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He’s moved to Cornwall from the states. Word had travelled far about the community of artists in this little fishing town with tiny stone houses that cascade down the hill and scatter around the bay. He’s usually solitary in his ways but craves a change and settles easily amongst the fishermen and painters of the town, especially loving the crash of the waves as he walks along the high street that spray salt to tickle his hair.
One day he’s in his studio, a bright morning light streaming in through the front window that is rare for a November morning in Cornwall. Storms are a rolling constant here, seemingly a new one each week, but today is clear and crisp. Ezra can feel that it’ll be a good day.
This is only confirmed when you walk in. He’d been waiting for a bread delivery and here you are, holding the sourdough he had ordered yesterday before an informal crit organised by a neighbour. Who are you? I’m the bakers daughter you explain hastily without question, smiling a shy grin that thaws the last of the lonely chill he’d harboured from his life overseas. He is going to order more bread from now on.
-
Miraculously, the clear skies carried through to the next day. He could poke his head out through the kitchen window to look up and see blue, only disrupted by flying streaks of white as seagulls flocked to the skies, cawing far and near. It was a nice change from St Ives’ common grey in November.
Ezra had made the most of the winter sun, painting well into the late afternoon until the light dipped behind the hill and cast a blue shadow over the harbour. In the dying ambience, he realised he’d skipped lunch and he stared at the completed state of what had stolen his attention for the day – the figurative form of you holding a loaf of bread depicted on canvas before him. His blotchy strokes of yellow streamed around you like a halo, cascading around your silhouette in the doorway, trying to emulate how the light had graced you this morning when he met you. What a surprise that had been.
You could not escape his head. Your voice hung in the air of his studio like chimes struck by an opening door, ringing on after your departure. He couldn’t shake the impression of you, shy and polite in demeanour yet a strong stature. He thought it came through your hands. It was the way you supported the bule in your arms, fingers slanting and angular, looking a little dry from the cold outside. He theorised that you baked alongside your Father, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe you were a painter yourself. He would have to find out.
Despite himself, he imagined you kneading dough. Your shoulder bunched high with arms locked straight to push force down and roll the mass against your palms. He could picture a brilliant smile on your face at a customer’s entrance – one that showed confidence rather than the cautious smile you wore today, worried about your disruption.
Ezra thinks he decided he would order bread again as soon as you said hello.
The sourdough ball sat on his chopping board still wrapped in its paper.
-
He pulled the rickety door to, wriggling the handle to ensure it closed and he jimmied the sheet of paper into the crevice of the window. His lazy scrawl of ink read return in 10 minutes – a precautionary sign for any visitors in his absence should they come by the studio. The sky remained clear; the ink would not run from any rain.
Ezra began his walk to the bakery at 8am sharp as the clangs of boats and shouts from fisherman echoed up the cobbled narrow streets from the harbour. He turned corners through the maze of houses, running his hands across the smooth stone walls, feeling the scrape under his palm of snags where some jutted out. He ducked under doorways to stride through alleys under overhangs and he smiled at a woman who sat on her doorstep wrapped in a blanket with a cigarette hanging from her lips. He recognised her from the pub – Tamsin, maybe?
When he arrived here a couple of months prior, he accepted that he may not be welcomed here immediately. St Ives was a tight-knit community, and he came to know this was true for the rest of the towns in Cornwall too. Ezra had been alone for a while now. He was content with his own company, but when he became acquainted with the neighbouring studio owners on his streets, he learned that he was not the only foreigner to be drawn to the little town and its inspiration. Many others had settled here from other parts of England and even further, some hailing from Europe. It was more apparent each day that the artists’ community wove amongst the fishermen. Everyone knew everyone. It was a matter of time until Ezra was not be able to pass through the high street on his weekly trek to paint Carbis Bay without receiving more greetings than he could count on his two hands.
He turned the final corner, boots slapping on cobbles as he walked down the short hill to the entrance of the front of the bakery.
He stopped short.
It looked warm inside. An orange glow emanated through the windows from the big oven pushed against the back wall. Fresh pastries were stacked in the window display, the stands holding them stepped up in equal increments and had signs with names and prices written by hand much neater than he could. And there you were, stood alone behind a counter and piping something into swirls on a flat baking tray. You wore a dark auburn apron with the logo of your Father’s bakery stitched in the centre and it was dusted with flour. Ezra smiled at seeing some smudged across your cheek. You looked better in the flesh compared to his painting. Pretty. Beautiful. A muse begging to be imagined on canvas.
-
The front doorbell jangled, and cold outside air breezed through, quelling some heat from the oven behind you. You dragged your attention from the cinnamon swirls you were piping to greet the first customer of the day, an easy smile on your face ready for the rehearsed greeting.
But your breath faltered. It was him, the American painter from yesterday – the name on the delivery list you’d not had the chance of meeting yet until then.
Oh god, he was beautiful. The ruggedly handsome man named Ezra with brown scruffy hair, sliced with a blonde tuft, sharp nose and full lips with brown eyes that had a permanent twinkle. He wore a thick green coat today, hiding his tan skin that didn’t match the lack of sun in Cornwall. Your mind flashed to the memory of him in a vest yesterday as he perched on a stool in front of a blank canvas.
Your eyes darted over the jacket to patches that were sewn over what must be rips underneath, the mismatched material sprayed with multi-coloured paint and white dust. His attire looked that of many painters who frequented the bakery, but you were struck at his appearance like you had been yesterday morning. There was something about him that made your heart beat harder. It wasn’t just the broad shoulders and taught muscles of his upper arms that you tried not to ogle at yesterday morning. You couldn’t word it.
“Good Mornin’, Ezra.” You chimed with a voice that expertly hid your fluster.
“Mornin’,” he grinned, and his eyebrows rose in what you thought could be surprise at saying his name. “I came to appeal an order for a loaf.”
You quirked an eyebrow up and picked up a rag to rub your floury hands. He took a slow step forward, standing closer to the counter.
“So soon?” You teased. It came easy. You now noticed how eager he was to be here.
His grin pulled down to a knowing smirk. “Perhaps I devoured the whole thing as soon as you left, and I am in need of another.”
You laughed and folded the rag to place on the counter next to the swirls. His flirting was obvious, and it made your hands clam up. You silently willed yourself to keep it cool, staring into his eyes with what you hoped was an equally flirtatious determination.
“A bread lover? Or just hungry?” You jaded.
His smirk remained still but you thought his eyes flashed a tad darker. “I would say I’m famished.”
You felt a surge of heat rush over you at his words.
“Okay,” your voice shook a tad now, “if I remember correctly, we have you down for a sourdough a week. Do you want me to –”
“Double it.” He interjected and he placed his hand softly on the counter between you.
You flicked your eyes down to it. The thick bronze fingers were calloused from gripping a paintbrush and you noticed how large they were.
You nodded, looking up at him again. “Deliveries on Tuesdays and Fridays then?”
He hummed in agreement, suddenly appearing to be taken by another thought, evident by the frown forming above his brow.
As you reached for a pen and notepad on the shelf tucked under the counter to take note of his order, he spoke.
“I have resided here for two months now, and I cannot recall passing you on the street. In fact, I am certain I haven’t for I’d have remembered you.”
You rose from the behind the counter to see him wear a curious expression – a small smile but with steely eyes that looked laced with pain. The orange from the oven light reflected in them and your heart twanged at seeing him look like this. You’d seen that look before from many a fisherman. The look of loss. Was it something you said? You smiled wider in effort to reassure him somewhat.
“No, we haven’t passed each other – I would have remembered you too.”
His twinkle returned, crow’s feet spreading out underneath his eyes as his smile grew wider again.
His hand closed into a fist, and he rapped his knuckles on the wood once. “Tuesdays and Fridays.”
“Tuesdays and Fridays.” You repeated in agreement.
Ezra turned slightly, lingering on the shop floor. “Hopefully I will see you then?”
“Yes, you’ll see me.”
He turned fully, showing you his broad back, and headed for the door. He pulled it wide, jangling the brass bell, and the cold air rushed in once more, making you shudder.
“Oh, Ezra!” You called out.
He froze, one foot stepped down onto the pavement, one foot secured to the brown tiles of the bakery floor, his torso turned fully towards you, expectant and hanging on to your words.
“We’ve met now, s’all that matters.” You said with sincerity.
He let out a deep exhale, his shoulder moving down with the weight of his breathing. It looked like he needed that from you.
“I’ll be seeing you, skylark.”
And with that, the doorbell jangled a final time by his doing, the heat replaced the chill of the sea air, and you were alone with the cinnamon rolls.
You watched him walk from whence he came, shucking himself up the hill and pushing against the wind that whistled down the corridor of houses. His hair flew back in a fluffy mop away from his face and you sighed when he passed the view from the window.
Skylark? Where did that come from?