They met on Sunday by a bench neither could sit on. A gull had made an emphatic use of it.
Elias looked from the bench to Mara. “I should have checked.”
“You couldn't have known. It might have happened a minute ago.”
He laughed briefly, surprised. She was glad. He had been standing so straight she had wanted to tell him she hadn't come to inspect his posture.
She had chosen a walk. Open air, no table he could book, no clock beyond the one deciding when the fish shop would close. She had also, foolishly, chosen boots she hadn't worn in a year. By the time they reached the end of the quay, one heel had begun to rub.
“Those are terrible shoes,” he said when she stopped.
“They're excellent shoes. I'm a terrible woman for them.”
He looked down the road. “There's a chemist.”
“I know. I've been walking towards it with a great deal of intention.”
He waited outside while she bought plasters. She came out and found him trying to read a notice about permitted fishing areas, with the intense attention of a man avoiding looking as though he was waiting for a woman in a chemist. It made her like him again, inconveniently.
She sat on a low wall and took off the boot. He offered his shoulder to balance on. She accepted. His coat was rough under her palm. A week earlier she would have made a joke to cover how much she liked touching him. Now she let herself enjoy it and said nothing.
When she stood, he was still there, close enough to kiss. She let go first.
“I can offer you a walk,” she said. “And possibly chips.”
“I'd like both.”
“I mean I haven't decided the rest.”
“I know.” He smiled without quite managing happiness. “That's an annoying answer now, isn't it?”
“Extremely.”
They walked. He told her about the lift engineer discovering a part nobody stocked, then having one delivered from a hotel being refurbished inland. The lift had passed inspection and was operating again. Mara told him about the trousers she'd cut too short. He looked startled that she'd admitted it.
“Do you never make mistakes?” she asked.
“I do. There are people paid to find mine before they get that far.” He glanced at her. “Not that you need someone. I mean I do.”
She laughed and then found that she didn't have another thing ready to say. The silence wasn't comfortable yet. It was tolerable, which seemed enough for the moment.
At the fish shop they joined a queue behind two women arguing over mushy peas. Elias wanted haddock; the last piece went to the person ahead of him. He looked so disappointed that Mara ordered cod for both of them before he could decide to survive without dinner.
They carried the parcels to the seawall. The wind lifted the paper. Mara caught one corner with her wrist and Elias put his phone on the other. She ate a chip so hot it hurt, sucked in air and turned away from him with her mouth open.
“Elegant,” she managed.
“Very.”
“Don't look.”
He looked out at the water, visibly amused. She nudged his knee with hers.
“How did you get the hotel?” she asked, once she could speak.
“My father died. I bought my sister's share. I was thirty-one and very certain I knew what needed doing.”
“Did you?”
“Some of it. I didn't understand how much the old guests liked the bad curtains.”
“People get attached.”
He ate a piece of fish. “I thought if I made it better, there'd be a point when it was done. Then I married Clara and people liked the story of us here. Her work, the hotel, the whole thing.”
“Did you?”
He took longer over that answer. “I liked that they thought I knew how to have a life as well as run a business.”
The wind pushed her hair across her mouth. She pulled it away with greasy fingers, making a mess of it.
“At the end,” he said, “I knew where she was most days. I couldn't have told you what she was thinking. Then she died, and suddenly I could say I missed her and nobody expected me to explain the parts I hadn't wanted when she was alive.”
Mara put down the chip she had been holding. “You don't have to make her marriage bad so you can like me.”
“That's not what I'm doing.”
“I know. I just needed to say it.”
“There were good years.” He looked at the parcel on his knees. “I'd rather have the actual ones back than keep being offered better ones.”
After a while he broke off a piece of fish. “The buyer still wants the label. Without that higher price I have to sell the hotel on worse terms. I don't know what they'll be.”
“Is there anything in that folder about me you kept back?”
“No.”
She looked at him. He met her gaze, though she could see him wanting her to look away. She had heard him withdraw the packet before he'd known she'd come here with him. She went back to her chips.
“I'll finish the dress,” she said. “At my workroom. I need to rearrange things, and I'll tell Inez about moving it.”
His face brightened before he could stop it.
“I'd like to see you again. Privately.”
For once his answer wasn't ready. She took a chip from his parcel while she waited.
“Yes,” he said.
“Try to sound less frightened.”
“I'm very pleased.”
She laughed. “Worse.”
He looked at her mouth. The small deliberate shift of his attention made her warmth gather in a place she couldn't turn into a joke.
“Mara,” he said. “I'm very pleased.”
“Better.”
She leaned across the space between them and kissed him. His hand came up to her cheek, rough with cold at the knuckles. It was a brief kiss, spoiled slightly by the wind and the taste of vinegar, and she wanted another so immediately that she gave herself one.
When she drew back, a gull took a chip from the edge of his paper.
“That's your fault,” she said.
He looked at the bird, then at her, and began to laugh. She put her forehead on his shoulder while she laughed too. They stayed like that until the wind made the food too cold to save.
Walking back, she carried her boots. The pavement was cold through her socks. He carried the empty wrappers. At her car she took his hand and stood with him until the cold reached the damp place at her heel.