THEY STROLLED ON THE waterfront for about half an hour, and Ella felt grateful that Mark had made her take her jacket. The wind had picked up, and the air was chilly.
They talked a lot, and Mark made up stories about the people around, making her laugh. The man had a good imagination and made good use of it. His stories were full of humour and made her feel better.
“You should have been a writer,” Ella remarked. “You have a knack for bringing stories alive.”
“Maybe I was a writer in another life,” he said with a grin and shrugged.
“You believe in reincarnation,” she noted nonplussed, unable to hide her surprise at his words.
“I can’t say I do, but I can’t say I don’t, either,” Mark replied, and then, he steered her towards the Irish Pub open near the quay.
“What does that mean?” Ella
