Finding MONTALBANO
It was day two of Eleanor’s Sicilian holiday. She climbed into the coach and took her usual seat. From the window she could see Stuart, who she’d met for the first time yesterday, heading across the car park towards the bus.
He climbed aboard and began to make his way down the aisle, looking for an empty seat.
When Eleanor had booked this week-long tour, her friends and regular customers at the supermarket where she worked had winked and nudged and predicted a holiday romance. Actually, she too had allowed herself a teensy tiny daydream about being swept off her feet.
But bookish Stuart, the only other solo traveller on the tour, wasn’t really the sort to set her heart aflutter. Which apparently worked both ways – she saw him look beyond her, searching the full coach for a place to sit before finally stopping beside her. ‘Is this seat taken?’ he asked politely, just as he’d done yesterday.
‘No. Help yourself.’ She moved her bag.
‘Weather looks nice,’ said Stuart, pushing his glasses up his nose.
It was summer. They were in Sicily. Nice weather was pretty much guaranteed. Eleanor pushed her glasses up her nose, too. ‘Mmm.’
Stuart stowed his bag on the overhead rack, then sat down clutching a book of crossword puzzles. Eleanor recognised a shield when she saw one. She picked up her novel, relieved they wouldn’t be forced to make small talk again.
