had never been a part of their relationship. She’d been too young to court before he left Wirralong, and for all his invitations for her to visit him in London, she’d never made the trip. Too young. Too broke. Not interested in any of the invitations he’d extended.
Even now, she’d deliberately arranged her trip so that he would be back here for most of it.
Henry didn’t do social interactions all that well, but how could he take that to mean anything but really not interested in spending time with you?
‘Henry, what are you looking at?’
How to even answer that without exposing thoughts and feelings better left alone?
‘Do I have meringue on my face?’ she asked next.
‘No. Sorry.’ What had she been talking about before his trip to fantasy land? ‘I’ve left season passes to various theatres and gardens on the coffee table in the lounge room. Use them at will. Go visit Fortnum and Mason—especially their high-end food section—you’ll have fun. There’s a Cup of Tea place in Soho that I think you’ll like. Try a café called Moo just around the corner from my place if you ever want a big fry-up breakfast.’ He looked longingly towards the tarts. ‘I got nothing when it comes to sweets and pastries that are better than yours. They’re not.’ Surely he could have another tart? They were tiny. She’d made them to eat. Tilly smirked and nudged the serving plate in his direction.
‘You’ve missed my cooking.’ She didn’t bother hiding the delight in her voice.
‘Nothing but the truth.’ Even her failures had been interesting. ‘Remember the rum caramels?’
‘Everyone remembers the rum caramels,’ she muttered darkly. ‘And will continue to remember them every Christmas until the end of time.’
A knock on the screen door of the kitchen prevented him from wondering aloud why this was such a disaster.
At Tilly’s cheerful ‘Come in’ a waifish blonde entered, looking vaguely familiar. She slowed when she spotted Henry. Tilly was already pulling several large containers from the fridge, and didn’t seem inclined to introduce them, but he should have known better than to think she’d abandon her manners. ‘Henry, do you remember Maggie Walker from Wirra Station? She’s Maggie Walker-O’Connor now. She married Max.’
He remembered Max. He didn’t remember Maggie. ‘I remember Carmel Walker,’ he muttered and hoped that would do as he held out his hand. Just because he’d once had the social skills of an oaf, didn’t mean he had them still. ‘Interesting woman.’
‘Oh, she was.’ Maggie’s handshake was firm, her manner relaxed. She wore a wedding ring and an air of contentment he quite liked. ‘So you’re the one who wooed Tilly from our clutches with the promise of free accommodation and London on her doorstep. I have three brides who’d happily roast you over a fire pit for that.’
‘I see.’ No. No, he didn’t see.
‘Maggie runs Wirra Station as a destination wedding venue these days,’ Tilly explained.
‘And Tilly’s our desserts caterer and the word is well and truly out that her food is outstanding,’ said the slender smiling blonde. ‘I have brides who were rendered inconsolable because she wasn’t available to cater their weddings this coming month.’
‘Aww. I feel so wanted.’ Tilly nodded towards the containers. ‘You have three dozen mini-cupcakes and the same again of lamingtons and lemon meringue minis. Also three kilos of rosewater and pistachio Turkish delight.’
‘And you have the most wonderful time away.’ Maggie drew a white envelope from the pocket of her pretty blue sundress. ‘This is from me and Max.’ The envelope went on the counter as Maggie embraced Tilly and turned to pick up the containers. ‘See you round, Henry. You’re always welcome to call into Wirra Station while you’re here. We’ve a bar licence, and a good cellar if that’s your thing. A vintage car show next weekend with a big woolshed dance at the end of it. Come alone or bring a friend.’
He nodded and thanked her for the invitation, and then she was gone.
‘Since when has Wirra Station been a wedding venue?’ he asked.
‘Since Carmel died broke and Maggie inherited and decided to do something for herself and for the town.’ Tilly was back at the fridge again, rearranging its contents, presumably for better chill flow. ‘Lot of things have changed since you were here last.’
‘So I see.’ Tilly had become a pastry chef, for starters. And grown up. And looked a lot like sunshine on a rainy day. He’d missed the sunshine so much when he’d first moved to the UK.
The