And then, all thought stopped. The moment that the salmon hit his tongue, he was in heaven. In the years since Henry had left Hawke’s Cove, he’d travelled. A lot. Thailand, Vietnam, Sydney, America, and yes – Lily had been right, he’d had apartments in London, New York and Singapore. And nowhere he’d eaten in all that time had hit him so forcefully. It wasn’t just the flavour, the deliciousness. It was that somehow, in one bite, he’d felt thrilled, nostalgic, and hungry for more. He surfed the salty-sweet taste of the freshly caught and cured salmon, yanked from beneath the mouthwatering juniper undercurrents by a slap of peppery mustard and crunchy rye. Before he knew it he’d finished the entire thing.

His eyes, he realized, had widened in awe. And perhaps belatedly only just realized why Lily had been so defensive. He had expected very much less than what this restaurant was capable of. He looked around for signs of life in the darkly lit restaurant and realized that it could only be just the two of them remaining.

He craned his neck through the doorway, behind the counter and into the kitchen. He could just make out the shape of Lily’s back, and forearm kneading something with precision and speed that spoke of expertise. He didn’t doubt it. Not now anyway.

Without the competing smells of the food from other diners tables, or other meals being prepared, the sweet aroma of crab, garlic and olive oil rose towards him on a bed of steam. At a bit of a loss, he picked up his plate, intending to take it to the kitchen, but stopped as his movements took him closer to the walls and the pictures that, he now saw, were of the townspeople from the last twenty years. Fishermen with their trawlers, children and teens on rides at the town’s fête over many different years, some of Lily and her friends, their parents. His eyes snagged on some of his father, standing with his arm proudly around Lily at what he recognized must have been the earliest stages of the herb garden.