‘One bowl of mussels,’ announced a woman wearing a Smugglers Inn apron, as she carefully placed them along with a rustic roll and a little ramekin of butter on the table.

I had warmed up enough to take off Dad’s jacket and having now got over the shock of running into my old enemy, was very much looking forward to my meal.

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘They look amazing.’

‘Thank you,’ she smiled. ‘They’re my mum’s recipe. She runs a café on the beach and cooks her Caribbean fusion dishes for the pub. I’m Hope,’ she added.

‘Nice to meet you Hope,’ I smiled up at her. ‘I’m—’

‘Liza,’ she quickly said. ‘You’re Liza Wynter, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Enjoy your mussels, Liza,’ she said, before heading back to the bar.

I had no idea how she knew my name and tucked in, keenly mopping up the leftover liquor with the butter smothered bread. No sooner had I finished eating and drained my glass than Hope came back, bringing with her a slice of chocolate cake and a small jug of warm chocolate sauce.

‘Dessert is on me,’ she winked. ‘And this isn’t Mum’s creation, it’s mine.’

‘Wow,’ I said, hoping I’d got room for it. ‘Thanks, but you didn’t need to do that.’

‘Consider it a thank you,’ she said, smiling again.

‘But I haven’t done anything.’ I frowned, feeling confused.

Hope sat down in the chair opposite mine. ‘Oh yes, you have,’ she said, sounding panto-ready. ‘You’ve agreed to have the beach huts up at Wynter’s Trees, haven’t you?’

‘Oh,’ I said, feeling my face colour. I could hardly take the credit for that. ‘I see. Well, the huts are there, but they’re nothing to do with me.’

‘I know Ned has been the driving force behind the project,’ she cut in, ‘but nonetheless, everyone’s very grateful to you both. It wouldn’t be happening if you hadn’t given the idea the go ahead.’

‘Is it that big a deal?’ I asked, pouring some of the sauce over the already moist cake.

‘God, yes,’ she said. ‘Lots of people were relying on them for their festive income, but when the green, which was where they were originally supposed to go, became waterlogged after the last autumn storm, it was suddenly all off and everyone was devastated.’

‘I see.’

‘And then,’ she carried on, ‘having scrapped the hut idea, we tried to move into the village hall, but that was no good either because the roof is in need of repair and the insurers have deemed it unsafe for public use.’

‘Oh dear,’ I sympathised, guessing that was why the money raised from the Halloween event at Wynter’s Trees was set aside for the hall.