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“Yeah,” I say. “With the right woman.”

We’re standing close now. The moonlight has turned us into a scene from an old black-and-white movie. We’re Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. The roses around the deck shine silver. The smell of jasmine rises to fill my nostrils.

I open my mouth to say more, but the words are like butterflies caught in a net, and they won’t come. I look at her mouth, wishing I could press my lips to hers, wanting to kiss her more than anything. But she’s been through so much. I can’t complicate her life like that.

Vix’s eyes gleam in the moonlight, and then she lowers her lids. “Come on,” she says, opening the door. “I’m tired, and we’ve got a busy day tomorrow.” And she walks inside, leaving me standing there, feeling as if I’ve missed the boat once again.

Chapter Eleven

Vix

By 8:30 a.m. on Sunday morning, Mitch and I are in the shop, getting ready for everyone to arrive.

“Look at this!” He sticks his head out of the storeroom at the back of the shop. I walk over and discover him tugging a trestle table out from behind a stack of boxes. “There are two here,” he declares. “These’ll be brilliant to display all the books from upstairs.”

“Perfect.” I help him carry them out into the shop, and we unfold them and set them up to one side.

He’s already put a closed sign on the shop door. Today, we’re concentrating on emptying the flat and sorting out as many of the boxes as we can. He’s spoken to Bear McGuire, an old friend of his who owns a building firm, and he’s bringing a skip or a dumpster around the back, so we have somewhere to put the boxes that have been damaged by a leak from the water tank in the loft.

I grab an A4 lined pad and a felt-tip pen. “Let’s put some labels in different parts of the room to give people an idea of where to put the books.”

“Good idea.”

“Fiction has to be the first one.” I write the word in big letters and tear off the sheet. “What else?”

“Gardening. There were a lot of gardening books up there.”

I scribble it down. “Science.”

“Yep, and Nature, maybe.”

“Travel.”

“Cookbooks.”

He comes to lean on the desk beside me. “History.”

“Biographies.”

“I think we might need sub-categories for fiction, but maybe we’ll tackle that afterwards.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Anything else?”

Mitch frowns. I try to think, but I’m having trouble concentrating, because Mitch’s arm is pressing against mine, and he’s warm, and he smells nice.

I tug my mind away as if it’s a disobedient dog sniffing a lamppost. He made it clear last night that he doesn’t want to discuss whatever’s bothering him, and I’m not going to beg him to talk to me.

“That should do,” I say briskly, straightening.

He stands too, and turns to face me. “Vix…”

“Morning!”

He stops speaking as the front door opens and Emma comes inside. She’s carrying two takeaway coffee cups, and we both groan and accept them gratefully. “My task is to keep everyone’s strength up today!” She grins. Her curly hair looks extra wild, no doubt from the stiff sea breeze that’s sweeping across the island this morning. “I’ll be in and out,” she adds, “I’ll help when I can.”

“That’s terrific,” I say, “thank you.”