it. If you don’t, I think you’ll be making a huge mistake – much bigger than anything you’re worrying about now.’

  Summer looked out of the window. ‘Really?’ She thought of the night her mother died, thought of the evening she ended up drunk and in Ross’s arms, pictured the forlorn interior of the café when she’d gone back, Valerie’s pleading, upset face. ‘You think that I can turn it around?’

  ‘I know you can, Summer. What’s more, I think you have to. Just go back to any one of a hundred occasions on that boat with you and Maddy, Valerie, sometimes me and Greg and Tommy, and you know I’m telling the truth. That boat is your happy place – even if you’re struggling to see it at the moment. Now, tell me, what are you going to do?’

  Chapter 4

  Summer arrived at Willowbeck early on Friday morning, just as the sun was coming up. Everything was still, and Summer’s breath misted the air. Latte was quiet at her side, trembling with the excitement of being woken early and allowed to accompany Summer back to this strange, new place.

  She walked up the path towards the water, passing the signpost, and stopped dead. One of the arrows had been replaced. The sign pointing to the pub now read ‘The Black Swan Pub & Tea Shop’. Summer gritted her teeth against a surge of anger. It could only have happened in the last week – Jenny’s next move of attack. How could the pub realistically call itself a tea shop just because of a few fancy cakes? She knew her mum wouldn’t have stood for this, especially when The Canal Boat Café didn’t have a signpost at all.