Reading between the lines

A short story by Holly Hepburn

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Tuesday was Elspeth’s favourite day of the week. Or, to be more exact, every second Tuesday, because that was when her favourite customer came into the café where she worked.

He was never late — come rain or shine, he pushed open the door at two o’clock on the dot - and her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.

The first time she’d seen him, some three months earlier, she had been too flustered to do much more than gape. He was Mr Darcy, Gilbert Blythe and Sir Galahad all rolled into one, if sprinkled liberally with silver. And then she'd grown hot with embarrassment, because she was 54 years old, not 15. But her stomach continued to flutter every other Tuesday, despite her efforts to quell it, and the absence of a wedding ring did not help.

On this particular Tuesday afternoon, it was snowing. A blast of freezing air swirled through the open door as he paused to shake fat wet flakes from his umbrella. Elspeth pretended to be fussing with the till as he approached.

“It's a bit nippy out there,” he said, the words rounded by the soft Scottish burr that made her want to reread Outlander.

She smiled at the understatement, ignoring the thudding in her chest. “Roll on spring,” she said, and immediately wanted to cringe at the bland reply.

She took refuge in work, even though she knew what he would order. “What can I get you?”

“A flat white and a slice of lemon drizzle cake, if you have some.”