Page 109 of The Devil's Deceit
His English is flawless, apart from the merest hint of an accent. I’m embarrassed by the fact the entire world seems to speak my language, yet I tap out after four words of theirs. I reel off a few essentials and explore the shop while he gathers my things together. When I return to pay, I spot a card propped up against the till. The top line is written in Spanish, but underneath there’s an English translation.
Help wanted. Four hours a day.
I’ve no idea how long I’m going to be here, but knowing me, the lazing around doing nothing all day will wear thin pretty soon.
I pick up the card. “Do I need to be able to speak Spanish to apply?”
He shakes his head. “Most people who come here are American or English.” He jerks his chin. “You interested?”
“I am. Do you have an application form I can fill out?”
He guffaws. “Don’t even have a computer.” He gives me the once over. “You look honest enough. If you want the job, it’s yours.”
I wince at his assessment. Christian would vehemently disagree. “I’m not sure how long I plan to be here.”
He brandishes his hand dismissively. “Card’s been there for weeks. Not a sniff. I get you for a week, two, a month, it’s more than I have now. You start tomorrow. Nine o’clock.”
I grin. “You don’t even know my name, and I don’t know yours.”
“Samuel.”
I consider giving him a false name, but my own is common enough. If Christian has alerts out for anyone called Grace showing up around the world, he’ll be inundated with responses. “I’m Grace.”
He grunts and hands me the shopping bag. “Nine o’clock, Grace.”
“I’ll be here.”
The next morning, I stroll the ten minutes from the hotel to the shop, arriving at five to nine. Samuel’s outside, rearranging stands filled with tourist trinkets and sunscreen. It doesn’t take long for him to show me the ropes, and soon I’m into the swing of it. We’re far busier than I thought we’d be.
According to Samuel, a number of day trippers travel from nearby islands to soak up the beauty of this place. Can’t say I blame them.
My first week whizzes by, and already, I feel like a local. The weight of guilt sitting on my chest eases the busier I am, but after the sun goes down, and the island quietens as the day trippers leave, I’m filled with remorse.
My nights are spent staring at the ceiling, wondering what Christian’s doing and whether he’s still brimming with anger, or if he’s had time to think about things and see what I did from my perspective.
I miss him.
I miss us.
I miss Arron and Juliet, Imogen and Vicky.
Hell, I even miss England, though it’ll be freezing there right now, whereas here, the temperatures are wonderful, and the sun never stops shining.
But the hollowness in the pit of my stomach won’t go away.
At the start of my second week at work, Samuel announces he’s traveling to one of the nearby islands for supplies. Most of his goods arrive by ferry, but on occasion, he likes to source a few new lines. After he’s gone, there’s a moment of panic, but once I’ve served the first couple of customers, I’m in to the swing of things.
At four o’clock, the constant stream of people dies down, giving me free time to restock some of the shelves. I’m in the back grabbing another box of tinned fruit when the bell dings over the door.
“Won’t be a minute,” I call out.
Hoisting the box into my arms, I return to the shop and plonk it on the counter. A dark-haired woman has her back to me as she peruses a stand of locally made jewelry, and a little farther along, a broad-shouldered man with salt and pepper hair is loading a basket with produce.
“Can I help you?”
She turns toward me and smiles. “You must be Grace. Samuel mentioned you’d started working here when he dropped off a few items we’d forgotten last week.”
I squint. She looks vaguely familiar, but I’m pretty certain we’ve never met. Maybe she reminds me of an actor or something.
