“I’m not.” He wasn’t owed an explanation. She’d given enough of those over the years. “But I am hungry, so I’ll just head out. I’m sure we’ll be able to catch up later,” she added, able to find a thread of generosity for a man who might be pushy but meant no harm.

“Right, yes. I can’t wait to tell Margaret. She’ll never believe it. Have you got dinner plans? We’d stand you a meal. Must be quite a story!”

Blessedly, at that moment, a man and a woman came down the stairs, both of them in fleece pullovers and jeans. “Hello,” the man said in a German accent. “We want to ask about bike rentals.”

Harry said, “Oh, you’ll want the Cliffside Store for that! They’ve only got five, though, so they might be out. Martin Heriot, that’s the owner, he’s had a devil of a time with…”

Madeleine never heard the rest. She’d already escaped.

The Sunrise Café was just where Harry had said, across the street from the civic center. The civic center itself had seen better days, its doorposts in need of a fresh coat of paint and its bricked steps crumbling. The café, however, was clearly well kept, with a trendy logo painted over the front window. A sign beneath promised free Wi-Fi.

Madeleine crossed the street. Halfway across, she thanked heaven that there were no cars, because she’d looked the wrong way again. That would take getting used to.

The bell jangled as she opened it, and the aroma of fresh coffee tugged her inside as if it had taken her by the hand. She inhaled deeply through her nose and sighed in pleasure. The café had few tables, and most of them were full: three women sharing coffee and conversation, a man in work clothes reading a newspaper, and two people who looked like tourists frowning at their phones.

Behind the register stood a slim young man with brown skin and black hair, who smiled when she came in. “Welcome,” he called in an English accent.

Harry had said the owners of the shop were two lads who didn’t “fit in.” This must be one of them. Madeleine smiled at him. “Thanks.”

“What can I get for you?”

She reached the counter and squinted up at the menu. Just a few years ago, those letters would have been easier to read. “Just coffee and one hot filled roll with sausage, please.”

“Coming right up. Oi, Jeremy!” the young man called to the back. “One sausage roll. Will that be all? Comes to £4.95, VAT included. That means you don’t pay tax. And you don’t tip.”

Madeleine grinned at his explanation as she offered her credit card. “See a lot of Americans?”

“Mostly in the summer. Where are you from?”