“Aye,” he came back, passing two brimming gingerbread lattes over to a woman who seemed to be trying desperately to catch his eye so she could furnish him with a winning smile. “My mum had six kids to look after, and I was the oldest and the naughtiest. So Mari would have me down here to stay in the holidays. Kept me out of trouble.”

“Were you at risk of getting into trouble?”

He turned back and looked at her. There was that grin again. Just wicked enough to make her want to involuntarily hiccup. “Oh, I got into all the trouble,” he replied.

Annie gulped and made an unsuccessful feather pattern in a mocha that resembled a slug.

“Help yourself to a cupcake,” said Annie as she hurriedly slurped the slug mocha so he didn’t see her mistake and set about making another for her customer.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said John, reaching into the chiller.

Annie turned her back to him and raised her eyes to the heavens. What is wrong with me?

A group of women came in and claimed the larger middle table. Since she didn’t yet know all her customers’ names, Annie gave her regulars nicknames by which she identified them. These women, rather unimaginatively, were called “the swimmers.” Thrice weekly these women of all ages and statures took to the sea—rain or shine—wearing colorful swimming caps and screeching with unbridled joy as the cold water rushed at them. Rather them than me, Annie would think as she watched them bobbing about in the surf. Then they would clamor into the café, high as kites on all the endorphins that the freezing ocean had released into their brains.

When the swimmers saw John, they hollered and waved in surprise before taking it in turns to come to the counter and give him their order along with a jovial grilling.

“You’re not really going to flatten this place, are you?”

“I won’t be flattening anything, Malory,” John replied.

Annie leaned round his shoulder. “He’ll be letting someone else flatten it for him,” she said.

She saw John’s jaw set.

“But it’s such a shame, John,” said floral-fleece.

“Unfortunately, things can’t carry on the same forever,” John came back. “I’m sure you would rather see Mari live out the rest of her days in comfort over keeping a glorified fishing hut.”

“There must be another way! It’ll ruin the whole ambience of the place. Big bland boxes, no doubt.”

“It will be different, Cynthia, but I’ve known the builder for years. He’ll be very sympathetic to the land.”

“And what about poor Annie?” piped up all-weather-flip-flops. The other women chimed in with her: “Yes, what about Annie?”

“Annie knew this was a short lease when she moved in,” said John. “Nobody asked her to start a business.”