At three o’clock, Annie paid Billy and he left with a spring in his step. She had enjoyed having him around; he was quite talkative once he got going, and it was nice to have help with the closedown. She stepped outside and let the cold air wash over her. Up ahead, she could see Ely’s outline, leaning against a signpost and looking out to sea; he must be waiting for Billy. Annie smiled to herself. You could do a lot worse than to have Ely looking out for you, she thought.

There were still quite a few people on the prom. She could have stayed open past two thirty p.m.; there’d be business enough to do so. She decided she would stay open later next Saturday and see how it went. She was sure Billy wouldn’t mind the extra hours, and it couldn’t do any harm to set their reputation now, before the winter really took hold. People were more likely to venture down to the coast in the cold if there was the promise of a hot drink at the end of it. She could start doing sausage rolls and pasties, or maybe even bacon baguettes for Saturday brunch. Annie pondered, If I play my cards right, people will come to the coast for Saltwater Nook alone!

Her reverie was broken when she heard John come up behind her.

“How are the workers?” she asked.

“Almost done. We’re hungry and cold, though; well, I am, anyway, Alfred’s like a workhorse.”

“How about some posh fish finger sandwiches to warm you up? Ely dropped in some fresh fillets.”

“That is the best offer I’ve had all day,”

“How many offers have you had?”

“I don’t want to get into it, you’ll only get jealous.”

John went back to the garden to tell Alfred that sustenance would be within the hour. Annie went back inside and set about creating a fishy afternoon tea. While the fish fingers crackled in the pan, she cut a crusty white loaf into thick doorstop slices and slathered them with salted butter. Annie dolloped some mayonnaise into a small bowl and roughly chopped a few capers and a handful of jarred cornichons, which she stirred through the mayonnaise to create a quick tartar sauce.

John came back in just as Annie was flipping the fish in the pan—the top sides were a pale golden brown and the pan hissed and sizzled. She noticed that John’s hands were lobster pink with cold.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves?”

“I forgot mine. Alfred’s got skin like leather, even the splinters don’t bother to stick in his skin. I’m used to pushing a pencil around all day; these baby-soft hands just aren’t up to it. He’s putting me to shame back there!”

Annie laughed and pulled a sympathetic face.

“Come and wash your hands before you eat,” she said.