The Key to Anchor Lake ✓

17 : Blaire

B L A I R E

*

By Friday, I still haven't managed to get anything else out of Elizabeth, but it's a work in progress – we haven't exploded at each other again, so I guess that's a step in the right direction. We've had a couple of quiet but amiable breakfasts, yesterday and today, and while we didn't eat together last night, she left plenty of spaghetti Bolognese for me after she took her plate upstairs.

Slow and steady, I think. If I ambush her with all my questions at once, she'll slink away and go off to paint – I can only assume that's what she's doing when she spends all day in the attic – whereas if I treat her like a stray cat, with time and patience, then maybe we'll get somewhere. Maybe not, but I won't know until I try.

My arse is sore from too much bike riding so today I walk into Anchor Lake. It takes at least twice as long, but I'm far less exhausted after a gentle stroll than a furious ride, and I don't want to be sweaty when I show up to The Flour Patch, where I hope Sukie's working today. I feel the need to see her again, as though being in her presence will give me the breakthrough I need, the one she's been chasing for years.

It's warm today, more like June that April, and there are a few people out and about. It's the most life I've seen in Anchor Lake in the two weeks I've been here, and it fills me with a sense of hope. Surrounding myself with the podcast and Elizabeth is a sure-fire way to see the town as the death of all joy, but I guess for most people here, it's just home.

My first stop is the library, where Regina Hart assures me that I'll be informed when the book's ready for me to collect. Empty-handed, and cursing the inability to read these pages for myself, I head down the road to The Flour Patch.

Sukie's behind the counter and she looks up at the sound of the bell, showing off her teeth when she smiles. "Hey, Blaire!"

Her greeting has the power of a hug, especially now that I know what her hug feels like. "Hi, Sukie."

"You want a drink or me?" she asks.

Both, I think. And then I say it. She laughs.

"Okay, drink first. What'll it be?"

"Just a latte, today. Vanilla, please." I lean against the counter, inhaling the warm aroma of freshly-baked cookies, and I wish I was hungrier. "What time do you finish?"

She glances at the clock as she plucks a clean cup from the top of the pile. "Not until four," she says, "but there's an empty chair at the end of the counter and it's quiet in here today, so feel free to park your bum and we can chat."

I do just that, and a couple of minutes later she brings over a steaming latte and leans on the counter, which doubles as my table, like we're old friends. She stretches her back and lets out a satisfied sigh, resting her elbows and then her forearms on the table as though she can't hold herself up any longer.

"I can't bear it when it's quiet," she says. "I need to keep busy to forget how much my back and feet ache."

"Does this constitute as keeping busy? If we talk?"

"Oh, absolutely." She grins. "You're just the distraction I need."

Funny, that's exactly what she is to me.

"I wanted to thank you for everything you've done," I say.

"What've I done?"

"You've kind of, well, taken me under your wing?" I offer. It sounds cheesy, I know, but I can't think of another way to put it. "Being so nice, doing the interview, letting me come to book club. All that when you don't even know me."