-Author Note-
This is my first real attempt at any story of any genre, I dedicate it to S.B. who has always been a tremendous support and soldier in the battle for pure and simply happiness. It has never been easy, but it has always been a joy.
All feedback/critical analysis is greatly valued; I want to get better. Thank you.
*****
-Chapter 1-
My shoes clicked and clacked as I made my way down the cobblestone street that lead to the 'Passing Tides' tearoom that my father owned, the wind hushed and the faint reverb of the distance sea could be heard as I paced past the other local stores, closer and closer towards a work shift that fate had me destined to be late for.
The intervals between each step tapping against the unsteady and ancient foot path grew longer as my feeble walk turned to larger strides of bolder determination. Past the music shop with its dilapidated front, my heart rate increases, past the surf store and its window display piled with unsold stock, I feel my sides begin to tighten, my small bronze wrist watch mocks me with a reminder that I am now 20 minutes late; late for a father which has never tolerated my tardiness.
Finally, I can see Passing Tides, a standalone building set at the base of some narrow stone steps, a quaint looking home converted to serve tourists and villagers alike, its uneven cobbled walls and small wooden windows adorned with hanging baskets of flowers and potted outdoor plants. By now I'm close enough to read the sign above the door and while my strong heart beats the rhythm of determination, the shooting pain in my side and unsteady footing tells me that my ability to keep racing is drawing to a close.
As I make my way down the final steps I pass a middle aged couple that I've known for many years as the owners of a small convenience store, my mind acknowledges them but in my hurry I simply mutter.
"Sorry, sorry."
I reach for the door handle yet at my tempo it is the handle that hits me, my hand stings and the door jolts open.
Nothing. Around the room sits the same six round wooden tables, each with their four matching wooden chairs, dark varnished wood, heavy but not harsh on the eye, eccentric. Pressed against the far wall is the bookshelf, this out of place eyesore was my father's world, he had spent every opportunity updating its shelves with all the titles he considered to be 'classics'; whether these stories had proven to stand the test of time remains unsure as I'd never heard of one of them.
What was missing from the Passing Tides was not its furniture or its odd charm, what was missing at first glance appeared to be people.
I closed the door behind me and lent myself against the long wooden counter that also supported the till, a small weaved basket containing a selection of sealed biscuits and a glass counter full of homemade cakes. To me the silence of the cafe was unfamiliar and unwelcoming. The pain in my right hand still remained and now had a steady throb in the centre where it had struck the door, so with my one remaining hand I began brushing down my long dress and waistcoat, while I'd acquired no real mess to my clothes it was perhaps, to me, symbolic to dust myself off and begin work at once.
While the store was for now, my own to rule, rather than simply walk around the counter I took it upon myself to perch myself onto the work top, raise my legs and rotate my body so that when I hopped down I was exactly where I needed to be.
"I don't think dad would let you get away with that," muttered a voice, "Don't think he'd have you work for free neither."
It was my sister Angie, she had sat herself behind the counter, hiding away from the world; a trait that had existed ever since we had moved to the coast.
"25 minutes into my break, again." she mumbled "I'm still takin' an hour, I need an hour." With this she stood.
To me Angie a sister certainly but not by appearance, she stood tall and I did not, her hair was light and flowing, mine was auburn and unkempt, her figure was full and my frame was light. We rarely met eyes but there was still a bond held together, perhaps by respect or perhaps forged simply by the passing of time spent together in the confines this cafe.
And so the door rattled and my shift began. Alone.
Some time passed with only the sound of passing people, some voices familiar and some with unusual accents, likely to be the voices of those that had travelled from the city to reap the benefits of our seaside area.
Since my arrival the sun had settled itself at an angle in the afternoon sky which invited its rays into the room, as such the darkness had become light and the brightness began to glow. In an attempt to break the cycle of boredom I entered a small backroom that perhaps would've served as a kitchen before the building's conversion. The ideal outdoor sunshine had heated the room to a non-ideal temperature. While picking up a tablecloth and, running it under the cold tap, I let out a gasp as icy water hit my hands and fine drops of the freezing water dashed up my arm. With the chilled cloth in my hands I re-entered the cafe prepped to wash the unused table tops.
To my surprise I found myself confronted with three young adults sat around one of the back tables and talking quietly.
They paid no attention to my entrance, nor my sudden movement to hide the dripping wet cloth in my hand and the soaking wet arm holding it.
Three adults, very young. A young man wearing a red shirt with rolled up sleeves, facing away from me. Two girls, possibly related as I could see their faces and their similarities were striking, both with black waved hair, tidy appearance and mousey facial features. The only thing that separated the two from their symmetry was that one of them was wearing thick red framed glasses.
"There are..." I choke, the words are there but I cannot speak for coughing.
The three turn and the girl with the glasses begins to smirk; I take an immediate disliking to her.
I recover.
"There are small menus... a menu, the centre of your table."
While I do not consider myself to be of a weak nature the action of completing my sentence fills me with an aura of great accomplishment.
The young man glares at his smirking companion, she stops abruptly, and he smiles, turning to me, his face is kind.
"The menu? Thank you, we've seen, may we..." the man lists an order, nothing complex; as to be expected in a cafe such as ours.
The preparation of his order is a blur to me, I've worked for my father since leaving college prematurely, and every detail of an order is now a moment my memory no longer registers. I'm approaching my 27 birthday and since 17 years of age it would be no exaggeration to say I've served tens of thousands of customers.
As I approach their table holding an old wooden tray with carved handles I can feel the returning throb of my injured right hand, the pain shows me no mercy and my hand begins to wobble uncontrollably.
The teapot, saucers and plates begin to rattle. Before I reach the table the young man and dark hair girl without lens raise from their seats and take the tray from me. I feel a sense of shame, I tighten my wounded hand in anger, the dull pain acknowledges my emotion and responds in kind.
"I'm sorry, I'm... my hand," my speech begins to stutter, as is usual when confronted with strangers. Again. "I'm sorry... my hand aches, injury from today."
"Religious?"
My speech is cut short by another's. I turn to face its origin and I'm met with two large hazel eyes which are made larger by the lens they hide behind.
"Pardon?"
"Your cross, your Jesus cross, are you religious?" A limp wrist lazily points at the crucifix which hangs around my neck.
