Czytaj książkę: «The Cornish Café Series»
PHILLIPA ASHLEY
Christmas At The Cornish Cafe
Book #2
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
The News Building
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2016
Copyright © Phillipa Ashley 2016
Phillipa Ashley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © November 2016 ISBN: 9780008191870
Version: 2019-03-01
For Charlotte and James,
Nadelik Lowen Ha Bledhen Nowyth Da
(Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year)
And in memory of Rowena Kincaid 1975–2016
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Epilogue
Recipes
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
Tuesday October 1st
Demi
‘Good morning, friends! This is Greg Stennack, your favourite local DJ on your favourite local station, Radio St Trenyan. I’ll be bringing you all the latest tunes and news from our great little corner of Cornwall and cheering you up on this wet and windy October the first. Hey, did I just say it was October? Seems like only yesterday that we were slapping on the suncream and stretching out the beach towels to catch some rays. Oh, wait – that was only yesterday! Hey, never mind, people. Christmas is only eighty-five sleeps away. Now, let’s kick off this wild autumn day with ‘Here Comes the Rain Again’ by the Eurythmics …’
Hey, thanks, Greg, I’ve nothing against Annie Lennox, but I think I’ll pass.
With a groan, I bash the radio alarm ‘off’ button with my palm and pull the duvet over my head. That was a mistake. Now that Greg’s not blaring down my ear, I can hear the rain lashing against the windows and battering the roof of my tiny terraced cottage. A moment later, I throw the duvet off me, shivering in the cool October morning. I say ‘morning’, but it might as well be evening it’s so dark and gloomy in my bedroom. The late September heatwave we’d been enjoying at Kilhallon Park broke late last night when a massive storm blew in from the Atlantic and settled over our corner of far-west Cornwall.
The bedroom door bangs against the wall and four paws land squarely on my legs and a rough tongue licks my face.
‘Oof!’
My dog, Mitch, stands on my stomach, tongue lolling. ‘Thanks, boy, but I’d rather have a wash myself. In the bathroom, preferably.’
Mitch woofs and jumps onto the floor, wagging his feathery tail.
‘I know, I know. You want a walk, but have you heard that wet stuff falling from the sky outside?’
Mitch leaps off the bed, and stands by, tilting his head this way and that, as if to say: ‘Wuss’.
I give up all thought of staying in bed. ‘OK. You win.’
As I swing my legs off the bed, Mitch scampers to the doorway, hardly able to contain himself, excited at the prospect of a walk. After I’ve pulled on old jeans and a fleece, I trot downstairs, grab a quick glass of juice and pull open the curtains. It’s still bucketing down, and the rain is driven by strong winds off the sea, so it’s almost horizontal.
I grab an old waxed jacket from a peg by the back door and pull the hood over my head. Not only does Mitch need a walk, I need to check that nothing’s blown away from our brand-new guest cottages. I also need to make sure that our new cafe, Demelza’s, is still in one piece ready for its opening day on Thursday.
Since I arrived at Easter, my boss, Cal Penwith, and I have been working hard to transform Kilhallon Park from a run-down caravan site into a boutique holiday resort. With the help of our friends – and despite the efforts of our foes – our cottages and glamping site officially open for business today.
Then there’s Demelza’s.
I persuaded Cal to convert the old storage barn by the coastal path into a cafe. He decided to name it after me, so I’m determined to make it a success – come hell or high water.
And on that note … Outside the front door, the drumming of the rain and the howls of the wind almost drown out Mitch’s woofs. He dashes outside and scampers through the puddles while I linger in the doorway watching raindrops bounce off the cobbles of the yard. But it’s not the downpour that’s stopping me from taking that step outside; it’s the realisation that today’s the day that Kilhallon – and Cal and I – take our leap into the unknown.
I step into an old pair of Hunters that used to belong to Cal’s cousin Robyn. I’m wearing her old coat too: everyone mucks in and shares what they have here. I’ve become part of the Kilhallon tribe since Cal invited me to work for him, even though my own family have become lost to me. I’ve also made some good friends who’ve stuck with me through thick and thin. One of them – Cal – is more than a friend, but we’ll see where that leads.
Mitch dances round my wellies and barks joyfully, as if to say: ‘Come on, what are we waiting for?’
After the tough times we’ve overcome, and the challenges that await us, there’s no going back now. I let out a deep breath and step into the deluge. If you want to see a rainbow, as my Nana Demelza would have said, you have to put up with the rain …
CHAPTER ONE
‘Hello there! Welcome to Kilhallon Park. How was your journey?’
The man scowls from beneath the hood of his jacket and tosses his car keys on the shiny new reception desk at the front of Kilhallon House. He can’t be more than thirty and his face would be handsome if his expression wasn’t even more thundery than the weather. ‘Does it ever stop raining down here?’ he grumbles. ‘It’s been pouring all the way from London and I’ve had a nightmare of a journey.’
‘I’m sorry about that, sir, it must have been awful, but I’m so glad you’re here now and the forecast did show the weather brightening up later this afternoon. We should have a much drier day tomorrow. Would you mind filling in this card with your car registration while I collect your keys and welcome pack so I can show you to your cottage?’ With a smile, I hand him a pen.
He pushes his hood off his face. His dark blond fringe is stuck to his forehead and a raindrop trickles down his nose as he takes the pen and frowns at the card. Meanwhile, I collect his cottage keys and welcome pack from the drawer below the reception desk, hoping that the rain will stop. Instead, a rumble of thunder shakes Kilhallon House and our guest glances around him as if we’re about to be zapped by aliens.
He pushes the card towards me. His writing looks like a drunken spider has been doing the salsa with the felt tip, but I’m not going to ask him to redo it. ‘Your website said there’s a cafe on site. I’d like some lunch. Can you show me the way?’ His voice is tight and the news I’m about to deliver isn’t going to help his mood one bit.
‘I’m afraid the cafe doesn’t open until the day after tomorrow … Mr Bracken.’
‘It’s not Bracken. It’s Bannen. Kit Bannen,’ he adds, stressing each word as if I’m a toddler. Mind you, I don’t blame him, our first guest and I’ve got his name wrong. I should have spent more time preparing, instead of baking.
‘What’s that about the cafe being closed?’ he goes on. ‘The on-site cafe is one of the reasons I chose this place and I’ve held off from having lunch. It looked great on your website and I didn’t dare stop once I finally got moving after all the hold-ups. I’d hoped to grab a late lunch as soon as I arrived.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Bannen, but we’ll be open for coffee on Thursday morning. The website and information we sent you does say our opening days are Thursday to Sunday in the autumn and winter.’
‘That’s no good to me, is it?’
‘I appreciate that, sir, but it’s only two days away … less than that, technically speaking,’ I say, aware that the hours are ticking by fast.
Mr Bannen cuts across me. ‘Is there a pub or a restaurant close by?’
‘The pub’s just over a mile away at the crossroads. You’ll probably have to drive.’ Oh dear, this is not going well. I can understand that he’s tired and grouchy, but there’s no need to be rude.
‘Great. I’ve just spent seven hours crawling down here in the car from London and now I have to get straight back in it.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Bannen, but the good news is that there’s a welcome hamper in your cottage, with fresh bread, butter, eggs and cheese and some milk and a bottle of wine. They’re basic but high-quality supplies and enough to rustle up a sandwich or an omelette.’
He glares at me, then frowns. ‘Did you say there was wine?’
‘Yes, a bottle of red from a local vineyard, though I can swap it for a white if you’d prefer. I do have a chilled bottle in the fridge here. There are tea- and coffee-making facilities ready in your cottage, of course, and some Cornish apple juice in your own fridge, if it’s too early for wine …’
‘It isn’t too early for wine!’
I half expect the reception desk to shake.
He sighs and flashes me an apologetic smile. ‘Look, I’m not always this grouchy but I’ve had a fraught time at work and the journey from London was even more crap than I’d expected and it’s pouring down and I’m starving.’
‘I understand, Mr Bannen, and I’m sorry the cafe’s not open yet, but if you like I could sell you some of the spinach and ricotta quiche I made this morning to add to the supplies in your luxury, free welcome pack?’
‘Quiche, you say?’
I smile. ‘Uh huh. Homemade here at Kilhallon.’
‘Hmm. Well, thanks, I may just do as you say and stay in. I do need a break.’
‘Good idea. Now, if you want to follow me in your car, your cottage is only a few hundred yards up the lane to the left of the main farmhouse. I’ll get your keys and show you around Enys Cottage. Would you like some mince pies with your quiche, by the way?’
He frowns. ‘Mince pies? But we’re barely into October.’
‘Yes, um, I’ve been practising some recipes for when the cafe opens.’
‘Practising?’
‘Trialling,’ I correct myself, because he seems worried again. ‘I’ve created a new boozy mincemeat recipe actually, and I’ve been trying out different toppings for the pies. I’ve made glazed stars and cinnamon and orange crunchy crumble tops … the crumble ones are particularly delicious, and I was just about to make some Viennese topped ones when you rang the reception bell …’ I clam up, realising that I’ve been babbling because I’m nervous and rattled by our first guest not being in the holiday mood that I’d expected.
Mr Bannen peers at me like I’m mad and then wrinkles his nose, sniffs the air and unexpectedly, breaks into a smile that transforms his face from grumpy pants to golden surf boy.
‘I thought I could smell something good. You know, I think a mince pie and wine is just what I need after the time I’ve had at work.’
‘What do you do?’ I ask, relieved he’s simmering down.
‘Oh, this and that. Boring admin-type stuff, mostly.’
So, he doesn’t want to tell me. Well, that’s fine. ‘If you’d like to wait here for a moment, I’ll get the food and my coat and you can follow me in your car up to Enys Cottage.’
He humphs in reply, but it’s the quiet humph of a man who’s calming down and feeling a bit guilty for ranting at me. At least, I think it’s that – as he’s our first guest, I have a lot to learn.
I grab my wax jacket from the peg in the hallway that separates the reception area from Kilhallon House, the old farmhouse that forms the heart of the Cornish holiday complex where I work. Then I find the quiche in the fridge and pop it into a square, cardboard cake box – luckily I have some in, ready for the cafe opening. I transfer four mince pies of different types from their tin to another box and carry them into reception.
Mr Bannen is nowhere to be seen.
Oh dear. I hope he hasn’t decided to do a runner after all.
After zipping up my jacket and collecting the keys to the Land Rover, I carry the boxes outside. Mr Bannen is standing at the far side of the gravelled car park by the fence, looking out over the fields that, next spring, will become our camp site. For now, we only have four yurts situated in the little copse just out of view of the car park.
Mr Bannen has his hands spread wide, gripping the wooden rail, and I could be wrong, but think he’s taking some deep breaths of Cornish sea air. It’s still raining, but not as hard, as I stow the quiche and mince pies on the passenger seat. Mr Bannen shows no signs of returning to his car, a large silver BMW that seems too big for one man, but is probably just right for a stressed-out angry person. I haven’t asked, though I have wondered, where his family or friends are.
I pull up my own hood and wait by the Land Rover.
The rain is definitely easing as Mr Bannen finally turns away from the view and trudges back towards me. He seems sad now rather than furious.
‘Sorry,’ he says, reaching me. ‘I needed a bit of fresh air.’
‘I don’t blame you. Are you ready to follow me to your cottage now?’
He nods. He pushes his hood off again. The edges of his dark blond hair are soaked but I can tell his hair brushes his neck. He also has a thin gold loop earring through one lobe, like the fishermen in St Trenyan. He doesn’t look like he does boring admin-type stuff; I’d have said he was the creative type, more advertising or graphic design or something. He’s probably here for the surfing, though there’s no board on the roof rack of the car.
He turns back towards the sea and I follow his gaze. Our soon-to-be camping field slopes very gently down to the boundary of the park. It’s separated by a low hedge from the coastal footpath that skirts our land. A few yards beyond the path, the jagged cliffs plunge down to the Atlantic. He turns to me again, his voice gentler. ‘I’m sorry. You must have lots to do and I shouldn’t have kept you waiting, but the view drew me. I stare at four walls for most of my working life and this is pretty special, even in the rain.’
‘We like to think so,’ I say, delighted that we finally have a visitor and fascinated by the change in him since he saw the Cornish scenery in its full glory.
Mr Bannen shades his eyes and points upwards. ‘Bloody hell, am I imagining things or is that a patch of blue sky over there?’
I follow his outstretched arm and smile to myself. There’s still a hint of rain in the air, and the breeze is bending the branches of the oak trees in the field, but a sliver of blue has opened up between the billowing grey clouds over the sea.
‘It looks like the weather front is blowing in sooner than was forecast. Things can change very quickly at Kilhallon,’ I say, seeing the place through fresh eyes. The same way I saw it the day I first arrived here at Easter, only this time, it’s with pride and not the shock I felt when I saw the rundown mess it was in then.
‘Wow,’ he says, still shading his eyes as a shaft of sunlight breaks out and the chasm of blue widens. I push my own hood off my head and jingle my keys discreetly. I’d love to stand and appreciate the beauty of Kilhallon but I was in the middle of baking when Mr Bannen arrived. It’s just dawned on me how much I still have to do to get the other cottages, not to mention Demelza’s Cafe, ready for our other visitors.
‘Mr Bannen? Would you like to follow me through the gate to the left and to your cottage?’ I ask, noting the puddles that have formed in the car park and thinking of the guests who’ll be staying under canvas, albeit luxurious canvas, in our new yurts. I saw Cal earlier this morning, heading out in the deluge to check they hadn’t leaked.
Mr Bannen takes the hint and pulls his own keys from the pocket of his Berghaus. ‘Thanks … and please, it’s Kit… Well, Christopher, actually but everyone calls me Kit.’ He takes another lingering look at the view before he climbs into his silver BMW. ‘You know, even in the lashing rain with a howling gale and no licensed premises within spitting distance, I can see why you’d want to escape here.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘All I want for Christmas … is youuuuuu!’
Humming along to Mariah Carey, I do a little jig in front of the Aga in Kilhallon House, waiting for the kitchen timer to ping. A few more minutes should just about do it.
I came straight back to my baking after I’d shown Mr Bannen – sorry, Kit – the basics of Enys Cottage. Enys is our cosiest cottage, perfect for two or, in his case, one – so my first guest tour didn’t take too long. I left him not exactly smiling, but opening a bottle of wine and about to tuck in to the quiche. I’m glad that my boss, Cal, and Polly his PA will be taking over management of the park after Thursday, leaving me to concentrate on my main passion, the cafe and its food, of course.
Cal texted me while I showed Kit to his cottage. He was about to greet a group from Surrey who have rented some of our glamping yurts. If Kit’s journey was anything to go by, they’ll be tired and frazzled too. The field is thick with mud after the storm so I don’t envy him having to meet them, although hopefully this sunshine will lift their mood, not to mention the welcome hamper of treats that awaits them in their yurts.
Once all my mince pies are cooked and cooled, I need to set up some shots that I can upload to my Demelza’s blog and use on social media to promote the seasonal menus. The more bookings we can get for lunches and events, the better. I need to repay Cal’s faith in me, not to mention his investment in my cafe. It was my idea, after all.
A peek outside the kitchen door confirms to me that the weather is definitely warming up again, and there is now more blue in the sky than clouds. A late burst of sunshine is just what we need to attract customers to Demelza’s Cafe; I hope it lasts for our opening day on Thursday, and over the weekend. We might get some last-minute bookings for Cal’s cottages and yurts too.
And after the tough time we’ve both had lately, we’re surely due a run of good luck now, right?
‘All I want for Christmas is youoooooo!’
As Mariah hits an impossibly high note, the kitchen timer finally pings. The moment I open the Aga door, a wave of heat blasts my face, instantly followed by the overwhelming aroma of spices and dried fruit. The pies are a perfect shade of light golden brown, the honeyed blond of a surf dude’s tint. The Viennese biscuit topping was a little time-consuming, if I’m honest, so I’m not sure if I’ll add that to the cafe menu, but they look very pretty and smell gorgeous, so we’ll see. Carefully, because the oven mitts in the kitchen of Kilhallon House have seen some action lately and need replacing, I extricate the pies from the oven, knowing I’m about seven seconds from scorched fingers.
I straighten up, clutching the tray in one hand, while closing the door with the other.
‘Phew, it’s roasting in here.’
A familiar voice behind me makes my pies wobble alarmingly. Just in time, I save them from sliding onto the quarry-tiled floor where my dog, Mitch, looks on hopefully from his bed by the back door.
If I thought Kit was wet, Cal looks like Mitch after he’s had a dip in the sea. Water drips from his coat.
‘How was he, then, this Mr Bannen?’ he asks, peeling off his waxed jacket.
‘Oh, you mean Kit?’
Cal raises an eyebrow. ‘First name terms, already, eh? And Kit? Sounds like a dog’s name … or a hamster’s.’
‘I promise you there’s nothing cute and furry about Mr Bannen, and the Kit is short for Christopher. He was stressed out, tired and pissed off about the cafe not being open, but he seemed happy enough when I showed him into Enys Cottage and gave him some free mince pies.’
‘Funny that he’s on his own for two whole weeks.’ Cal holds up his jacket with a grimace. The rain has seeped down his collar to his T-shirt, leaving a large damp patch over the chest. The grey cotton is plastered across his broad shoulders and pecs, and his nipples are like tight little currants. A taut-yet-melty feeling stirs low in my stomach.
Did I say Cal was my boss and more than a friend? That might have only been part of the truth …
‘What’s up?’ he asks.
The second batch of pies will definitely be burned if I let on to him how turned on I am. ‘Nothing. Just thinking how wet you are, that’s all.’
He glares at me, but even his glares are sexy. ‘It’s not funny.’
‘I think you looking like a drowned rat – or hamster – is very funny.’
With another stern look that turns me into a puddle, he bends down to take off his Hunters. ‘Any more cheek, Ms Jones, and I may have to sack you.’
The mention of cheek makes me think of his gorgeous bottom, not to mention the warmth of his hand on mine. His arse is thrust into the air as he pulls off his wellies, grunting with the effort. I scoop up his jacket from the tiles and add it to the others hanging in the vestibule that separates the reception area from the main Kilhallon House. Cal pops his mud-spattered Hunters in the drip tray by the kitchen door.
‘I wonder if there’s a Mrs Bannen somewhere,’ he says.
‘He didn’t mention one.’
‘No girlfriend or boyfriend? Both?’ His espresso-coloured eyes hold a hint of mischief.
‘He did say “everyone calls me Kit” so he must have some friends and family. He definitely didn’t want to talk about his work though, so I think he’s had a stressful time in London.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Cal says, standing on the tiles in his woolly hiking socks with a grimace on his tanned face. Even the sight of those rugged socks are turning me on which must mean I’ve got it very bad. At least he doesn’t know quite how bad. Cal and I have been rubbing along in this relationship for the past few weeks. It’s as rocky and twisty-turny as the coastal path, and as uncertain as the weather in our part of the county. One day there are storms between us, the next clear blue skies – and sometimes four seasons in one day. There’s no formal arrangement between us and I have no intention of moving into Kilhallon House itself, but while Polly is away, we sneak nights together in his bed.
You see, Cal may be more than a boss but he’s also not entirely mine. Not that he’s actually sleeping with anyone else, but only part of him belongs to me. His socks, perhaps … if I’m lucky. You see, I still suspect his heart lies with his ex, even though he said that I’d made a mark on him and he begged me to stay just a few weeks ago.
My stomach clenches at the reminder of how new and fragile our relationship is. I remind myself not to start getting any stupid ideas about Cal that involve hearts and flowers, let alone love and marriage.
‘How were the group who’ve rented the yurts?’ I ask him, refocusing on the business at hand, not his sexy socks or his top-notch arse. ‘I was wondering how you’d got on with them. How horrible for them that they travelled here in this crap weather.’
‘They weren’t quite as easily pacified as your mate “Kit”. In fact, judging by their faces and the fact the kids were crying and begging Mummy to take them “to a proper house with real walls”, I’m not sure they’re entirely happy. I’ve had to leave them to settle in, and at least the weather’s improving, they should cheer up soon.’
He lifts up his foot. ‘Damn it, my socks are soaked. I think my boxers might be wet too.’
The heat from the Aga curls around us and steam rises from Cal’s damp T-shirt.
I can’t hide my giggle. ‘You look like Mitch after he’s jumped in a rock pool. You’d better get changed while I make a hot coffee, then you can tell me all about the yurt people.’
‘And you can tell me more about your mate Kit.’
‘He’s not my mate.’
I can’t see Cal’s face as he heads out of the kitchen but I can picture that self-satisfied grin of pleasure at winding me up. At least he cares that Kit might have chatted me up, even if all Kit was really interested in was getting some alcohol and calories down his neck as fast as possible.
Ten minutes later, the tinny intro to ‘Last Christmas’ tinkles through the kitchen. Cal leans against the door frame, drying his hair on a towel. Thank goodness he decided to put a T-shirt on. He frowns. ‘What are you doing? And why the crappy music?’
‘The crappy music you’re referring to, though that’s open to debate, is my Christmas cafe mix and I’m getting into the festive spirit.’
His gaze travels slowly and deliberately from my toes, past my skinny jeans and Kilhallon Park T-shirt to my face.
‘In an elf apron and a Santa hat?’
I plant my hands on my hips. ‘Are you complaining?’
‘Not at all,’ he says, with the lop-sided smile that never ceases to make my insides tingle. His voice is as rich and delicious as the spices in my mincemeat, though I’d rather die than tell him either of those things, of course.
‘You can give me a hand with these,’ I say, nodding to the cooling rack on top of the Aga and handing him a tray from the oven. While Cal transfers the mince pies from the tin to the rack, I rescue the second and final batch from the oven.
‘Is that the last batch?’ Cal asks, dumping the empty pie tins in the Belfast sink.
‘Yes, thanks.’ While I untie the strings of my apron and hang it on the back of the door that leads into the hallway, I know Cal’s eyes will be fixed on my rear, which is a delicious thought although it makes me self-conscious. By the time I turn back to him, however, he’s holding up a cake net and sniffing the plate of crumble-topped pies that was under it.
‘You’ve been busy. It smells great in here.’
‘I’ve been trying out some recipes for the cafe in between checking in the guests. You know we’re going to do most of our own baking, but we’ll have to buy in some of it from outside. Sheila’s going to provide the pasties and the St Trenyan bakery will help with the bread. There’s a young food blogger near St Just who’s going to help out too, when we’re really busy.’
‘What about this lot? Do I get to try some?’ His hand snakes towards the cooling rack. I bat it away. ‘I’m not complaining, but isn’t it a bit early for mince pies?’
‘That’s what Kit said, but these are for work, not pleasure. I’m going to take some shots for our social media pages. Twitter, Instagram and the blog, you know? Maybe make some promotional memes on Canva and I must upload the pics to Pinterest. Have you forgotten that Demelza’s opens the day after tomorrow? I’ve been trialling some seasonal bakes and we need to get people in the mood for booking festive breaks.’
‘I hear you about the cafe, but Pinterest? Canva memes? I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes, you do. You just pretend you don’t so you don’t have to spend hours on the Internet.’
He sneaks a pie and bites into it. ‘Fu … ow! Thasstillverhot.’ He pants and dances the other half of the stolen pie from one palm to the other. Crumbs scatter onto the tiles.
‘Serves you right. You couldn’t wait, could you?’
He winks. ‘You know me so well.’
Correction, I think, I know him better. Since I started working at Kilhallon at Easter, I’ve come to realise that no one knows Cal well, not even the people who’ve grown up with him in the little Cornish village of St Trenyan. I don’t think his own family know him completely. Which makes me a total novice in the ways of Cal Penwith, apart from the ways in which I now know him intimately, of course.
Cal blows on the other half of the pie and finishes it in a couple of bites while I cover the rest of them with a clean tea towel and switch on the kettle. After baking all morning, and checking in Kit, I’m more than happy to take a break with Cal while I have the chance. Once the cafe is open and our other guests start arriving over the next few days, I doubt if we’ll have a moment to breathe, let alone share a mince pie and coffee.
‘Want a coffee and another sample?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll make the coffee.’
He scrapes his chair back and fills the kettle while I clean up the table. The oak surface is dusted with flour and scraps of pastry plus the debris of my baking: a beige pastry bowl, old-fashioned scales, a floury wooden rolling pin and old-fashioned pastry cutters in the shape of stars and hearts. I rescued them all from various corners of the farmhouse kitchen and outbuildings when we cleared out decades of junk while we were refurbishing Kilhallon Park over the summer. Cal’s family hadn’t thrown anything away for fifty years, judging by the junk that was piled high in the old barn and workshop and offices.
I hand Cal a flowery china plate with a crumble-topped tart on it. It just happens to have a heart-shaped crust.
He pushes away the Kilner jar of mincemeat to make room for the plate. ‘My, this is posh.’
‘It was one of your mum’s, I think. I found the service in the back of the dresser in the sitting room.’
‘Yes, I remember it … it was a wedding present from Uncle Rory and Auntie Fiona, but Mum never wanted to use it. I think it’s called Old Country Roses. Dad put it away after she died. He said it might get broken, but I think the real reason was because he couldn’t bear to be reminded of her.’ Cal brushes his finger over the gold rim. ‘Probably felt guilty,’ he adds.
Cal’s father died a couple of years ago, and his mum passed away when he was still a teenager. His parents’ marriage was a troubled one. His father worshipped his mum but still had a string of affairs. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Cal’s own love life has been stormy too. As for losing our mothers when we were young – we have that in common. Mine lost her battle with cancer when I was a teenager and I haven’t seen my dad and brother for ages, but that’s by choice. I ran away from home when I was eighteen. Some people might say that’s why we’re drawn to each other, Cal and I: we share a bond; troubled childhoods, less than ideal family lives.
He pulls me into his arms for a long, warm snog that makes me tingle from head to toe. Phew, it’s not only the Aga that’s making it so hot in here.
‘The pies pass the test then?’ I say when I can finally breathe again. ‘The mincemeat is homemade from my Nana Demelza’s recipe, but I added a local fruit cider for a Cornish twist.’
He licks his lips. ‘Mmm. Cider mincemeat. Nice. They’re delicious, but I may have a burnt tongue.’
I roll my eyes. ‘As if I care.’
‘You know you do.’ With another wicked smile, Cal kisses me again. Tiny flakes of pastry cling to his lips. His mouth is still warm from the pie and tastes sweet and buttery. If I don’t push him away now, we might end up in bed in the middle of the day and I have way too much to do.
With the greatest reluctance, I end the kiss, but Cal keeps his hands around my waist and they feel as if they belong there – have always belonged there – which is a dangerous thought. Cal belongs to no woman or man.
‘Cal, I have so much to do. As well as the cafe stuff, the other guests will be here on Friday afternoon and the other two cottages still aren’t ready. With Polly away, we need to dress the beds and finish hanging the curtains in the bedroom of Warleggan and I still need to do extra shopping for the welcome hamper.’
‘I’ll help you with the curtains and Polly will be back from her daughter’s tomorrow to lend us a hand. So now you have no excuse not to get naked with me.’
‘Naked? What if one of the guests turns up in reception and finds us in bed in the middle of the afternoon?’ I say, picturing Kit Bannen dinging the bell and being answered by creaking floorboards and a When Harry Met Sally re-enactment.
Cal waggles his eyebrows. ‘Who mentioned bed? I was thinking of taking you in the kitchen.’
‘You can’t!’ But even the mention of bed and taking me in the kitchen is driving me insane. My body zings with a peppery lust that’s both sharp and delicious. He blows softly in the v-neck of my T-shirt, cooling the hot skin of my cleavage, but heating up every other part of me.
‘I have to face the yurt family as soon as we’re finished. Come on, this may be our last chance for a while …’ Cal says.
Now, this, I cannot deny.
‘Not for long, then …’
He runs his palm over my bare thigh. ‘Oh, don’t worry, the way you’re making me feel, it won’t take long … but would you mind very much if we do it without the Santa hat?’
CHAPTER THREE
On Wednesday morning I skip down the farmhouse stairs after taking a shower in the bathroom of Kilhallon House. Polly arrives later today so I stayed over at the farmhouse last night while I had the chance. Cal lives in the main house, but, of course, I have my own little cottage across the yard. It’s tiny and the décor’s straight from the seventies: a crazy mix of clashing florals, but I love having my independence.
My place is one of a row of old farm buildings that was converted for the staff that used to work at the original caravan site in the seventies. We’re converting two of the others into low-cost guest accommodation because Cal wanted to offer something at Kilhallon to suit all budgets, not only catering for people with more cash to spend on their holidays. For those who can afford luxury, there are also four larger ‘premium’ cottages on the estate that have been renovated over the summer ready for our first guests – one of which is occupied by Kit.
When I walk into the kitchen, Cal is scrolling through his phone. His hair is still damp from the shower and he’s pulled on a crumpled but clean blue long-sleeved T-shirt and cargo pants. Bare footed, he pads over the tiles and pours a glass of water from the tap. Mitch wanders into the kitchen from the yard too and also heads straight for his water bowl, slurping noisily and splashing droplets over the tiles.
The morning sun streams in through the open door. It’s warmer in here than yesterday, or perhaps I’m glowing after my night-time ‘exercise’. Cal puts down his glass of water and kisses me. The scent of his woody body spray fills my senses, but Cal pulls a regretful face. ‘Sorry I have to leave you, but I need to go down to the yurt field to make sure our guests haven’t decided to leave after the overnight showers. How about dinner here at the house tonight? There’s a nice bottle of Cornish fizz in the fridge.’
‘That’s a free sample from the vineyard that I was going to put in one of the welcome hampers for the guests. Sorry, but I’ll be way too busy to stop for dinner. The cafe’s opening tomorrow and there’s still stuff to do.’
‘What stuff?’
‘I need to clean the floor because the tiler only finished yesterday and it’s still dusty. Then there’s the blackboard to chalk up with the specials because I won’t have time tomorrow, and there’s still a drinks delivery to put away and I need to email everyone to make sure they’re still going to turn up and that no one’s had cold feet about working for us.’
Cal opens his mouth. ‘Why would—’
‘And the courier dropped off the new cafe uniforms here yesterday and they all need ironing. And I still haven’t written a blog post about opening day or scheduled my tweets and I’ll have to upload some photos to Instagram and I need to email the ad department at Cornish Lifestyle to say we do want to be in their pre-Christmas dining feature because the copy deadline was last night and I’m already late.’
Cal holds up both hands. ‘Whoa.’
‘So I can’t have dinner with you this evening no matter how much I’d love to.’
He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘I’ve worked that much out for myself. Tell you what, why don’t we take a picnic down to the cafe and I’ll help you get ready.’
‘You’ll write the ad copy and upload my photos?’
‘No, but I’ll clean the floor, put away the drinks order and iron the aprons.’
‘You do ironing?’
He tuts. ‘That’s sexist, Ms Jones. I can iron. I did work in a warzone for several years, you know.’
‘Yes, but I don’t expect there was much call for ironing in the desert, was there?’
He smiles. ‘Not often, no. Either way, we’re in this together. I’ll deal with the yurt people and clean the washroom block.’
I pull a face, glad this isn’t my job.
‘And then I’ll meet you at the cafe.’
By late afternoon, the sun is sinking and the horizon is tinged with orange and pink. The lights are on in Demelza’s, highlighting the sparkling clean floor as Cal hangs the last of the freshly pressed Demelza’s aprons on a peg in the staff room.
All our perishables and groceries are stored in the correct places and the new steel kitchen gleams so brightly you can see your face in the surfaces. I’ve double checked the fresh and chilled stores and chalked up the specials on the blackboard. In the end, Cal helped me write some copy for an ad and he’s now sending a ‘friendly’ mass text to make sure the staff are OK and ready for tomorrow.
Throughout the day, I’ve been working on my blog and scheduling some posts for social media. I suspect that it’s going to take all my ‘days off’ when the cafe is closed to get through the admin and marketing.
Cal scrolls through his phone where he keeps an app to keep track of the park bookings. ‘Great. We’ve just had an Internet booking for Poldark Cottage and had an enquiry about two of the yurts from a family who want to celebrate a fortieth birthday party here next weekend. I’ll have to tell the large party that they can have the yurts at the far end of the copse, away from the other two. We don’t want complaints when we’ve promised people peace and tranquillity, but we don’t want to lose a big booking like this.’
‘Oh. If it’s a party, they might want catering provided too.’
‘I’m sure they will, but don’t take too much on yet. You’ve got enough to do with the cafe opening tomorrow. I don’t want the cafe manager having a meltdown in the middle of us launching the empire, do I?’
‘You’re all heart,’ I say, but I know he means it and I must admit, I’ve been feeling knackered lately, even though I’m ‘living the dream’ right now. I’ve come so far from the day I lost my job and my home and ended up sleeping in the doorway of a fish and chip shop in St Trenyan.
Mitch woofs a hello from the corner. He seems totally at home in the cafe, which is great. Canine comfort is one of our USPs. Demelza’s is even going to have a special doggy treats menu for all the four-legged guests who will stay at the park and take their owners on a walk along the coastal path that runs past the cafe.
Cal crouches down to stroke Mitch’s ears. Mitch turns his head this way and that, closing his eyes in pleasure at Cal’s touch. Did I say Mitch was my dog? Even though he’s faithful to me and has stuck with me through a tough couple of years, he’s rapidly becoming our dog: mine and Cal’s dog, even Polly’s dog at times, though she pretends she doesn’t like animals at all, apart from her hens. I caught her sneaking him a treat from the jar when she thought I wasn’t looking, and she let him sit next to her on the sofa while she was watching Countryfile on iPlayer the night before she went to visit her daughter.
Mitch and I, we’ve become as much a part of Kilhallon as the stone house, or the holiday cottages or the cafe.
‘How are the opening-day plans going? Is there anything else I can do to help?’ Cal says.
‘I’m sure there’ll be tons tomorrow. We’ll be chasing our own tails,’ I reply, and Mitch wags his as if he can understand me. ‘I’ve tried to think of everything but there are bound to be hitches and teething problems until we’ve actually served some real customers.’
‘Let’s hope the weather keeps improving so we have lots of people out on the coastal path. The walking festival run by the tourist board should help,’ Cal says.
‘I hope that dog-friendly cafe-trail website and leaflet I signed up to pays off. It’s hard knowing what marketing is worth spending my precious budget on. I’m bombarded with sales people and emails wanting me to part with cash all the time. I guess we’re going to make mistakes along the way. Although I’ve worked in a few cafes now and done so much research and talked to other owners, I still have so much to learn.’
‘Will Eva Spero be coming?’ Cal pops the leftover crust of a cheese and bacon pasty in his mouth. We ate them cold with pickles and salad, washed down with cider.
‘I don’t know. She’s still a bit miffed with me for turning down her job offer, although she said we can work together on the homemade dog treats book and possibly launch them into the market. I’ve had to put it on hold for now, until I’ve got Demelza’s up and running.’ I shrug off a pang of regret about turning down Eva Spero’s offer of a job at her restaurant in Brighton. It was my decision, even though Cal also wanted me to stay here at Kilhallon and run Demelza’s. Then, of course, there’s the small matter of my being in love with him …
Cal pulls me into his arms and for a few moments I enjoy the warmth and comfort of his gorgeous body against mine. I can’t believe how far I’ve come. The project I’ve started overwhelms me sometimes and I have the urge to run away instead of facing down the great big wave that’s rushing towards me, faster and faster.
‘I’d better get some work done,’ I say, escaping his embrace before I’m lost again. ‘Then I really do need an early night.’
He folds his arms, a gesture that only shows off his magnificent guns, honed by all the outdoor work and labour he’s put in on the renovation of the park since he returned from working in a refugee camp in the Middle East. ‘Of course,’ he says with the kind of serious face that’s even sexier than his smile. Despite all my resolve, I know an early night will mean going to bed with him.
Cal scratches Mitch’s belly. ‘If the cottages let, they let, and if they don’t, then we mustn’t panic. Same with the customers for the cafe. It’s going to take time to build up our custom and reputation … and it might be better not to have full occupancy to start with while we learn the ropes.’
I turn away to find the keys, ready to lock up.
‘By the way, I meant to tell you, Isla called me earlier,’ he says.
At the mention of this name, my stomach tightens. ‘Did she?’
‘She’s coming down here from London in a couple of weeks’ time.’
Mitch snickers and yips like Scooby Doo on Red Bull as Cal fusses him. My stomach ties itself in even tighter knots. I knew it had to come sometime. I knew that she’d be back, but I haven’t heard Cal talk about his ex-girlfriend and childhood sweetheart since she left Cornwall a few weeks ago. Even though Isla has been kind to me in the past, part of me hoped she might not come back at all.
I keep my voice casual. ‘Does she still want to use Kilhallon for the film shoot?’
Cal glances up at me. Is that relief on his face that I haven’t reacted to his news, or have I imagined it?
‘Yes. She wants to use the ruined tin mine as a backdrop, and possibly the exterior of the cafe for the filming. Isla says that the far, gabled end could still double up as a farm barn for some of the scenes. She said that Bonnie and Clyde will also want to come and visit to discuss their hand-fasting arrangements at some point.’
These are codenames we’re all using for the very famous and very actor friends of Isla’s. Did I mention she’s a film producer? A stunning, blonde, award-winning film producer with some seriously A-list mates. Two of her friends plan on holding their wedding celebrations at Kilhallon next year, although the engagement is secret for now.
‘Why did Polly call them Bonnie and Clyde – who are Bonnie and Clyde?’ I ask Cal.
‘They were gangster lovers so I think the nicknames are Polly’s little joke. I don’t think she approves of hand fasting. What the hell is a hand fasting, anyway? Sounds like a cross between a DIY skill and an obscene practice. If it is rude, even I’ve never heard of it.’
Cal succeeds in making me laugh out loud even though the thought of catering for a celebrity wedding makes me nervous.
‘So you’re cool with Isla and her crew descending?’ Cal adds, laughing as Mitch moans in delight under his expert belly rubs. How, I ask myself, did my faithful hound turn into such a tart?
‘Sounds great,’ I say, trying to make myself feel as enthusiastic as I sound. The publicity that would come from a film being made here is exactly what we need for the resort and my cafe. In fact it’s priceless and I should be welcoming Isla and her crew with open arms. ‘We should have any teething problems ironed out by the time they get here.’
Cal gives Mitch’s tum a final tickle then straightens up. ‘Isla said she didn’t want to disrupt business any more than was strictly necessary. She asked me if you’d email her or call to arrange the best time for her visit. It’s better if you two liaise together rather than me passing on messages. I’d probably get it wrong anyway and then I’d be in trouble with both of you.’
‘True. Who knows what havoc you’d create if we left the arrangements to you.’ My smile makes my jaw ache, along with my heart and conscience, but I can see that Cal’s pleasure at my apparent approval is genuine. Even though Isla has made it clear she’s no longer interested in Cal beyond ‘friendship’, I’m not convinced. Cal has been honest enough to admit he couldn’t simply ‘unlove’ Isla.
And if I’m honest, I never expected him to.
He knows I really like him and the sex is amazing, but does he have any inkling that I’m crazy in love with him? I don’t think it would be a great idea for him to find out.
‘Demi?’ Cal touches my arm. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine. It’s been a long day and there’s an even bigger one coming tomorrow.’
I’m already thinking of throwing caution to the wind and dragging him off to bed when Cal says, ‘Are you really too tired for some therapy?’
‘Perhaps you’re right. It might do me good.’
His face lights up and we lock up the cafe, and Mitch scampers ahead on our way back to the house. He doesn’t have a care in the world and I envy him his simple doggy life sometimes.
I don’t want to be part of a love triangle, because someone always gets the sharp end. Isla and her fiancé, Luke – who was Cal’s best mate years ago – have moved to London from Cornwall, to ‘make a fresh start’. Apparently, Isla suspected that Luke was having an affair with a local ‘property developer’ called Mawgan Cade. I wouldn’t put anything past Mawgan, but I can’t see why Luke would jeopardise his relationship with Isla for a woman like Mawgan. But what do I know? Mawgan is manipulative and would sell her granny if it achieved her aims. Plus, Luke’s a weak and selfish character if you ask me; and Isla deserves better. As long as ‘better’ doesn’t turn out to be Cal again.
He hugs me and his chest is warm and firm against my body. If I let my guard down too far, I could easily start thinking how wonderful it would be to spend the rest of my life at Kilhallon with Cal. It’s an idyllic place that sucks you in, just like Cal draws people to him. Just like the wreckers who used to shine their lights to lure people onto the rocks in storms. Except that was a myth. I need to get real and, reluctantly, I slide out of his embrace.
‘Do you think we can cope?’ I say.
‘Of course I think we can cope. We’ve come a long way – both of us – and everything will be OK. Wasn’t that what you were always telling me when we started work on the place? When we were refused planning permission and the appeal failed because of the Cades’ opposition? When I ripped my hands open demolishing the walls? When the tree fell through the farmhouse window? When you almost walked out on me to work for Eva Spero in Brighton?’
‘Maybe I should have,’ I joke, thinking of how close I came to quitting and heading off to Brighton before the place had even opened. ‘This is a massive thing for me, Cal. It’s very exciting, but I’m also terrified.’
He slides his hand under my hair, lifting it from my neck, caressing my skin. His palm is rough from the work he’s been doing, yet the effect is like being stroked with warm velvet.
‘Shh,’ he says in that gentle, half-amused voice that turns me on and irritates me at the same time. ‘It’s OK to be nervous, but the important thing is that you stick with me. That’s what we’re going to carry on doing: sticking together.
Even as I close my eyes and abandon myself to his touch and soothing words, there’s a part of me holding back. A part that can’t forget the Cal who left a trail of broken hearts when he went away to the Middle East. The teenage Cal breezing his way through the girls of St Trenyan: Isla, even Mawgan Cade. Even his father was sleeping with half the women from here to Truro, if you believe the rumours. My friend Tamsin warned me about him and even Mawgan said he’d break my heart. She may be right about that one.
‘I promise you Kilhallon will succeed and Demelza’s will be open for business as scheduled, and nothing’s going to stop us.’ Cal pours soothing words into my ear. ‘Now come to bed before I explode.’
Me too, I think. Mitch settles down in his bed in the farmhouse kitchen. Cal takes my hand and leads me, trembling, up to his room again. He’s right, of course, I mustn’t expect too much of the business; but even more importantly, I mustn’t expect anything at all from him.
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