'The Cafe Owner' by Jan Lloyd

JULY 10th:
Will he come in again tomorrow I wonder. He first came in two weeks ago and he's been in four times since then. He's ordered an espresso and a Danish every time.
I've met so many people over the years while running my little corner cafe We opened twenty years ago; a new venture we thought at the time, me and Guiseppe. We were working at the cafe and Aldo wanted to retire so we decided to take it over. We had just got married and it all seemed so right and exciting. We kept the name DeConi's, Aldo's surname, as he was like a father to us and didn't see the need to change it. Aldo had trained Guiseppe in patisserie and the special gift of making the perfect cup of coffee. Guiseppe then passed this gift on to me. Unfortunately he also taught Vanessa, our young waitress, but gave her extra lessons at night too!! So he ran off with her and broke my heart. That was fifteen years ago. Now our son, Romolo, works with me and has his father's gift for coffee making and cooks the most divine cakes.
I never met anyone to replace Guiseppe, never wanted to either. I just didn't seem to have time to meet the right person. But there was something about the man who came in for espresso and a Danish. It was the way he lingered over paying for his order and his eyes, green and iridescent.
The second time he came in he chatted, nothing special, just about the weather. It was raining so he stayed longer and had two coffees, waiting for the downpour to end. He had a deep mellow voice with an accent and a radiant smile which made me feel slightly shivery.
The third time he walked in I felt a sense of excitement at seeing him. When he placed the order he told me his name, Paul. He complimented me on the coffee and cake and said he had never tasted coffee so good apart from a restaurant he knew in Italy. I smiled and thanked him as I introduced myself. I was intrigued by him and what he did but felt too shy to ask.
The fourth time was two days ago and I found myself feeling hot and flushed when he walked through the door. Romolo joked with me saying my fancy man had walked in. I turned to serve another customer pretending I didn't know what he was talking about. I was annoyed I'd missed serving him and stared at him as he sat reading a newspaper. I pleaded in my head for him to come over for another coffee. I went to clean a nearby table and as I placed the empty cups on a tray he spoke, "Hi Lucille, how are you". I trembled and feigned surprise. "I didn't see you come in", I lied. He smiled warmly and got up to go, "Lovely coffee", he said once again and then was walking out through the door. I felt disappointed and wanted him to come back so I could talk to him.
So, could I have fallen in love? Will I be brave enough to take time to sit and speak to him tomorrow. I picked out a dress to wear which was far too fancy for the cafe but I felt good and young and enjoyed the emotional thrill at the thought of seeing him again. I hope he comes in.....

JULY 12th:

I am still on cloud nine. Paul walked into the cafe yesterday and I felt wonderful when he asked me to join him. We were busy but Romolo coped. I sat with him and we had coffee and cakes. He told me that he was from Southern Italy and had come to London to trace his family. It turns out that Aldo was his uncle and was his father's brother. My head was spinning after all the things he told me. His father had run a cafe which was also called DeConi's and he too made the most delicious coffee. He had lost the family connection when both his parents had died and Aldo was also sadly dead. He had heard his father, Dominic, talk about Aldo but had always been too busy to visit. After searching through his parent's belongings he had found photographs of the cafe with Aldo sitting outside. Paul never went into the restaurant business but instead worked as a banker, his sister, however, continued to run the family cafe. My heart sank when he told me his holiday was due to end tomorrow and he would be returning to Catanzaro, his home town. He said he would keep in touch and, now he had found the cafe he had longed to visit, would return again soon. As he was leaving he took my hand and kissed me gently on the cheek which sent shivers down my back. I tried to appear cool and not too desperate when I said I hoped he would come back and visit, smiling, when it was all I could do to stop myself from crying.
I went into the kitchen when he left and busied myself with washing the large pile of dirty dishes, choking back the tears. Romolo came in and sensed how I felt and just placed a hand on my shoulder, the warmth of his skin comforted me and I composed myself and told him Paul's story. I felt elated but sad at the same time and tried to imagine Dominic's cafe. As I walked home I felt much better at having spoken to Paul and felt a deep connection to the family. I will continue hoping that he will return.....

'Time Moves On' by Rosie Pugh

Whether to sell my cottage or not was a big decision and very painful for me to make as it was my piece of heaven and most importantly it was mine. My beautiful cottage was in Nantwich, Cheshire. I was in turmoil. I spent many days and nights pondering over the situation but I never got a clear answer.
I had met and fallen in love: something I had stated I would never do after my first marriage had failed - but alas it happened. I had a lot of fear of doing the wrong thing. What if things did not work? What about my children even though they were grown up they were still a big part of my life and I was going to be moving to Devon, a place where I knew no one.
On the day of the move my eldest son Andy was helping me to move and when it was time to go he found me in the corner of my bedroom. I was very emotional. He pleaded with me not to distress myself and we left.
I was only in Devon one year when my husband decided to sell the farm. He had asked his son a question. ‘What would you do if anything happened to me?’
His son replied, ‘I’ll move on.’
Then his late wife’s mother attacked me physically in the village and threatened to kill me as I was living in her late daughters house. It was no idle threat; it took three people to take her off me. What chaos and hell. So we sold and moved to Shropshire.
Looking back I realized my intuition was guiding me, I should have kept my cottage and rented it out but I listened to my heart.
When in Cheshire I pass the cottage and long to be back there: but time moves on and I have to move with it.

'The Beautiful Place' by Elisa Hill

The ambulance is racing. I see Copthorne traffic island and know that it is still a half mile to go. ‘Will I make it ?’ The siren allows us to rush past the queuing traffic. ‘Will I make it to the hospital?’ I think to myself. My baby son is at home with my husband. ‘Will I ever see him again?’ So many times doing this same route, sirens blaring, desperate to make it that last half mile. Copthorne Island the last landmark, I fight for every breath, my chest and whole body heaving with the effort; even with oxygen. I pass out.
My mind comes back to the present and I look down at my two year old grandson who is now fighting for every breath. He has an oxygen tube in his nose. I look into his eyes. I see a desperation I know so well. It’s thirty years since I have been so ill; but I am the only person who knows exactly what he is going through,
I am nineteen and wake up to see my father standing next to me. I am in a hospital ward and I think to myself, that it must have been a very bad one for my Dad to be called. I say to my mum, "I’ve been to a really beautiful place, they said it wasn't time yet and sent me back." She cries with relief and later tells me there were a few minutes when they didn't know if I would survive.
I am 23 and pregnant, in intensive care. I was brought here -the worst asthma attack I’ve ever had. I keep passing out and having terrible dreams: each one is a race which after tremendous effort I just win. Five races, each one seemingly a race of life and death.
My grandson Max, starts to breath easier now. I stroke his head. He drifts into sleep I remember when I fell asleep in intensive care. When I woke up feeling better I was embarrassed and said ‘Thank-you’ repeatedly to the nurse for making me better. She said it was not just the staff’s efforts that did it. –they didn’t know how. I do -it just wasn't my time; someone was looking after me and has been all along. I’m not a religious person - but hypocritical enough to beg for help from a higher power for Max!