The Lavender Bay Collection. Sarah Bennett

mum covered a laugh with a cough, giving him a nudge with her elbow as she leaned past him to grab another already-clean glass. ‘Mmm…yellow. You could be onto something there, Sammy. I’ll have to have a chat with Emma up at Bunches and see about redesigning the baskets and pots. Lots of orange marigolds…’

      Sam bit the inside of his cheek. The cascading floral display outside the pub was his mum’s pride and joy. She spent hours planning the designs with her friend from the florist’s and they were always subtle hues of lilac, pink and blue. If Hester stopped and thought about it for a moment, she would know Annie was pulling her leg. But that would require a sense of humour, something the woman sadly lacked.

      The Major tucked his hand under his wife’s elbow and steered her away from the bar before she had an apoplexy. She was still chuntering away about tasteful design and calling an emergency meeting of the improvement society, but Sam let it drift into the background. It seemed like everyone in town had an opinion on the changes Beth was making, perhaps it was time he checked it out for himself.

      He turned to his mum. ‘Will you be all right here for a bit on your own?’

      She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything more than, ‘Yes, love.’

      On a whim, he took a detour upstairs to dig around in the freezer. His hand closed on a Tupperware box and he withdrew the delicate pistachio macarons he’d made a few weeks previously. Sam pushed against the wooden gate in the fence surrounding the rear of the emporium and was stopped short by the resisting lock. Pausing to rub his shoulder, he stared up at the back of the building. Eleanor had never kept the gate bolted, but he should have thought that Beth might do so. The first-floor sash window had been pushed up and the strains of a radio competed with a metallic bang and the kind of language even Pops might blush at.

      The swearing paused, and Sam cupped his free hand to his mouth and called out. ‘Hey, Beth, are you there?’ It was a stupid question. Of course she was there, for there was no mistaking the slight husk in the stream of invective that followed.

      ‘Useless, no good bloody bastard!’ Beth shoved her head out the open window. Her normally shiny hair had been yanked up into an untidy knot, and there was not a scrap of make-up on her sweaty face. ‘Whatever it is, Sam, I don’t have time.’

      Feeling abashed, he stepped back. ‘Sorry, I just thought you might fancy a brew and a bit of a treat.’ He held up the Tupperware container like a peace offering.

      The deep frown between her brows softened. ‘What’s in the box?’

      Sam shook his head, taken another couple of steps back towards the pub. ‘Never mind. You’re obviously busy so we can catch up some other time.’ He turned away.

      ‘What’s. In. The. Bloody. Box?’

      He bit his lip. He knew he had her, but forced himself to shrug. ‘Just some macarons I baked the other…’

      ‘Don’t move! You stay right where you are, Sam Barnes!’ He grinned—she’d always had a sweet tooth. Not ten seconds later he heard the soles of her shoes slapping against the cobbles of the back alley then the bolt scraped back.

      The front of her T-shirt was soaking wet, the thin cotton moulding to her breasts. She followed his gaze, then quickly folded her arms across her chest. ‘Sorry. I’m just having a spot of bother with the sink. You did say macarons, right?’ Keeping one arm banded across her front, Beth reached with the other for the box in his hand.

      Feeling like a letch for staring, Sam let her take it without resistance. She prised open the lid to inhale the rich scent of the sweets with a throaty moan that made the skin on the back of his neck prickle. His eyes strayed to the front of her wet top then skittered away. ‘Having a spot of bother?’ He waved a hand towards her saturated clothes, careful to keep his gaze fixed over her left shoulder.

      ‘What?’ Beth dragged her attention away from the macarons. ‘Oh, shit, the sink!’ Her trainers squelched as she turned and ran back towards the shop. Sam followed hard on her heels.

      They hit the threshold of the upstairs kitchen together, and stopped. The cupboards beneath the sink stood open, bottles of cleaning products and cloths scattered all over the place. A steady flow of water leaked from one of the pipes lining the back wall adding to the rapidly spreading pool which covered most of the black-and-white checked floor tiles. ‘Jesus Christ, what happened?’

      ‘The dishwasher wasn’t working properly, so I tried to check the connections, but the tap has seized. I thought I’d turned the stopcock the right way.’ Her explanation ended in a small wail of despair. Sam edged past her, feet splish-splashing through the puddle. Knowing there was no other way around it, he grit his teeth in preparation for the shock of the cold and sat down in the water so he could lie back in the cupboard and examine the problem.

      The on-off tap for the cold-water pipe was stuck fast, as she’d said. ‘Shit.’ He ran his eyes frantically over everything, trying to trace the pipe back to the source. The stopcock Beth had mentioned was wedged in the far corner and there was too much crap on the shelves between him and it.

      Sam dragged his eyes from the tangle of pipes to see Beth still hovering in the doorway. ‘Look, this will take me a minute or two. You’d better grab some towels to mop up before the water starts soaking into the carpet out there.’

      ‘What? Oh, God!’ Beth stared down at the rapidly spreading puddle for a second then dashed away.

      Using his arms to sweep the bottles aside, Sam wriggled out of the cupboard and back into the other side. His fingers closed on the stopcock, and he muttered a prayer of thanks as, after a grunt of effort, it gave way in his grasp and the hiss of water from the pipe slowed, then stopped. He dropped his head back in relief, cursing as the cold water soaked into his hair.

      Sliding back out, he narrowly missed cracking his head on the edge of the shelf as Beth dashed back into the room to throw an armful of bath towels onto the floor. Dropping on her hands and knees, she spread them out, the pale pastel shades deepening in seconds as the towels absorbed the worst of the water. She sat back on her knees with a sigh of defeat. ‘This is hopeless. I’m hopeless.’

      ‘Nonsense. A small plumbing mishap is hardly an excuse to throw a pity party. You’ve taken on an awful lot with this place, so it will take a while to get your head around everything.’ Ignoring the uncomfortable chafe of wet denim against his legs, Sam crawled about on his hands and knees, using the towels to soak up the last of the water. With the worst of the mess sorted, he set about gathering them back up, holding the sopping wet bundle in his arms. ‘Let’s dump these in the bath tub and then we can wring them out.’

      Beth led the way and Sam paused at the kitchen door until she’d cleared the hallway before rushing after her, trying not to drip too much water onto the carpet. He chucked the towels in the bath with a soggy thud, sending splashes up the tiled wall. ‘I’ll tell Dad you need a remedial class,’ he said, hoping to get a laugh. Paul had insisted on teaching both him and Eliza the rudimentary basics of plumbing, car maintenance and anything else he could think of that they might need to know. Beth had joined in with a lot of the lessons.

      She held her arms out to the sides. ‘Look at the state of me. Oh Lord, look at the state of you! You’re soaked through as well.’

      Sam pushed the wet curls off his forehead. ‘It’s just a bit of water, no harm. Come on, grab the end of this and twist.’ He held out the corner of one of the towels, then grabbed the other end. Working in opposite directions, they squeezed the worst of the water out, hooked it over the shower screen, repeating the action with the rest of them. ‘They should be all right to go in the tumble dryer now.’

      Beth shoved a loose strand of hair off her face. ‘Thanks, Sam. Sorry to be a whiny baby earlier. You’re very good at all this practical stuff.’

      He went to tuck his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, grimacing at the cold, wet denim. ‘I’ve had lots of practice, after so many years in all those different kitchens—and my fair share of cock-ups along the way. It must be the day