Page 56 of Pull Me Under

‘Well, it wouldn’t, would it, dear? Coastal living is only easy if you don’t actually live here.’

I stare out the shop window at the harbour that hasn’t come to life yet with spring tourists. ‘True, I guess.’

She sniffs, which I think articulates her thoughts on the matter. ‘Well, we have a bed in Andrew’s old room that I was planning to get rid of. I’ll get one of the crew and load it onto a trailer and bring it up.’

I stare blankly. Too much time passes before I respond.

‘A bed.’ It’s not a question, not really. Not a statement either, someplace caught between the two.

‘I’ll see what else we have.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I say, which is the truth, and a rarity. ‘Thank you.’

Dot Pendleton waves me off with a businesslike flick of her fingers. ‘Let’s not get sentimental about it, shall we.’

I smile, clutching my purchases. ‘Never.’

I’m at the door and about to jangle the bell as I open it when she calls me back. ‘Brynn?’

‘Yes, Mrs Pendleton?’ Her lips twitch.

‘I can’t wait to see that trawler of yours in the water.’

‘My trawler? You know about her?’

She raises her eyebrow; another statement without words. ‘What you going to call her?’

A huffed laugh eases the tight band around my ribcage. ‘I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.’

Dot shrugs. ‘It’ll come to you.’

I give her a small wave, another thanks for the offer of a bed that might not collapse, and head out.

The name ‘Betty’ ringing in my head.

Who the hell is Betty?

Back at the shed, Ghost has relocated from his corner to the engine housing, where he’s draped himself over a coil of rope like a furry hood ornament. I fill his bowl and he descends with the studied indifference of a creature doing you a favour by eating your food.

I strip off my jacket, tie back my hair, and climb up onto the boat’s deck. The fuel pump’s where I left it – gaskets spread on a clean rag, replacement seals lined up by size. Methodical. Precise. The way Grandad taught me.

Patience, Brynn. It’s not a fight. You’re having a conversation with it.

I pick up the spanner and get back to work. Back to my life. My new life in Sea Salt Bay.

The knock comes just after noon on Tuesday. Three sharp raps on the shed door.

It’s Jude.

Sandy hair tousled, blue denim hoodie and dark blue jeans, the smell of fresh air and mint rolling off him. I wish I wasn’t itemising him like a goddamn shopping list, but there it is.

He’s also not making eye contact.

‘Trelawney,’ he says.

‘Harding.’

There’s a pause between us, and it’s heavy. Primed and loaded like a gun that might go off at the lightest touch.