‘Yeah? Where did you move from?’
She swallowed, and wondered if she should edge past him towards the front window to bring this conversation to an end. The less anyone knew about where she was from, the better. ‘The coast,’ she said, waving her hand towards the front door as though that was an adequate answer.
‘I just moved back myself.’
Yep, she was going to make a break for it to the window. She waggled the flyer in the air. ‘That dog’s owner could walk past any minute now. I’d better, um—’
His eyes crinkled in a way which ought to be banned for married guys, because now she was so flustered she’d dropped the sticky tape. She reached down for it but the chatty vet beat her to it. He dropped it into her hand, and she scooted past him to the window before he noticed the colour she could feel heating her cheeks.
He stopped in the café doorway as he headed back out into the sunlight. ‘Welcome to Hanrahan, Vera. I’ll see you around.’
‘Sure,’ she lied brightly, mindful of Graeme’s instruction to play nice, while making a mental note to keep a wide distance between her and all the distracting vets in the district. ‘See you.’
Vera successfully resisted the urge to watch Josh Cody disappear up Paterson Street.
‘You see?’ she said to the cloth she’d pulled out of her apron to polish the pane of glass beside the front door. ‘This is how you stick to your goals. Discipline, hard work and averted eyes.’
She pushed the vet out of her thoughts as she fussed about with the flyer, wondering what the optimum height was so as to not interrupt her customers’ view out. A noticeboard would be better for community flyers—something timber and ornate, maybe in the alcove on the side wall by the fireplace—with a bookshelf below it. A fern in a copper pot above the books would match the copper light fittings, and perhaps she could source some vintage photos of the historical buildings lining Hanrahan’s pretty park … create a fireside nook to encourage customers to linger.
The local school could pin up its fete notices, and maybe there was an amateur dramatic society who put on plays, sang Christmas carols in December, that sort of thing? The ski season on the upper slopes had come to an early end with the snowmelt a few weeks ago, but there’d be more events on the town’s calendar. If she was still a free woman at the end of October, Halloween would be fun.
Pumpkin scones, she thought, as she taped the vet’s flyer to the glass, would lure the Queensland tourists inside. Was that straight? She eyeballed the square edge against the windowsill. Nope. She peeled off the tape, adjusted the paper, tried again. The local kids might enjoy cupcakes decorated as little monsters, perhaps some olive and egg spiders.
She caught herself smiling at the thought of whipping up a batch of mulled wine, with dry ice and scary ping-pong eyeballs floating about in it. Maybe this café caper really was beginning to soothe her ragged nerves.
She jumped as a face popped up on the other side of the window and eyeballs, real ones, smiled at her from beneath an old-fashioned cloth cap.
‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered. Beside the elderly man towered a handsome woman wearing the largest and pinkest and dangliest—was that a word?—earrings she’d ever seen.
‘Incoming customers, Graeme,’ she called over her shoulder as she tucked the sticky tape into her apron pocket and made her way to the doorway. ‘Look welcoming.’ Like he had to be told. She plastered her happy café-owner face on and took a breath.
‘Hello,’ she said to the pair.
‘You must be Vera. Let’s take a look at you,’ said the woman, reaching out and taking both of her hands. ‘Isn’t she a peach, Kev?’
‘Ah, hello. Yes, I’m Vera. Welcome to The Billy Button Café.’
‘Marigold Jones. I expect you’ve heard of me.’
The woman disconcerted her by batting eyelashes which might have been fake. It was hard to tell, what with all the green eyeshadow and the arthouse earrings and the acres and acres andacresof flowing leopard-print frock. The name did sound familiar though. Where on earth could she hav—
‘Call me Marigold. We are going to be such friends, Vera. I knew it as soon as I saw your lovely sign. Wildflowers are my favourites, especially yellow billy buttons and pink triggers. You, my love, have taste. This is my husband, Kev.’
‘Pleased to meet you. Are you … er … needing a table?’
The steamroller’s attention had been claimed by the interior of the café, and she swooped from table to table, inspecting the cut-glass vases, pinching the white linen tablecloths, for all the world as though she was at an estate sale and wondering what to buy.
‘I’ll be taking a seat, Vera,’ said Kev. ‘Where do you want me?’
The café was empty, the last lunch-goers having left their empty plates and generous tips behind just moments ago. ‘Take your pick, sir.’
‘Now don’t go calling me sir, you’ll have Marigold thinking I’m getting old. Kev will do fine. Don’t mind my wife, she’s as nosy as she is good-hearted, and when she’s finished deciding which of those fine-looking desserts she’s going to let me buy her, she’ll be right over.’
‘Vera, my dear,’ called his wife, ‘what are you doing with this other room through the archway?’
Vera hurried from Kev’s side, bemused. Small-town living took some getting used to, that was for sure. ‘I haven’t decided. The big table was already there when I took over the lease, but the area is a bit dark, even with the fresh paint. Maybe a private dining room eventually for groups of twelve or so? I thought I’d settle in to coffee and cake, breakfast and lunch, until I get a feel for how many people in Hanrahan are dropping in. Start simple, maybe build up a little when I know what I’m doing.’
‘That’s a good plan.’