Page 1 of A Wish For Jo
CHAPTER1
‘You have gotto be kidding me!’ Jo Milligan took another reluctant bite from the slice of still-warm Victoria sponge, then wrinkled her nose in disgust and tossed the piece of cake in the bin. ‘Salt instead of sugar!’
Rinsing her mouth with a glass of tap water, Jo paused before picking up a mini quiche she’d removed from the oven minutes before. Taking a deep breath, she nibbled an edge of the pastry, and—
‘Give me strength!’ The quiche followed the sponge into the bin.
Jo grabbed a piece of kitchen towel to wipe away a smear on her glasses, rubbing vigorously at the greasy spot. A littletoovigorously, as the frame split and the lens plopped onto the floor.
‘This is seriously not my day,’ grumbled Jo, bending down to pick up the lens. Her back twinged alarmingly, bringing back memories of the excruciating pain she’d suffered six months ago after wrangling with a fitted bed sheet. Ten physio sessions and some serious drugs later, she needed a repeat episode like the proverbial hole in the head.
The door to A Bit of Crumpet opened, signalling Jo’s first customer of the day. An icy blast of air swirled through the café, and she straightened up with a smile. It wasn’t a regular, though, but a man she’d never seen before, standing in the doorway and letting the cold lower the temperature of her cosy business.
‘Would you mind…?’ Jo made a close-the-door gesture. Her customer scowled, pocketed the phone he’d been staring at, and with a sound somewhere between a snort and a groan, slammed the door. Hard. Jo’s ‘Open/Closed’ sign clattered against the glass, and she fixed him with an arctic glare befitting the outside temperature.
Without a word, Mystery Man strode to the counter. For a moment Jo wondered if he was about to whip a stocking over his face, pull a gun, and demand she empty the till. Except that she’d already seen his face — attractive, if craggy and the opposite of happy — and at a little after nine in the morning, the till held a few pound coins and some loose change.
‘I’ll have a coffee. Black, no sugar. And a slice of that.’ He pointed at the remains of the Victoria sponge, which looked appealing but tasted like something that had marinated in the ocean.
‘Please wouldn’t kill you,’ muttered Jo, tipping beans into the machine. Tempted as she was to serve a slice of salted sponge to Mr Obnoxious, she didn’t want to alienate him further. Not thatshe’ddone anything wrong. He was probably a passing tourist, though Cranley didn’t attract hordes of visitors, despite its proximity to Edinburgh.
‘Did you say something?’ Her customer eyed her suspiciously. Jo noted a silvery scar running down his left cheek, and pock marks that suggested a run-in with acne.
‘Just talking to the coffee machine,’ she replied.Which has better manners than you.‘This cake’s not up to standard, but I have a very nice chocolate roulade right here.’ Jo uncovered the leftovers from yesterday’s successful baking session and prepared to carve a slice.
‘I don’t do chocolate.’
What kind of weirdo doesn’t do chocolate?Jo rubbed her back, her usually upbeat mood taking a downward turn.She needed to head into the back room and get some things off her chest, before…
‘Just coffee, then. I’ll be over here.’ He walked to a table in the corner and lowered himself into a chair. Jo saw him wince and felt a bit of sympathy, which quickly evaporated when he demanded to know how long the coffee would take. ‘I haven’t got all day,’ he huffed, wiping down the spotless table with a napkin.
‘Nearly ready,’ Jo replied sweetly, fighting the urge to lace his drink with a salt/sugar combo. As the machine signalled the coffee was ready, the door opened again and in strode Janette Cameron, formidable boss of the local post office cum corner shop. Never short of an opinion, solicited or otherwise, she nodded toward the other customer before approaching Jo.
‘How are you, hen?’ Janette shrugged off her coat, a hideous blue fake-fur creation that brought to mind the Cookie Monster.
‘Good, Janette. All good,’ said Jo, pouring the coffee and taking it over to the not-so-welcome newcomer. He barely acknowledged her, his attention gripped by his phone.
‘Well, I’m fair puggled. Workin’ full-time isn’t what I imagined I’d be doing when I turned seventy— Sixty-five, I mean. I should be resting my bones at home, not weighing poxy packages and listening to old dears wittering on about their support stockings and incontinence problems.’
Jo stifled a laugh. Until about a year ago, Janette had been a card-carrying member of the Crimplene and sensible footwear brigade. Since discovering the delights of Primark in the city, she’d gone all plunging tops, cleavage-enhancing bras, and shoes Lady Gaga would struggle to walk in.
‘What can I get you, lovely?’ Jo returned to the counter, knowing Janette’s fondness for savoury pastries and tea so dark it needed a hefty scrub to remove the stain from the mug.
‘Ooh, one of thae Cornish thingies will do nicely. I know I have them for sale at the shop, but they’re tough as old boots. You widnae need a mace spray to fend off a mugger if you had one of those buggers in your hand!’ Janette chortled, her ample bosom jiggling like two ferrets slugging it out in a sack.
Jo fixed Janette’s order. She glanced over at the stranger, now typing furiously on his phone and muttering under his breath. ‘To go, or are you eating here?’ she asked Janette.
‘Ach, better pop it in a bag. Much as I’d love to stay for a natter, I’ve put up theClosed for nowsign. You can bet your life savings someone’ll be huffing on the doorstep, needing a stamp or a pound of pick ’n’ mix.’
Jo bagged the pastry and accepted a handful of loose change. Janette turned to leave, then hesitated. ‘Is the wee lass no’ working today?’ she asked. ‘Not that customers are clamouring for your cakes and cuppas, eh?’
Jo glanced at the door to the back room. ‘Erm, she’s … busy. Doing a bit of a stocktake.’ The faint sound of pop music emanated from within, and Jo suppressed a sigh.
‘Well, you take care, hen. If I come across any hungry souls with cash to spare, I’ll send them your way.’ Janette headed for the door, waggling her fingers at the stranger as she left. He gave her a look usually reserved for the discovery of dog poo on your shoe, then returned to his phone.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ Jo approached his table, noting the coffee was barely touched.
‘How much?’ he growled, his cobalt-blue eyes shifting from Jo’s face to the threadbare wallet he’d dragged from his equally well-worn coat pocket.
