Page 10 of An Enchanted Moment on Ever After Street
Witt must notice I’ve tuned out because he goes to walk away again. ‘Better go and leave a leaflet for your Scary Neighbour. I doubt he’ll want one, but he’s not going to be excluded on my watch.’
I regret ever naming Darcy that. He must know it was me – he’smyneighbour. Our two shops stand side by side in a block of their own. Whoelsewould’ve given him that nickname?
I’m incapable of starting a conversation at a normal moment and must always wait until someone’s halfway out the door before thinking of what to say. ‘Witt, you know Darcy, right?’
He looks at me in surprise. ‘Got to admit, that’s the first time anyone’s ever used his name. I didn’t think anyone knew it.’
‘They didn’t.’ That warmth flushes through me again. He definitely didn’t intend to tell me that last night. ‘Have you ever seen him?’
Witt’s eyes flick to the red rose on my counter as though he knows who it came from. ‘I’veseenhim. Never without a hat, scarf, gloves, and sunglasses on if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t think anyone’severseen him without those on. His father used to work for my father. He took over the job when his old man passed on, long before I came back. He’s a bit prickly if anyone tries to talk to him. He likes privacy while he works. I don’t disturb him and he doesn’t disturb me, an arrangement that suits us both.’
‘Same here,’ I mutter. Darcy really is like a ghost, even to his employer. It’s like he exists on the sidelines. There, but never noticed, never bothering anyone, never disturbing anyone and never being disturbed. Forgotten, like the Beast shut away in hisenchanted castle. ‘Has he ever told you why? Because I assume he’s covering scarring, maybe burns or something…’ I say it casually, like ithasn’tbeen at the forefront of my mind since last night.
‘No. No more than calling himself a beast, anyway. But even if he had, I don’t…’ He stutters, searching for the rest of the sentence. ‘I don’t think he’d appreciate being the subject of Ever After Street gossip.’
I see what he’s saying. Even if he did know something about Darcy, it wouldn’t be his place to tell me. ‘And yet, he makes himself the subject of gossip.’
‘He keeps to himself. He might not be particularly friendly, but he doesn’t do any harm or cause trouble to anyone. You only need to glance at the castle gardens to see how talented he is. He might not run his shop in a traditional way, but that’s up to him.’
‘Fair point.’ I wave goodbye as he ducks back out the door. Mrs Potts stretches and gets up to turn around and find a more comfortable position in her bed.
I can’t get the idea of a book festival out of my head for the rest of the afternoon, which at least makes a change from Darcy, who has occupied every inch of my mind since last night.
In previous jobs, I’ve spent every afternoon clock-watching, counting down the minutes until going-home time, but I’ve never done that here. Iloveowning this shop. I love being surrounded by books. I love the nods toBeauty and the Beasteverywhere. The rose on the counter fits right into the theme in the shop, where as well as the mural on the back wall, I’ve got framed watercolour paintings of Belle with her nose in a book, and ones of the Beast feeding birds, and them dancing together hung around the walls too, but tonight I’m clock-watching for a different reason.
Typically, at five, there’s a customer in who seems to be browsingeverybook, and I struggle to get excited when she buystwo Sophie Kinsellas, because I can’t wait to close the shop and go outside.
When she leaves, I run upstairs and throw open the window to peer out, and I can hear theplinkof secateurs snapping together as he prunes something on his side of the hedge. While I want to race down there so fast that I fall over myself, I also want to do something nice for him, and the only thing I can think of is what he refused last night. If he won’t come to the tea and biscuits, the tea and biscuits can come to him instead.
I make the fastest cups of tea possible without compromising on optimum brewing time, grab a packet of Custard Creams, and rush down the stairs while trying not to spill them.
‘Ahoy there, neighbour.’ My volume control has gone again and I’m out of breath by the time I stumble through the back door. Composure, Marnie. Twenty-four hours ago, this guy was mildly terrifying, you cannot be inthatmuch of a rush to see him. Well, notseehim exactly.
‘I wondered if you’d be brave enough to run the stinging nettle gauntlet today.’
I’m grinning because of the way he said that… like he washopingI might be out here again today. ‘I’m going to put something down on the gatepost.’
He doesn’t answer, so to avoid a spillage, I take both mugs to the gatepost and put them down, tear open the Custard Creams and take a couple out for myself, and then carry my own mug back up the garden.
‘Tea?’ There’s confusion in his voice. ‘You made me tea?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know I like tea?’
‘You’re British. At least, you sound British. What self-respecting Brit dislikes tea?’
‘Yeah. I am. I do, I just… didn’t expect that.’
‘I’m nowhere near the gatepost; you can come and get it before a leaf lands in it.’ Even though he can’t see me, I nod towards the beech trees in the forest past our gardens, which are losing yellowed leaves like a snowstorm with each gust of autumn wind.
‘Biscuits too,’ he says, while I’m trying not to watch as the mug disappears from the gatepost and the rustle of the packet as he takes some Custard Creams, and his footsteps come back up his garden until he’s standing near me on the opposite side of the hedge. ‘In aBeauty and the Beastmug. Very on-brand.’
‘I love that story. Belle is a mascot for bookworms everywhere, and I think everyone can relate to her wanting adventure in an otherwise boring life, and the whole moral of the story that beauty is found within and love can grow in the most unexpected places. It’s my favourite. Favourite book as a child. Favourite Disney movie. You must like it – you named your shop after it too,’ I say, curious about this completely coincidental thing we have in common.
‘I fit the character, nothing more.’
‘He was really a prin—’
