Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery by Jenny Colgan Read Free Book Online Page A

stepped out of the sidecar and took off the spare helmet, shaking his head to reveal a mop of blond hair very like his brother’s. His face was narrower than Huckle’s, with a pointed chin, and pale blue eyes that looked absolutely primed to laugh.
    ‘WHOA!’ he said, looking up at the lighthouse. ‘NO WAY! You live here?’
    ‘Way,’ said Huckle, lifting out a stained suitcase. He came round to stand next to Polly. ‘And this is —’
    ‘Whoa! Yeah! Holly!’ said Dubose, coming over and kissing her excitedly on both cheeks.
    ‘Polly,’ said Polly.
    ‘Even better,’ said Dubose, twinkling at her. ‘In fact that’s exactly what I said, it’s just my strange exotic accent made it difficult to understand.’
    Polly couldn’t help but smile, even as Huckle was rolling his eyes.
    ‘Come in,’ she said. Dubose let Huckle carry his bag.
    ‘Where’s Neil?’ said Huckle, as they tramped round and round up the steps, Dubose exclaiming every five seconds.
    ‘He’s in a bad mood because you didn’t take him to the bus station.’
    ‘He does like buses,’ said Huckle.
    ‘This is your bird, right? Cool,’ said Dubose.
    They entered the sitting room at the top of the tower, which Polly had spent a long time making as nice as she could. Neil had spread packing peanuts all over the room, everywhere, in a huge mess. He had pooed in the box for good measure.
    ‘Neil!’ said Polly in exasperation. Dubose burst out laughing.
     

     
    Dubose regaled them over dinner with his travelling tales, most of them involving accidentally ending up at VIP parties or backstage at gigs. There were also a good few where he completely ran out of money or found himself upside down in a bin. He told a good story against himself.
    ‘And those girls!’ he sighed. ‘Oh Huckle, you gotta see those blondes up in Reykjavik.’
    Huckle gave a slightly tight smile.
    ‘Isn’t Clemmie missing you? Isn’t it calving time?’
    Dubose nodded. ‘She’s an amazing girl. And she knows that sometimes I just have to break free, follow my dreams, man, you know?’
    ‘Do all your dreams end up with you sleeping in a bin?’
    Dubose turned away.
    ‘Polly, this quiche is absolutely sensational. I think you might be a genius. Are you a genius?’
    ‘No,’ said Polly, smiling, even though she couldn’t help watching the dynamic. It was strange to hear Huckle sounding fed up; it so rarely happened.
    ‘She is a genius, Huckle. You should buy her a bakery.’
    There was a slight awkward silence. After a moment, Huckle started clearing away. Dubose glanced at his watch.
    ‘So, where are we going now?’
    It was 9.30.
    ‘Um,’ said Polly. ‘Actually we normally just… go to bed.’
    Dubose looked aghast. ‘Seriously? But it’s Friday night!’
    ‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘But we’ve got people coming over on Sunday. Hopefully you’ll like them.’
     

     
    ‘Well that’s a pile of bullcrap,’ Dubose shouted, wavering unsteadily on top of the gantry.
    They were recovering from the rabbit pie Polly had made for Sunday lunch. It had been a sensational pie, but actually it was hard to remember now, as Huckle had also brought a couple of litres of his honey mead, which was guaranteed to remove all nerve endings from the waist down, as well as ensuring that the next day someone followed you around the room hitting you repeatedly on the head with a sharp-edged brick.
    But today, Polly had been thinking dreamily, that didn’t matter.
    Above their sitting room in the lighthouse was the light itself. It worked automatically – every so often, as part of their complicated property deeds, a man would zip up the stairs and give it a polish and a checkover – and round the outside was a metal walkway, reached by a narrow staircase that allowed access for cleaning and maintenance. They had been told repeatedly, and in no uncertain terms, when they bought the property that this walkway did not belong to them, that it was dangerous and to be used