Worlds Apart


 
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Text copyright © 2023 by Jane Crittenden All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781662509155 eISBN: 9781662509148 Cover design by Emma Rogers Cover image: © janista © Marish © Chris WM Willemsen © Ellegant © avh_vectors / Shutterstock 
 Ian, Xanthe, Kenzie, you are my world 
 
 
 
 CONTENTS
 
 Chapter 1 AMY
 Chapter 2 OLIVIA
 Chapter 3 AMY
 Chapter 4 OLIVIA
 Chapter 5 AMY
 Chapter 6 AMY
 Chapter 7 AMY
 Chapter 8 AMY
 Chapter 9 OLIVIA
 Chapter 10 OLIVIA
 Chapter 11 AMY
 Chapter 12 OLIVIA
 Chapter 13 AMY
 Chapter 14 AMY
 Chapter 15 OLIVIA
 Chapter 16 AMY
 Chapter 17 AMY
 Chapter 18 OLIVIA
 Chapter 19 OLIVIA
 Chapter 20 AMY
 Chapter 21 AMY
 Chapter 22 AMY
 Chapter 23 OLIVIA
 Chapter 24 OLIVIA
 Chapter 25 OLIVIA
 Chapter 26 AMY
 Chapter 27 AMY
 Chapter 28 OLIVIA
 Chapter 29 OLIVIA
 Chapter 30 OLIVIA
 Chapter 31 AMY
 Chapter 32 OLIVIA
 Chapter 33 AMY
 Chapter 34 AMY
 Chapter 35 AMY
 Chapter 36 OLIVIA
 Chapter 37 AMY
 Chapter 38 AMY
 Chapter 39 AMY
 Chapter 40 OLIVIA
 Chapter 41 OLIVIA
 Chapter 42 AMY
 Chapter 43 AMY
 Chapter 44 AMY
 Chapter 45 OLIVIA
 Chapter 46 AMY
 Chapter 47 AMY
 Epilogue OLIVIA
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR
 Follow the Author on Amazon
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Chapter 1
 AMY
 
 Now
 He’s here.
 I don’t feel a rush of excitement. Nor a surge of blissful happiness. No swell of pleasure, not even a tiny sigh of relief. Nothing good registers in my brain or my body to encourage me to connect with this man. Instead, sharpness twists my chest and I think, why now?
 Only minutes before, Shannon and I had been belting out a song that was playing on the radio in my empty café. She’d held the broom handle like a microphone and I twirled around her in my scarlet dress, a purchase she’d convinced me to make a few weeks before. I was still humming as we carried on clearing away the aftermath of the party and when I stuck my head inside the glass display counter to sweep up the cake crumbs . . .
 He said my name.
 I straightened up. But not because his voice set my heart aflutter or because I noticed his English accent, but simply because somebody, some stranger, called my name. And, like with all the customers who had come into my café that day to join our celebrations, I said, ‘Hello’.
 Now I properly see the man who stands in front of me and the second twist to my chest is so painful it obliterates the smile I had ready for this new customer.
 ‘Amy?’ he repeats. ‘Amy Curtis? It is you, isn’t it?’
 He looks incredulous. Energy sparks his voice and instinctively I step back, the high heel of a shoe I’m not used to wearing grinding into Shannon’s foot. She mutters a swear word and I shift slightly, letting my gaze stray away from him. Behind, the tables parade the post-party carnage and tangles of pink balloons sag and nod in the sea breeze that drifts through the open door. The radio is still playing but I can’t hear the music any more.
 Why now?
 It already seems peculiar that, just this morning, I’d stood in this very spot, staring at the vacant tables and the glass display crammed with scones, sponges and cupcakes, voicing my doubts to Shannon that we’d sell it all. Then I’d unlocked the doors and the first group of customers trailed in, then the second, the third – and they kept coming, pouring in and jamming themselves on to the terrace outside. There were so many people that we got out our just-in-case fold-out chairs, and customers balanced cake and tea on their laps, spilling on to the beach with picnic blankets. Shannon and I had spun from customer to customer, smiling and laughing, and then – as with all great parties – it was suddenly over.
 And he’s here.
 My eyes can’t connect with his. They butterfly over him and land on the remains of the three-layer anniversary cake sitting on a table to his left. I’d baked a fruit cake for the bottom, carrot cake for the middle and then Victoria sponge, finishing the tiers with a coating of chocolate fudge. The 15 Years I’d carefully iced to mark the occasion is now an unintelligible sticky scrawl, disappearing as fast as the years since I took over the café from Shannon’s in-laws, when . . . don’t.
 I force myself to look at him. I recognise the tilt in the corners of his mouth. Not smiling, exactly, just amused. Then I lock on to eyes, hazel, just like . . . don’t . . .
 ‘It is you.’ He grins and holds his arms wide as if he expects me to run around from behind the counter and jump into his embrace. ‘I can’t believe I found you.’
 Found me?
 He waves a folded newspaper and I catch a glimpse of my smiling face. ‘I saw the article. I couldn’t believe your café was just a few miles down the road from me.’
 Down the road?
 Shannon’s still clutching the broom handle and suddenly springs back into life. ‘See, Amy? I told you the whole of Auckland would know who you are now. How does it feel to be a celebrity?’
 She squeezes my arm, tighter than is normal or