The Return of Mrs. Jones (5 page)

‘Here—let me.’

Jonas leant over and picked up the large pile, his arm brushing hers and sending a tingle from her wrist shooting through her body straight down to her toes. She leapt back.

‘If you’re ready?’

‘Absolutely, I’ll just get my bag—give me two minutes.’

‘I’ll meet you at the car; it’s just out front.’

‘Okay.’

The door closed behind him and Lawrie sank back into her seat with a sigh. She had to pull herself together. Stop acting like the gauche schoolgirl she’d outgrown years ago.

*

Jonas pulled his car round to the front of the restaurant, idling the engine as he waited for Lawrie. Their first day working together was going well. He’d had a productive two hours’ work just then, not thinking about and not even noticing the exposed nape of her neck, her long, bare legs, not at all aware of every rustle, every slight movement.

Well, maybe just a little aware. But they were just physical things. And Cornwall in summer was full of attractive women—beautiful women, even.

And yet during the last two hours the room he had designed, the room that had evoked light and space, had felt small, claustrophobic, airless. How could someone as slight as Lawrie take up so much space?

Jonas looked over at the Boat House impatiently, just as Lawrie emerged through the front door, a carefully blank, slightly snooty look on her face—the expression that had used to mean she was unsure of the situation. Did it still mean that? He used to be able to read her every shifting emotion, no matter how she tried to hide them.

Then one day he simply couldn’t read her at all.

She stopped at the gate, peering down the road, puzzled.

What was she looking for? He half raised one hand to wave at her, then quickly lowered it, leaning on the horn instead, with a little more emphasis than needed. He allowed himself a fleeting moment of amusement as she jumped at the noise and then, obviously flustered, crossed the harbour road, walking slowly towards the car.

He leant across to open the passenger door, sitting back as she slid in, looking straight ahead, trying not to watch her legs slide down over the seat, her round, firm bottom wriggling down over the padded leather, the sudden definition as the seatbelt tightened against her chest.

‘Nice,’ she said appreciatively, putting a hand out to stroke the walnut dashboard as Jonas pulled the low, sleek car away from the kerb. ‘I have to say I hadn’t pegged you as a sports car man. I was looking for the camper van.’

‘Oh, this is just a runabout. I still have the camper. There’s no way I could get a board in here.’

He laughed as she grimaced.

‘You and your boards,’ she said. ‘If they’re that important you should have gone for a sensible people carrier rather than this midlife crisis on wheels.’

‘Midlife crisis?’ he mock-huffed. There was no way he was going to admit the secret pride he took in the car.

Jonas didn’t care too much what people said, what people thought of him, but he allowed himself a little smirk of satisfaction every time he passed one of his parents’ cronies and saw them clock the car and the driver and, for one grudging moment, admit to themselves that that no-good boy had done well.

‘At least this has a real engine in it. I’ve seen that dainty little convertible you call a car. Do you actually put flowers in that holder?’

She shook her head, smiling. ‘You have to admit it’s convenient for parking. But I can see why you like this—she goes like a dream,’ she said as he turned the corner onto the main road and the car began purring up the steep climb. ‘And at least she isn’t red, so not a total cliché! I’m glad that you kept the camper, though. I was always fond of the old girl. What?’ she asked as he slid her a sly smile.

‘I’m glad you’ve finally acknowledged that she’s a she—you’ll call her by her name next,’ he teased.

‘I will
never
call a twenty-year-old rusty van by such a ridiculous name—by
any
name. A car is not a person,’ she said with a haughty flick of her ponytail.

But Jonas could hear the laughter in her voice as he deftly swung the car round the corner and along the narrow lanes that led to the hotel, just two coves away.

‘Go on—say it,’ he coaxed her.

It had been a long time since he had seen Lawrie laugh. Judging by the wounded, defensive look in her eyes it was a long time since she
had
laughed.

‘I’ll help. Bar... Barb...’

‘No!’ But she was definitely trying not to laugh, and there was a dimple at the corner of her lush, full mouth. ‘What about this one? What have you named her?’

‘Nice escape, Ms Bennett. But I will get you to say her name before you leave.’

‘We’ll see.’

The words were dismissive but she still sounded amused. Jonas sneaked a glance at his passenger and saw her face was more relaxed, her posture less rigid.

‘So go on—surprise me. What’s she called?’

‘Ah,’ he said lightly. ‘This baby doesn’t have a name. It’d be disloyal to the camper.’

This time she did laugh—slightly croaky, as if she were unused to making the sound, but as deep and rich, as infectious as Jonas remembered.

‘We wouldn’t want to hurt the feelings of a rusting old van, would we?’

‘I assure her every day that I only bought this to spare her tired old axles, but I’m not sure she believes me.’

‘Nobody likes being replaced by a younger model.’

There was a dark undercurrent to her tone and he glanced at her sharply, but her face was as impassive as ever, the laughter gone as if it had never been, replaced by that cool mask she always put on.

It had been her coolness that had first attracted him—the innocent look on her face as she said the most outrageous things a stark contrast to the noisy beach bums he’d been surrounded by. It had been the unexpected moments when she’d opened up that had made him fall head over heels in love with her—the moments when her mask had dropped and she’d lit up with laughter, with indignation, with passion.

Dangerous memories. His hands tightened on the wheel as he navigated the narrow bends, the hedgerows high beside them as if they were driving through a dark, tree-lined tunnel.

‘I’m glad you’re driving. I’m not sure I’d find my way by road,’ Lawrie said conversationally, as if she were discussing the weather.

As beautifully mannered as ever, Jonas thought.

‘It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Coombe End. I can’t imagine it without your parents there—how are they?’

There were a million and one responses he could give to that. Jonas settled for the most polite. ‘Retired.’

Lawrie made an incredulous noise. ‘
Retired?
Seriously? I didn’t think the word was even in their vocabulary.’

‘It wasn’t. It took a heart attack to make them even talk about it, and a second one to make them do it.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. What are they doing now?’

Jonas’s mouth twisted wryly. Making sure he knew just how much they regretted it. Just how much it hurt to see their profligate son undo all their hard work. Not that any of that was Lawrie’s business. Not any more.

‘Living in a respectable villa, in a respectable village in Dorset, and taking an inordinate amount of cruises—which they mostly complain about, of course. Still, every retiree needs a hobby.’

Lawrie looked at him, concern in the deep grey eyes. Of course she knew more about his relationship with his parents than anyone else. He wasn’t used to that—to people seeing behind his flippant tone. He made damn sure that nobody did.

‘I can’t imagine it—your parents, of all people, taking it easy on cruise liners. How long since you bought them out?’

‘Coming up to four years.’ Jonas kept his answer short, terse.

‘Are they still involved?’

‘Now
that
, Lawrie dear, would mean them communicating with me.’ All this talk of his parents—his least favourite subject. It was time to turn the tables. ‘Talking about difficult relations,’ Jonas said, ‘how is your mother? Still in Spain?’

Lawrie twisted in her seat and stared at him. ‘How did you know she was in Spain?’

Jonas grinned to himself, allowing his fingers to beat out a tune on the leather of the steering wheel.
Nice deflection, Jones.
‘I met her when she was over from Spain, introducing her new husband...John, isn’t it? He seemed like a nice bloke. Didn’t she come to London? She said she wanted to see you.’

Lawrie’s mouth had thinned; the relaxed posture was gone. Any straighter and he could use her back as a ruler.

‘I was busy.’

Jonas shrugged. ‘I think this one might be different. She seemed settled, happy.’

Lawrie was radiating disapproval. ‘Maybe five is her lucky number.’

‘People make mistakes. Your mother certainly did. But she’s so proud of you.’

‘She has no right to be proud of me—she doesn’t know me. And if she was so keen to see me she should have come back for Gran’s funeral.’

‘Didn’t she?’

He should have been at the funeral too. He’d said his own private goodbye to Gran on the day, alone at the cottage. But he should have gone.

‘She was on a retreat.’ It was Lawrie’s turn to be terse.

Maybe it had been too successful a deflection. Jonas searched for a response but couldn’t find one. Lawrie had every right to be angry, but at least her mother wanted to make amends.

His
parents wouldn’t have known what they were expected to make amends
for
—as far as they were concerned any problems in their relationship were all down to him.

He was their eternal disappointment.

There was an awkward silence for a few long minutes, with Jonas concentrating on the narrow road, pulling over several times as tractors lumbered past, and Lawrie staring out of the window.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’m glad she’s happy—that five husbands and goodness knows how many boyfriends later she’s settled. But it’s thirty years too late for me.’

‘I know.’

And he did. He knew it all. He knew how bitter Lawrie was about her mother’s desertion, how angry. He knew how vulnerable years of moving around, adapting to new homes, new schools, new stepfathers had made her.

He knew how difficult it was for her to trust, to rely on anyone. It was something he couldn’t ever allow himself to forget.

When it all got too much Lawrie Bennett ran away. Like mother, like daughter. Not caring who or what she left behind.

This time he was not getting to get left in her destructive wake.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘W
HAT
HAVE
YOU
done with the helipad? And didn’t the ninth hole start over there? I’m not sure your father ever recovered from that lesson. Or your mother...although I
did
offer to pay for the window.’

Lawrie would have bet everything she owned that a country house hotel catering for the rich was not Jonas’s style. But now she was here it was hard to pinpoint the changes she instinctively knew he must have made. Coombe End
looked
the same—a tranquil Queen Anne manor house set in stunning acres of managed woodland at the back, green meadows at the front, running into the vivid blue blur of sea on the horizon—and yet something was different. Something other than the change in owner and the apparent loss of a golf course and helipad.

Maybe it was the car park? There were a few high-end cars dotted here and there, but they were joined by plenty of others: people carriers, old bangers, small town cars and a whole fleet worth of camper vans, their bright paintwork shining brightly in the sun. Last time she had been here the car park had been filled with BMWs and Mercedes and other, less obviously identifiable makes—discreet and expensive, just like the hotel.

Lawrie hadn’t seen many camper vans in London, and the sight of their cheery squat box shape, their rounded curves and white tops, filled her with a sudden inexplicable sense of happiness. Which was absurd. Camper vans were for man-boys who refused to grow up. Ridiculous, gas-guzzling, unreliable eyesores.

So why did they make her feel as if she was home?

As Jonas led Lawrie along the white gravelled path that clung to the side of the graceful old building her sense of discombobulation increased. The formal gardens were in full flower, displaying all their early summer gaudy glory—giant beds filled with gigantic hydrangea bushes, full flowered and opulent—but the gardens as a whole were a lot less manicured, the grass on the front lawns longer than she remembered, with wildflowers daring to peek out amongst the velvety green blades of grass.

And what was that? The rose garden was gone, replaced by a herb garden with small winding paths and six wooden beehives.

‘You’ve replaced your mother’s pride and joy?’ she said, only half in mock horror.

‘Doesn’t it all look terribly untidy?’ Jonas said, his voice prim and faintly scandalised, a perfect parody of his mother.

Lawrie shook her head, too busy looking around to answer him, as they walked up the sandstone steps that led to the large double doors.

The old heavy oak doors were still there, but stripped, varnished—somehow more inviting. The discreet brass plaque had gone. Instead a driftwood sign set onto the wall was engraved with ‘Boat House Hotel’.

‘Come on,’ Jonas said, nudging her forward. ‘I’ll show you around.’

He stood aside and ushered her through the open door. With one last, lingering look at the sun-drenched lawn Lawrie went through into the hotel.

She hadn’t spent much time here before. Jonas had left home the day he turned sixteen—by mutual agreement, he had claimed—and had slept above the bar or in the camper van before they were married. He’d converted the room over the bar into a cosy studio apartment once they were. It had always felt like a royal summons on the few occasions when they were invited over for dinner—the even fewer occasions she had persuaded Jonas to accept.

They had always been formal, faux-intimate family dinners, held on the public stage of the hotel dining room. Jonas’s parents’ priority had clearly been their guests, not their son and his wife. Long, torturous courses of beautifully put together rich food, hours full of polite small talk, filled with a multitude of poisoned, well targeted barbs.

Her memories made the reality even more of a shock as Lawrie walked into the bright, welcoming foyer. The changes outside had been definite, but subtle; the inside, however, was completely, obviously, defiantly different. Inside the large hallway the dark wood panelling, the brocade and velvet, had been stripped away, allowing the graceful lines of the old house to shine through in colours reflecting Jonas’s love of the sea: deep blues and marine greens accentuating the cream décor.

‘It’s all reclaimed local materials—driftwood, recycled glass, recovered sofas,’ Jonas explained. ‘And everything is Cornish-made—from the pictures on the walls to the glasses behind the bar.’

‘It’s amazing,’ Lawrie said, looking about her at the room at once so familiar and yet so new, feeling a little like Alice falling into Wonderland. ‘I love it. It’s really elegant, isn’t it? But not cold. It feels homely, somehow, despite its size.’

‘That’s the effect I wanted.’ His voice was casual but his eyes blazed blue as he looked at her. ‘You always did get it.’

Lawrie held his gaze for a long moment, the room fading away. That look in his eyes. That approval. Once she’d craved it, looked for it, yearned for it. Like the perfect cup of tea at the perfect temperature. A slab of chocolate exactly the right mixture of bitter and sweet. A chip, crisp and hot and salty on the outside, smooth and fluffy as you bit down.

Of course the only tea she drank nowadays was herbal, and she hadn’t had a chip—not even a hand-cut one—in years.

And she didn’t need anyone’s approval.

‘Some of my clients own hotels,’ she said, injecting as much cool professionalism into her voice as she could. ‘I’ve seen some great examples of décor, and some fairly alarming ones too. This is really lovely, though, Jonas.’

The approval faded, a quizzical gleam taking its place, but all he said was, ‘I’m glad you approve. Let’s hear your professional opinion on the rest of the place. This way.’

And Jonas turned and began to walk along the polished wooden floor towards the archway that led into the main ground floor corridor.

Lawrie heaved a sigh. Of relief, she told herself sternly. Job done—professional relationship back on track.

So why did she feel as if the sun had just disappeared behind a very black cloud?

Lawrie followed Jonas through the foyer and down the corridor, watching him greet both staff and guests with a smile, a quick word, a clap on the shoulder—evident master of his empire. It was odd... He used to be so unhappy here, a stranger in his own home, and now he appeared completely at ease.

Jonas led her into the old dining room. A large, imposing space, dominated by the series of floor-to-ceiling windows along the far wall matched by a parade of pillars reaching up to the high ceiling. This room too had been extensively remodelled, with a similar look and feel to the café on the seafront, all the lace and delicate china replaced with light woods and cheerful tablecloths.

A long table ran along one end, filled with large jugs, chunky earthenware mugs and plates of small cakes and biscuits.

‘Wouldn’t want the guests to get hungry,’ Jonas explained as he grabbed a pair of large mugs and poured coffee from one of the jugs, automatically adding milk to them before handing one to Lawrie.

She opened her mouth to decline but closed it as she breathed in the rich, dark aroma.

Why had she given up coffee? she wondered as she took a cautious sip. It was delicious, and the creamy Cornish milk was a perfect companion to the bitter nectar. Two milky coffees in two days—she was slipping back into bad habits.

The coffee was the least of it.

Jonas carried his cup over to the nearest window, which stood slightly ajar, allowing the slight summer breeze to permeate the room with the sweet promise of fresh warmth. The breeze ruffled his dark blond hair, making him look younger, more approachable.

Like the boy she had married. Was he still there, somewhere inside this ambitious, coolly confident man, that impetuous, eager boy?

Lawrie had promised herself that she wouldn’t probe. The last nine years, Jonas’s life, his business... None of it was relevant. Knowing the details wouldn’t help her with her job. Or with the distance she needed to maintain between them. And yet curiosity was itching through her.

She wandered over to the window and stood next to him, every fibre acutely aware of his proximity. Of the casual way he was leaning against the window frame. The golden hairs on the back of his tanned wrists. The undone button at his neck and the triangle of burnished skin it revealed.

Lawrie swallowed, the hot clench at her stomach reminding her of her vulnerability, of the attraction she didn’t want to acknowledge.

She looked out, following his line of sight as he gazed into the distance. The sea was clearly visible in the distance, calm and unruffled, the smell of it clear on the breeze. And the urge to know more, to know him again, suddenly overwhelmed her.

‘Why here?’ There—it was said.

Jonas looked mildly surprised. ‘Where else? This room works well as a dining room, has good access to the kitchens. It would have been silly to change it just for change’s sake.’

Lawrie shook her head. ‘I didn’t mean the room. I meant the whole thing,’ she said, aware she was probing deeper than she had any right to. ‘I mean here. You hated this place. I couldn’t get you to set foot inside the gates without a massive fight. I could understand it if your parents had gifted the place to you, but if you paid full value for and then remodelled it? It must have cost a
fortune
!’

Jonas quirked an eyebrow at her. ‘Oh, I get it. You’re wondering about how much I’m worth. Regretting the divorce after all?’

Heat flooded through her. She could feel her cheeks reddening. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ she protested. ‘You know I wouldn’t have taken a penny.’

‘That’s my Lawrie—still so serious.’

Jonas let out a laugh and Lawrie swatted him indignantly, trying to repress the secret thrill that crept over her at the possessive word ‘my’.

‘Oh, ha-ha. Very funny.’

Jonas leant back against the window pane, still grinning, and took a sip from the chunky Cornishware mug. ‘You always were so easy to wind up. Good to know some things don’t change.’

‘So?’ she pressed him, taking advantage of his suddenly companionable mood. ‘How come you ended up at Coombe End?’

Jonas didn’t reply for a long moment, and the mischievous glint in his eyes faded to annoyance. When he spoke his tone was clipped. ‘This was my home once, Lawrie. It wasn’t a big conspiracy or takeover, no matter what the village gossips say.’

Lawrie winced. She hadn’t considered the inevitable fall-out the change of ownership must have caused. The whole of Trengarth—the whole area—knew how things stood between Jonas and his parents. And there were few without definite opinions on the matter.

‘Since when did you care about what the gossips say?’ They had always been different in that regard. She so self-conscious, he proudly indifferent.

His eyes were cold. ‘I don’t. My decision to buy Coombe End was purely a business one. I always knew this place could be more. Yes, it was successful—very successful—if that kind of thing appealed: a little piece of the capital by the sea. You could drive straight here, fly your helicopter here, use the private beach, play the golf course and return home without ever experiencing what Cornwall is about,’ he said, his lip curling as he remembered. ‘The kind of place your fiancé probably took you.’

‘Ex-fiancé,’ Lawrie corrected him. She shook her head, refusing to take the bait, but there was an uncomfortable element of truth to his words. Hugo had liked the luxury hotel experience, it was true, but they’d been so busy that just snatching a night away had been enough. There had never been time to explore local culture as well.

‘Of course,’ Jonas said, putting his mug down decisively and stepping away from the window. ‘Ex. Come on. There’s a lot to go through.’

No wonder she felt like Alice, being constantly hustled from place to place. She half expected Jonas to pull out a pocket watch. If there were croquet lawns she was in serious trouble.

Lawrie took a last reluctant gulp of the creamy coffee and placed her mug onto the nearest table before following Jonas once again. He led her back down the corridor, through the foyer and outside, along the winding path that led to the woods that made up most of the outside property.

One of Coombe End’s winter money-makers had been shooting parties. Lawrie had hated hearing the bangs from the woods and seeing the braces of poor, foolish pheasants being carried back to the house, heads lolling pathetically.

Jonas was walking fast, with intent, and she had to lengthen her stride to keep up with him. It took her by surprise when he came to a sudden halt at the end of the gravelled path, where a long grassy track snaked away ahead of them up the small wooded hill that bordered the hotel gardens.

Lawrie skittered to an undignified stop, clamping down on the urge to grab onto him for support. ‘A bit of warning would be nice,’ she muttered as she righted herself cautiously.

Jonas ignored her. ‘I never hated this place, Law,’ he said after a while, gesturing out towards the woodland, its trees a multitude of green against the blue sky.

A secret thrill shuddered through her at the sound of the old pet name.

‘I love it here. I always did. But I wanted a different way.’

He resumed walking, Lawrie kept pace with him, wishing she was wearing flatter, sturdier shoes. He had a fast, firm tread; she had always liked that. Hugo was more of a dawdler, and it had driven her mad—as had his admonishments to ‘Slow down...it’s not a race’.

Jonas didn’t look at her as she reached his side but continued as if there hadn’t been any break in the conversation. It was as if he was glad he had the chance to explain. And why shouldn’t he be? The boy had done well.
Very
well. He hadn’t needed her at all. It must be
satisfying
to be in his position. Successful, in control, magnanimously helping out your ex.

Lawrie clenched her fist, digging her nails deep into the palm of her hand. This wasn’t how her life, her return to Trengath, was supposed to have been.

‘By the time my father had his second heart attack I’d managed to expand the Boat House into twenty-seven seaside locations in the South-West and people were buying into the whole experience—branded T-shirts, mugs, beach towels. So, from a business point of view, expanding the dining experience into a holiday experience made sense.’