Winter Wishes (20 page)

“I can’t believe I’ve told you all that. What’s in this sticky toffee pudding? The truth drug?” Tara said, glancing down at her empty plate and the gleaming spoon that had been licked clean. Lord, and she never ate stuff like this. She’d be the size of Jules Mathieson if she carried on.

“Damn. They told me that it left no taste,” said Richard.

She laughed. His dry wit amused her – and beneath that quiet and gentle exterior something deeper was lurking, she was sure of it. There was a sharp sense of humour and a naughty glitter in those eyes that spoke of emotions Richard Penwarren usually kept hidden. Mild-mannered doctor? Yes, maybe, but instinct told her that passion ran beneath the surface too.

“You’re very easy to talk to,” she said thoughtfully. “A bit like a priest.”

Richard pulled a face. “Sexless and getting people to confess sin? Oh dear.”

“OK, not the best analogy. What I meant was that you have this way of putting people at ease and making them feel comfortable. You’ve let me rabbit on all through lunch.”

“You certainly don’t rabbit on,” Richard said firmly. “I could listen to you all day.”

“Hmm,” said Tara who wasn’t so sure about that. “Anyway, you know loads about me but I don’t think I know anything about you at all.”

He shrugged. “That’s because there’s nothing really to tell. I’m a very boring country GP with a mad mother and an even madder dog. That’s about it, I promise. There are no mad wives in the attic just to complete the picture!”

“Talking of having mad wives in the attic, I need to find somewhere to rent so that Dan can have some space,” Tara remarked. “Maybe some of the chalets up at the campsite will be free for the winter. I might make a call.”

“You can’t live up there in the winter. You’ll freeze.” Richard looked horrified.

He had a point. The chalets at Polwenna Park were designed for the summer months and although they had little electric heaters these wouldn’t be a match for the gales blowing in from the sea. Plenty of locals did hire them off-season though – and they survived somehow, so it had to be possible. Perhaps she could sell the idea to Morgan as an extended camping trip? A few years ago he’d been obsessed with all things Bear Grylls, so he might be up for it.

“Look, I may be speaking out of turn and you can tell me to butt out if you like,” Richard continued, dragging Tara back from thoughts about electric blankets and fan heaters, “but why don’t you rent my cottage? You’d be doing me a favour by keeping it warm and dry. You know how damp places get here if they’re not lived in. It’s right on the slipway, so it’s bad enough even in August. If it’s left empty over the winter it’ll be a state.”

Tara stared at him. Waterside Cottage was one of the prettiest properties on the harbourside. Admittedly it was very small, but it looked straight out onto the water. The kitchen door led to the slipway steps, where a little bench basked in the sunshine and boats bobbed against their moorings. In other words, it was every Cornish seaside cliché made real. There was no way a place like that would be empty, even out of season, and Tara’s proud hackles rose. Was he offering charity?

“Won’t you be in it?” she asked.

“I’d love to be, but my mum’s place is really big and I don’t trust her to heat it and look after it. To be honest I don’t think she could afford to; the salon doesn’t bring in that much.”

Tara understood. Kursa’s dubious skills as a hairdresser were legendary. The only person who raved about her was Summer.

“Since she won’t accept any help, the only way I can ensure my own mother doesn’t catch pneumonia is by moving in myself, cranking up the night storage heaters and stockpiling logs. If you could take the cottage then it would be one less thing for me to worry about.”

There was a strange feeling in Tara’s chest. It felt dangerously like hope.

“Really?”

“Really.” Richard drained his half and smiled at her across the glass. “The rent will be cheap, I promise.”

“I’ll pay going costs,” Tara said quickly. “I’m not a charity case.”

“No, but I might be a charity case myself if that place gets damp again! It cost enough to renovate the first time around. So what do you say?”

“I’d say yes, but I’ll need a job first to even cover the bills.” She got to her feet. “Give me one moment.”

“One lunch and I’ve driven you to drink?” Richard asked as she began to walk towards the bar.

Tara laughed. “No time like the present to find out about work,” she called back over her shoulder. She was weaving her way through the lunchtime drinking crowd and waving at Adam, the landlord. A good friend of Danny’s, or at least he had been until Danny had started drinking heavily and causing scenes, he was someone she knew well. They’d even double dated in the past; she’d been friends with Adam’s wife Rose too. The friendship had soured a bit when she and Danny had split up, but Tara was old enough to know that this was how these things tended to go. Estranged couples divided up everything from pensions to pets, and friends were no exception.

“Lunchtime drinking, Tara?” This softly spoken question came from the lithe man with deep damson ringlets who was leaning against the bar and nursing a whiskey. Although his eyes were bloodshot they were unmistakably that bright periwinkle blue shared by all the Tremaines, along with the high cheekbones and full sensual mouth.

“Playing truant from the restaurant, Sy?” Tara teased, knowing that her brother-in-law was the ultimate workaholic.

“As if! No, we’re closed today for some work on the kitchen,” Symon Tremaine said. “That’s why I look like the undead; we’re working flat out to open again at the weekend.”

“Licence to print money, that’s your place. Beats me why people want to eat all that fancy foreign muck,” teased Adam as he pulled a foaming pint.

Sy laughed. “Yeah right. I’m loaded, me. I never work a day in my life.”

“You keep pinching all my bloody staff, mate, that’s why. Now even Kelly’s done a runner. Thanks for stealing my best barmaid. I ought to bar you,” Adam complained.

Tara saw her chance and took it. ““If Kelly’s left, is there a job going here? I’d be really interested, Adam. I need some funds to rent a place and I’m happy to do pretty much anything. Bar work, kitchen chores or even cleaning.”

There was an awkward pause. Adams’s round face had never been very good at concealing what was going on inside his simple skull, and Tara’s heart sank. He didn’t want to employ her. The battle lines had been drawn up and he and Rose were clearly on Team Danny.

“I’m really sorry but I don’t think I can help,” Adam said finally. “It’s nothing personal, Tara, but I don’t think my Rose would like it.”

And she’d never sleep with me again
was the unfinished part of the sentence.

“It feels pretty personal to me,” said Tara bitterly. “Cheers, Adam. Thanks a lot.”

She stared down at the bar and bit back tears. What an awful day. Talk about getting signs. How many other locals would feel the same way about her? If nobody wanted to employ her then what possible hope did she have of being able to give Morgan the security of staying here and Danny the space that he clearly needed? She’d have no choice but to move in with her parents.

“There’s a job at mine if you want it?” Sy said quietly. “It’s nothing glamorous, just a bit of waitressing and some prepping in the kitchen, but it’s yours if you want it.”

Tara looked up at him. “Really? You’re not just saying that to be kind?”

Sy gave her his sweet lopsided smile. Out of all the Tremaine siblings he was the most sensitive – and Tara didn’t want his pity.

“Once you’ve seen the scrubbing and worked the hours I demand, there’s no way you’ll think I’m kind. In fact you’ll think I’m such a pain-crazed bastard I make Christian Grey look easy-going!”

Tara held out her hand. “I’ve given birth. Pain doesn’t faze me. I’m up for it.”

Sy shook Tara’s outstretched hand. “That’s just as well, because you’re about to witness a whole new level. If Gordon Ramsay came to my kitchen he’d soon be crying like a girl.”

But Tara couldn’t have cared less how tough it was in Sy’s kitchen. And as for crying? Well, she’d done more than her fair share of that over the years, but now she had a new job and a beautiful place to live – and both things had come to her in the space of less than an hour. Perhaps her luck was starting to change.

And maybe, just maybe, now that these things were in place Danny might start to come round. Was her wish at the well going to come true after all?

Chapter 13

Thank goodness the weather had cheered up, thought Jules with relief. For the past few days the rain had been unrelenting and she’d been holed up in the vicarage catching up on paperwork and doing her very best not to drive herself crazy worrying about the future of St Wenn’s. She’d continually glanced up to look out of the window but the usually pretty view had been distorted by the raindrops blurring the pane, creating a smudged seascape of pewters, leads and greys. If it had carried on for much longer she’d have had to consult the book of Genesis for instructions on ark-building.

This afternoon, though, a falling tide and sharpening wind had driven the rain away, at least for now. Weak, lemon-hued sunshine had seeped through the low clouds, and outside her office window a chaffinch had started to sing. Jules had decided it was time to abandon her paperwork and do her best to push all her worries aside by setting off for a walk. As she’d laced her walking boots she’d smiled. How on earth had she become somebody who actually relished the thought of tramping around outside? Not so long ago her idea of a walk had been pushing her trolley along the sweetie aisle of Tesco’s; she would have been horrified at the mere suggestion of cliff paths and steep hills.

She had Danny to thank for this change.

Jules felt a pang: every time she thought of Danny it was still just as painful. She hadn’t bumped into him since the jumble sale – sorry, she meant
bring-and-buy sale
– but she guessed he too was hiding from the elements.

Or her.

The village was quiet for this time of day, Jules thought. Cottage windows flung golden light into the grey mid-afternoon, and down on the quay the fish truck was revving into life. Seagulls heckled above, stretching their wings and scraping the stillness with their harsh calls. Jules took the path from the vicarage down into the village, along to the quay and then down the slippery stone steps that led to the beach. The tide was out and the pale sand was hemmed with seaweed as far as the grey rocks at the very end of the bay. Inhaling the sharp salty air and picking up pace, Jules strode along the wet sand, enjoying the feeling of the cold air against her warm face and the way the exercise made her muscles ache. The beauty of the Cornish seascape never failed to move her; even the louring skies and white-tipped waves were part of the wild and breathtaking beauty here.

Jules had just reached the jagged rocks at the furthest end of the beach when her mobile began to ring. Plucking it from her fleece pocket, she saw Caspar’s name flash up on the screen.

She tried not to sigh. Caspar was proving to be quite a needy addition to her flock. This was the fifth call of the day. Whether this was something all writers had in common, or just a quirk of his own rather intense personality, she wasn’t certain. One thing Jules did fear, however, was that Caspar had brought his quest for a muse a little closer to home. She would have been flattered, except that she strongly suspected it was only because everyone else had turned him down. Sending up a swift prayer for patience, Jules took the call.

“Hello?”

“Jules? Is that you on the beach? I’m waving from the quay!”

She looked up and, sure enough, a figure clad in swirling black was waving enthusiastically at her. He looked dangerously close to the edge.

“I can see you, Caspar,” Jules said, waving back and adding a PS to her earlier prayer, that he didn’t take a tumble. The last thing she needed was Sheila storming down onto the beach with bandages and the air ambulance on speed dial.

“When you’re back, how about coming to my place for afternoon tea?” Caspar was saying. “I’ve bought scones and jam and I’ve lit the fire too. It’s very cosy!”

“I’m pretty busy,” she hedged.

“Too busy for scones? I’ve bought saffron buns too. It’s a proper Cornish cakey tea!”

There was a hint of loneliness in his voice and, even though for once she didn’t feel inclined to stuff her face with clotted cream and scones, Jules was moved. Nevertheless, it seemed wise to turn down the offer. “I can see that you’ve already got the hang of life in Cornwall. I’ve just been exercising, though. The last thing I ought to be doing is eating afternoon tea. I’m on a diet!”

“I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous,” Caspar tutted. “You’re perfect as you are. Absolutely perfect. Like a Rubens come to life.”

Uh oh. Parishioner With Crush alert.

“I’m not sure quite how to take that,” Jules told him briskly, hoping to defuse the compliment. “Aren’t they fat and cellulitey?”

“Not at all! They’re voluptuous and womanly and sensual,” Caspar declared. “Pillowy bosoms and soft arms and—”

Jules got the picture. They were the sort of girls who might eat cake and take pity on a blocked writer until he found a tall skinny blonde muse instead. She made a mental note to ask Issie if she had any friends who might be interested in being immortalised in literature. If Caspar really was a writer, that was. Googling him hadn’t revealed very much.

“Cake sounds wonderful,” she said, interrupting him in full flow. “I’ve just got a couple of errands to run and then I’ll pop in.”

“Wonderful.” Caspar gave her a thumbs up from across the beach. “I’m at Tide’s End Cottage – the second one along by the slipway. I’ll put the kettle on.”

The call ended and he waved once more before vanishing in a swirl of billowing black fabric. Jules sighed. So much for sneaking into the pub for a quiet half by the fire and a swift read of the
Western Morning News
. She slid the phone back into her pocket and frowned. She’d have to find a tactful way of nipping this in the bud or things could become very complicated very fast. She could certainly do without the extra stress though; there was quite enough on as it was with the run-up to Christmas and the bishop’s impending visit, without having to wade through Caspar’s purple prose and suffocating attention.