A Perfect Cornish Escape

by Phillipa Ashley

  The sun was warm on her bare arms, and reflections sparkled in the harbour. Porthmellow was on its best behaviour. So far. Marina realised that her arrival with Lachlan was bound to have some people jumping to conclusions about the nature of their relationship. She knew that a handful might even be curious about how he came by his injuries and less than tactful in their reactions.

  No one in her group of mates would be that crass, however, and she genuinely enjoyed introducing Lachlan to Sam Lovell and Chloe Farrow from the Food Festival Committee, and to Jude Penberth and Scarlett Latham who shared a cottage on the harbourside. Lachlan already knew Scarlett a little because her older sister, Ellie, was Aaron Carman’s partner.

  ‘How’s Ellie?’ Marina asked Scarlett, noting her absence.

  ‘She’s fine. She’s nearly four months gone now but she’s feeling knackered tonight so she and Aaron decided to stay in.’

  Lachlan chuckled. ‘Aaron’s like a mother hen with Ellie.’

  Scarlett laughed. ‘Ellie does her own thing. She won’t let him wrap her in cotton wool.’

  Marina realised that she envied Ellie. She had always wanted to have a family and after Nate had gone, she’d blanked that desire out, for the sake of self-preservation, she supposed.

  Lachlan was chatting to Jude and found they shared a love of wild swimming and the great outdoors. Gradually, Marina relaxed. The sun began to slip behind the horizon and cast the harbour in shadow. Everyone pulled on jumpers but the twilight was also the cue for Drew and his musicians to start up.

  They played a lively mix of folk and pop, together with the odd Cornish standard, that soon had people singing along, fuelled by plenty of local ale.

  ‘You were right. Drew’s band are pretty good,’ Lachlan whispered to Marina.

  ‘They’re not bad at all,’ Marina said, pleased that he was enjoying the music. She decided it was safe to tease him. ‘But don’t you miss the bagpipes?’

  He snorted. ‘Bagpipes? Oh God, spare me. I can’t stand the things. They give Scotland a bad name, along with tartan trews and tinned shortbread. I never minded a good ceilidh though. We used to have them on the base for the families and I went to my fair share in the town …’ Lachlan stopped. Marina guessed that the thought had awakened memories of his previous life – good and bad.

  While they listened to the music, the table rang with singing and laughter. Lachlan seemed to be fitting in well. Craig stumbled past them and into the Smuggler’s Tavern with a couple of his mates. By the looks of his unsteady walk, he’d already visited some of the other pubs in town beforehand. It wasn’t long before he came outside again, a pint in his hand.

  The band took a break and Craig lumbered over.

  ‘Evenin’, Marina.’ He nodded to the others before staring at Lachlan’s face. He might simply have been trying to focus but Marina stiffened, dreading him saying anything about Lachlan’s scars.

  ‘Lachlan, isn’t it?’ he slurred. ‘You Schottissh, then?’

  ‘Last time I looked,’ said Lachlan.

  ‘Not wearing your kilt, though?’ He snorted. ‘What do you wear under it?’

  Oh no, thought Marina, but Lachlan laughed.

  ‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’ He smiled. ‘I’m joking, pal – I don’t even own a kilt.’

  Craig gave a wobbly salute. ‘No offence, mate.’

  ‘None taken,’ Lachlan said pleasantly.

  He turned to Marina. ‘I see you’re moving on from Nate,’ he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Marina was too shocked to reply but Craig was quickly gone regardless, loudly demanding that one of his mates get the next round in.

  ‘Anyone want another drink?’ she piped up. ‘It’s my turn.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Lachlan.

  Lachlan took the orders and they ducked under the granite lintel of the door and joined the queue at the bar. It was stuffy after the fresh air of the harbour and her eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dimly lit interior.

  ‘I’m sorry. Craig’s an old buddy of Nate’s and he took his death hard,’ Marina said.

  ‘Aye. I can see that …’

  ‘He’s all bluster though,’ she added, glossing over the fact she’d been genuinely rattled by Craig.

  ‘It takes more than that to rile me. I’m tougher than I look,’ he said. ‘Though it’s hard on you to have to put up with that sort of stupid comment.’

  ‘Craig was drunk and he’s an idiot,’ she said, annoyed that Craig had tried to spoil their evening by implying that she ought to be loyal to Nate. ‘Let’s forget it.’

  Marina determined to enjoy the rest of the night, but she was convinced that Lachlan had become quieter since the incident with Craig. By ten, the barbecue had run out of burgers and the band had played their finale. In the twilight, it was also growing cold on the quayside. Marina shivered despite her hoodie and finished her Coke.

  They said their farewells and headed back home. Lachlan had left the pub smiling. Marina felt that he seemed to be more comfortable with Porthmellow life than she’d expected, which gave her hope that he might stick around long enough for her to get to know him much better.

  Perhaps Craig hadn’t got to Lachlan as much as she’d feared.

  They walked side by side along the harbourfront, where the lights of houses and restaurants twinkled in the darkening water. It was a warm evening, and there were plenty of people strolling along the waterfront and sitting outside the two pubs. Laughter and Greek music spilled from the balcony of Gabe Mathias’s restaurant and delicious aromas wafted into the evening air.

  All too soon, they reached her cottage, but he showed no sign of bidding her goodnight. Everywhere was quiet apart from the whisper of the waves on Porthmellow beach, below the cliff.

  ‘Thanks for asking me, tonight. I wasn’t sure whether to come at first but I’m glad I did. I really enjoyed it.’

  ‘They’re a great bunch, though you were lucky enough to get some of the less weird ones tonight … apart from Craig of course.’

  ‘I’ve already forgotten him,’ Lachlan said, which gave her heart. ‘I like your mates, but I’ll confess the pleasure of the evening was largely down to the company I’m with now.’

  A flush rose to her face. She wasn’t used to being complimented in this way, but she liked it. She thought for a moment that maybe he was going to ask her to his house for a coffee, or even lean in for a kiss.

  A moment later, he’d shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘It’s work tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’d better let you get home.’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ She deflated rapidly.

  She left him, cursing herself. She’d read the signals wrong. He had seemed to be moving closer to her – or her to him – but had pulled away at the last moment. They were like kites dancing in the wind, soaring high, almost touching, then diving apart again.

  Perhaps it was simply way too soon after Lachlan’s accident for him to think of anything beyond friendship. But she couldn’t help wondering if Craig’s comments about Nate really did have something to do with Lachlan’s reticence to let her get closer.

  Even if she was ready to move on from the past – and from Nate – some people in Porthmellow never would.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tiff was enjoying an affogato on the terrace of the Net Loft in lieu of her usual Saturday morning cappuccino. The sun blazed down from a blue sky so she was in a sleeveless shift and ballet pumps. On a weekend morning in Porthmellow, there were always plenty of locals around, as well as scores of holidaymakers pottering around the harbour, galleries and cafés. Fishermen were unloading their pots and she recognised some of the townspeople chatting outside the shops. Ellie and Drew were working on the sailing trust trawler; Chloe Farrow was feeding ducks with her granddaughter; Troy was chatting with his old mates on the steps of the Fisherman’s Institute. She almost felt part of the scene, part of Porthmellow … or perhaps it was becoming part of her …

  Sin
ce their spat about Amira and the newspaper the previous week, she’d barely spoken to Dirk, other than the odd ‘hello’ or quick exchange around town. She’d lost sleep over it, torn between annoyance at his prejudice and steamy thoughts about his admission that he longed to take her to bed. She supposed their row had helped her to understand him better, even if she’d left angry at the injustice of his ideas about journalists. That being said, if his only experience of the press was Esther Francois, she could understand why he might well think that all her ilk were ruthless bitches.

  ‘Uh huh,’ she murmured under her breath, laying aside her copy of the Saturday Post. She fanned herself with a menu as Dirk made a beeline for the café. Despite it being a hot June day, he was clearly about to launch his own mini thunderstorm on her if his expression was anything to go by. The magazine in his hand was a bit of a giveaway as to the source of his wrath. She would have bet her new pumps on it being the very latest edition of Cream of Cornish, which had hit the cafés, hotels and gift shops only that morning.

  She coolly sipped her affogato and braced herself as he made for her table. He was possibly the only man who could look brooding in a T-shirt and flip-flops, she thought, and noted that his hair was a wild mess, probably a result of too much angsty raking.

  Without asking, he sat down opposite her and laid the magazine in front of her. ‘I got hold of this,’ he said in a low voice, possibly mindful of the glances of several locals who were on the terrace, or watching from the mobile seafood kiosk opposite. ‘I’d like a word with you.’

  ‘Only one? Wow. Fine – but first would you mind breathing into my cup?’

  His brow furrowed deeply. ‘Breathe into your cup? What do you mean?’

  ‘I’d like you to re-freeze my ice-cream, if you don’t mind,’ she said sweetly. ‘You’re so frosty this morning, I’m sure you’d have no problem.’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re absolutely—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re infuriating.’ There was a tinge of amusement in his tone.

  Tiff sipped her drink. ‘Shouldn’t you be tinkering with a propeller or something?’

  ‘I was tinkering until someone dropped off a pile of these,’ he said, tapping the magazine, ‘at the station. Do you know what the rest of the crew are calling me now? Do you have any idea of what you’ve done?’

  She savoured the creamy coffee before replying. ‘You read my article about the lifeboat experience, then?’

  ‘Yeah, I read it.’

  ‘And?’

  A young waitress arrived. ‘Can I get you anythin’?’ she said, looking utterly bored.

  ‘No … Actually, yes. Espresso, please, Martha,’ Dirk replied.

  ‘That all?’ Martha smirked.

  ‘I’ll have a glass of iced water,’ said Tiff, desperate to cool down. ‘Please.’

  ‘Still or sparklin’?’ said Martha. Tiff had the feeling Martha wasn’t one of her greatest fans.

  ‘Sparkling, please.’

  After Martha had scrawled their order on her notepad and swept off, Tiff turned her attention to Dirk again.

  ‘So, our “matter-of-fact demeanour belies a fierce determination to save lives, no matter what the cost to ourselves”, does it?’ he said, nodding at the article.

  ‘Sorry. Slightly purple prose but, you know …’

  ‘Do you really think that about us?’

  ‘Yes, Dirk, actually I do. Sometimes we do write the truth, you know … my aim was to give my understanding of why a bunch of volunteers would knowingly risk their lives for strangers.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You read it. Different reasons, some more obvious than others. The protect-the-herd mentality, where a small community helps each other, knowing it could be them … some of the crew have lost loved ones, for some it’s simply a generational thing, grandparents in the service in the days when you rowed out in a cork life vest.’

  ‘And me?’ Dirk asked.

  ‘I can’t quite fathom you, but if I had to bet my life on it, I’d say you enjoy a battle, and the more impossible the odds, the more you want to take on the fight.’

  ‘You can’t fight the sea. It’ll always win.’

  ‘Ah, but there are many small victories. Every time you pick someone off a lilo, or the rocks, or tow a yacht back to the harbour?’

  ‘It’s my job,’ he dismissed.

  ‘Yeah. And I was just doing mine,’ she replied, determined to stand her ground. Dirk was so close that she felt the hairs on his bare legs tickle her smooth ones under the table, though she wasn’t sure he’d noticed. One moment she felt as shivery as if she’d dropped ice down her top, the next as steamy as an espresso. Dirk had that effect on her most of the time these days. ‘It was a pretty good piece, though, wasn’t it?’ she teased.

  ‘I’m not going to massage your ego,’ he said.

  ‘Go on, admit it.’

  ‘OK. It was well-written – compelling even – but I can’t handle being paraded like this for people’s entertainment, even if it will boost the coffers. I’m not a hero. None of us want to be portrayed in that way.’

  ‘At least I was nice. I did say you were taciturn rather than bloody rude.’ She spoke gently. ‘I wanted to portray you honestly. After all, you’d surely hate me turning you into a saint?’

  ‘Too right!’ he burst out, then softened his tone too. ‘Look … it’s a good piece. More honest than most, more authentic, but you know I don’t like being in the limelight.’

  ‘It’s too late now. I’m sure the proposals of marriage will come flooding in when they see that photo.’

  He laughed. ‘You scuppered any chance of that by making me out to be a miserable sod.’

  Martha returned with the drinks. Tiff sipped hers but Dirk left his espresso. ‘Aren’t you going to drink that?’ she asked.

  ‘I didn’t really want anything.’

  ‘Why did you order it then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He leaned a little closer, wafting a subtle hint of spicy aftershave in her direction, and triggering a lethal cocktail of hormones that seemed to turn her body to mush. She wondered if heads had turned and tongues were wagging.

  ‘You don’t seem to know what you want, Dirk.’ Her voice had notched up a pitch. She cooled her palms on the glass.

  ‘I do know one thing I want.’

  Before Tiff could reply, the sirens at the lifeboat station went off.

  ‘Oh God. Not now.’ Dirk sighed.

  Seconds later he was already running towards the lifeboat house, leaving Tiff stranded at the café and screaming inside with frustration even as she felt a swell of pride that brought a most unexpected lump to her throat. She’d been in Porthmellow barely two months and she was already turning mushy – about Dirk and the town in general.

  Tiff groaned. She really ought to guard against it. For now, all she could think of was how close she’d come to finding out what Dirk really wanted.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The bank holiday week over, Marina was thrust back into the whirlwind of college life, supporting her students during their exams, offering counselling, and attending meetings about the autumn term. Working with young people, helping them achieve their ambitions, had always made her feel alive and valued.

  She was also busy with her volunteering because, with summer around the corner, demand for the Wave Watchers’ services was greater than ever. People took to the water on any item that floated – and many that didn’t – from luxury yachts to kayaks, surf boards to inflatable flamingos. The cliffs were covered with pink thrift, buzzing with bees and walkers hiking along the coast path that ran between the Lizard and Porthmellow.

  Now that the evenings were lighter, the lookout was staffed from eight until eight. Marina was grateful that Tiff managed to pop in occasionally, although her own job kept her out long hours.

  Lachlan had been back to Scotland for ten days to visit his family, and Marina had missed his presence and even her glimpses of hi
m coming in and out of his cottage. On the bright side, he’d texted her a few times, asking if she’d like to go out for a meal when he returned.

  On the Saturday lunchtime she expected him back in Cornwall, she was on watch with Gareth. It was the warmest day of the year so far, and the windows and doors were flung open to let the air flow through the building. By noon, the cove was a suntrap and peppered with families lazing on the sand, the little ones paddling in the rock pools. A few people were in the sea itself, mostly only wading or splashing around. It was a calm day, but Marina and Gareth still had to be vigilant.

  Everything seemed relatively safe until around two p.m., when Gareth piped up, alarmed: ‘There’s a guy and a teenager in the cove. They seem to be taking a blow-up kayak into the sea.’

  Marina winced, thinking immediately of Nate. ‘A kayak?’ The word always made her chest constrict. ‘Haven’t they read the signs? It says not to use inflatables of any kind.’

  ‘I think most people ignore it,’ Gareth said, dropping his binoculars to speak directly to Marina. ‘The weather report says the wind is already strengthening and there’s quite a swell outside the lee of the cove.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound good. We could do with some lifeguard cover on summer weekends, but the council can’t afford it,’ she replied, musing for a second. ‘I’ll pop down and have a word with the kayakers, if you’ll be OK on your own?’

  Gareth sniffed. ‘Of course I will.’

  She trotted down to the beach, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her bare arms. The sand was dazzling and the sea turquoise. It looked very inviting, with the spray flying into the air when the waves hit the rocks, and she could see why people were tempted to go for a paddle. Strolling over to the man she assumed to be the father, she fixed her best friendly smile in place, silently noting that he and his son were wearing shorty wetsuits and there was no sign of a buoyancy aid or any safety equipment.