The Girl on the Beach

by Morton S. Gray

  ‘Intriguing and, ultimately, satisfying, with a wonderful romantic element.’

  Bestselling Author, Sue Moorcroft

  Copyright © 2017 Morton S. Gray

  Published 2017 by Choc Lit Limited

  Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK

  www.choc-lit.com

  The right of Morton S. Gray to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Barnards Inn, 86 Fetter Lane, London EC4A 1EN

  EPUB: 978-1-78189-314-2

  Dedicated to Mom, Jeremy, James and Daniel with love.

  Contents

  Praise for The Girl on the Beach

  Title page

  Copyright information

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Thank You

  About the Author

  More from Choc Lit

  Introducing Choc Lit

  Acknowledgements

  Where to start? There are so many people who have contributed to my writing journey and my goal of achieving publication.

  The Girl on the Beach was begun in 2014. A friend, Kim Taylor from the lovely Bevere Gallery and Café on the outskirts of Worcester runs art competitions at the high school and this was the spark of the idea from which this book developed. Thank you, Kim.

  Thank you to all of those writers whose courses I’ve attended, particularly Sue Johnson, Sue Moorcroft and Alison May. I have also been to so many useful sessions at writing festivals and the Romantic Novelists’ Association (RNA) conferences.

  Margaret Ruess-Newland and Janice Preston read early versions of the manuscript and made valuable suggestions, as did my reader on the wonderful RNA New Writers’ Scheme. I would recommend this scheme to any aspiring romance writer, as it offers priceless feedback.

  Vital companionship and encouragement have come from RNA members, especially those from the RNA Birmingham Chapter and also from my little writers’ group the ADC’s (you know who you are!).

  My editor has been helpful and patient with this my debut novel. Thank you so much for your help.

  Susan Wood started the writing journey with me and has been a constant support and inspiration. My husband and sons have watched and wondered as I scribbled in notebooks for years.

  Thank you to my publisher Choc Lit, in association with Lovereading, for running the Search for a Star competition, which led to the publication of this novel when I won. Thank you also to the Choc Lit tasting panel members who voted for my story: Dimi, Cordy, Caherine L, Alison B, Ester V, Kathleen H, Linda Sy, Jo O, Joy S, Rosie F, Carol F, Cindy T, Alma and Holly C.

  Chapter One

  How did she know him?

  The headmaster, John Williams, began to introduce the man. ‘Harry Dixon meet Ellie Golden, the inspiration behind our art competition. Harry will be taking over from me as headmaster in September and has agreed to help you decide who wins today.’

  Rapidly searching her memory, Ellie shook Harry Dixon’s hand. He had the physique of a rugby player, his dark hair cut short and straight. She didn’t recognise the name, but the huge brown eyes and the cleft in his chin, almost hidden in short stubble, were somehow so familiar. She felt strangely uneasy.

  He smiled, displaying even, white teeth. Did she imagine he was holding back, not smiling wholeheartedly? Did he recognise her too?

  ‘Have we met before?’ she asked, aware that her throat was suddenly dry.

  ‘I don’t think so. I would have remembered.’

  The words brought heat to her face. His voice was warm and deep, clear in tone, but with a slight burr of an accent. She turned to examine the display to hide her blush. The exhibits were arranged on tall baize-covered panels at the back of the cavernous school hall. Each picture had a number with the Art Exposium competition logo, a stylised “A” and “E” with a swirl of paint joining the letters.

  ‘We’d better get on with the judging, there’s a lot to look at,’ commented Ellie, trying to recover her composure.

  The scoring sheet she’d typed up the previous evening seemed overcomplicated this morning, with its profusion of tick boxes. In her confused state, the columns merged and blurred. She knew she must sound prim and school-marmish, and look it too. What had possessed her to wear this suit? It was the one she’d once used for job interviews, grey and boring, even teamed with the scarlet silk shirt and pearl necklace. A clear case of dressing as she thought she should, rather than how she really wanted to. Focus, Ellie. She fought to bring her mind back to the competition, away from Harry Dixon and his identity. He was so good-looking and she still didn’t know why she recognised him. Those eyes! Stop it, Ellie.

  Examining the painting in front of her, she began to score it against her chosen categories. It was bright and used colour well, even though the brush strokes were a little primitive. The title didn’t really fit the picture. Her mind drifted again to the cleft in Harry’s chin. It was so distinctive that she couldn’t have mistaken him for anyone else, could she? Recognition teased at the edge of her brain and she put her comments on the wrong line of the score sheet. For goodness’ sake, it’s number three, not number four. Stay on track, what is the matter with you?

  She scrubbed at the score sheet with the rubber on the end of her pencil and re-marked the boxes correctly. Harry’s voice cut into her inner turmoil.

  ‘That’s a pretty scientific rating system for a children’s art competition.’

  ‘I like to be thorough and fair.’ She worried he’d noticed her confusion.

  Harry’s nearness as he looked over her shoulder made the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention.

  ‘I’d rather judge by eye. I can already see the winner.’

  Ellie moved away a little, so she could turn to glare at him. ‘Maybe, but every artist deserves a fair review. You haven’t looked at all of the exhibits yet.’

  ‘I must confess to having a sneaky look round earlier. You follow your system and when you’ve finished, I’ll tell you which one I think is the winner. Bet I’m right in a fraction of the time.’

  Her
pencil pushed deeper into the paper, almost in danger of making a hole. Was he laughing at her? The arrogance of the man. She wondered if he had a degree in fine art too.

  ‘I didn’t realise there were two judges.’

  ‘They probably didn’t expect me to appear at the school before next term. As I take over as headmaster after the summer break, I suppose they felt obliged to include me as I’m here today.’

  Ellie’s son, Tom, attended the school, so she had a particular interest in the staff members. Tom, her darling. He’d coped very well with all the changes in his life, moving to a new area, new home, new school and occupying himself for all the time it had taken her to establish her gallery. It made it all the more important that she discovered how she knew this new headmaster. His aftershave was subtle, but spicy, reaching across the gap between them. Attraction and wariness began to fight within her.

  ‘Are you from the Borteen area?’

  ‘No, miles away.’

  The way he averted his eyes and didn’t elaborate raised her suspicions again. He definitely wasn’t comfortable answering questions about himself, but then she didn’t enjoy talking about herself either. Had she seen his face in the press or on television? Perhaps he’d been a competitor in one of those cooking competitions she loved watching so much. He didn’t look like a cook, but appearances could be deceptive.

  They moved around the display board and Ellie spotted tables laid out beyond.

  ‘How lovely. They’ve entered ceramics and sculptures too.’

  She went over to take a closer look.

  Harry trailed after her.

  Reaching out her hand to caress a large pot just at the same time as he did, their fingers brushed against each other and she leapt back as if she’d been stung. He didn’t show any sign of having noticed, but ran his palm disconcertingly over the glaze. She watched mesmerised. His fingers were strong, his nails short. Ellie wondered what it would feel like to have those fingers touching her hair.

  What was happening here? She’d schooled herself not to react to men in this way. It was difficult to regain trust once it had been destroyed.

  ‘How come you were chosen to judge this competition?’ There was challenge in his voice now, but the hint of a smile in his expression.

  She stopped ticking her score sheet. ‘I’ve been working with the art groups at the school for the past year. I’m the sponsor of the Art Exposium competition.’

  Passing Harry a leaflet from her clipboard, she wished the art competition had been a purely altruistic idea, but the truth was that it enabled her to put her name and work in the path of the parents, grandparents and all the staff of the school. She needed to raise the profile of her gallery as much as possible if the business was going to thrive.

  Harry scanned the leaflet.

  ‘You’re Golden Design?’

  ‘Yes, Ellie Golden, artist.’ She chastised herself for doing a silly little curtsey to accompany the words.

  ‘What’s your style of art, Ellie Golden, artist?’

  His head was on one side, his tone sarcastic again, but his smile suggested he was flirting with her. She was pleased and disconcerted all at the same time.

  ‘Abstract acrylics and large ceramic pieces mainly. I’m inspired by the sea and the hills around here.’

  He read aloud the address of her studio from the leaflet. ‘That’s off the High Street, isn’t it?’

  She nodded, trying to gauge his thoughts from the dark brown eyes. His eyelashes were impossibly long. She dragged her focus back to the score sheet and realised she’d marked her entry against the wrong number yet again. She was usually meticulous about detail. What has got into you, Ellie Golden?

  ‘I’ll have to come to your gallery and have a look at your work. The walls in my flat are looking a bit sad and bare at the moment.’

  ‘You’ve moved to Borteen already?’

  ‘Yes, I want to get familiar with the area before September. Are you a local?’

  ‘No, I moved here after my divorce.’ The words were out of her mouth before she’d censored them and she kicked herself for telling him that. It felt as if she’d told him she was single and open for offers. Harry Dixon was infuriatingly attractive, but she still couldn’t shake off the sense that they’d met before.

  Ellie Golden could be dangerous. Harry felt as if she was asking questions to whittle away at his painstakingly constructed story. Still, he’d have to convince a lot more people in September and he should be used to this by now. She’d recognised something in him, of that he had no doubt. He didn’t remember meeting her before, but there was a niggling feeling that it could have been in that time he couldn’t remember, his black hole…

  She didn’t have the look of any other artist he’d seen. He knew he was stereotyping, but he always pictured them as flowing bohemian types, wearing smocks, with a dab of paint behind the ear. She appeared prim in her business suit and looked more like his idea of a librarian, if her blouse hadn’t been scarlet. She’d no doubt dressed this way because she believed the judge of a competition should wear something formal. He imagined her carefully controlled tawny hair cascading around her face, daubed in the blues and greens she was using to paint. He had a thing about wild hair. A quiver of interest sparked through him as he noticed the silver highlights in her blue eyes. Steady, mate, don’t get too interested. Remember you need to get on with your job and stay in the background the rest of the time. Safer.

  ‘Harry, have you had a chance to look at these sculptures? Some very talented work here – really impressive for eleven to sixteen year olds.’ Her voice was full of genuine excitement.

  He turned, after what he knew was a slight hesitation. Would he ever get used to that name, Harry? Why had he chosen that? It still gave him such a shock, when he pulled out his credit cards and his driving licence to see it. Even his degree certificate had been changed. They’d done a thorough job.

  Ellie regarded him with that tight-lipped annoyed air he’d seen several times already. He’d drifted off into his thoughts and hadn’t a clue what she’d said to him. He realised her hair had begun to escape its clip and had the promise of the wildness he’d imagined. A ripple of anticipation spiked through his body.

  She abruptly put down her clipboard and rearranged it, as if she’d read his mind and sensed the effect the stray curls were having on him. Phew, that was better, less tantalising.

  Touching a purple pot to distract himself and get back in control of his mind and body, he marvelled at the silkiness of the glaze.

  ‘Is this the type of pottery you sell?’

  ‘No, these are made from coiled clay. I throw pots on a wheel.’

  Her long fingers were unadorned by rings, her nails clipped short. The image of those hands manipulating clay caused another shiver down his spine. It was only a short hop in his mind to her touching his own skin. Whoa!

  She took ages over her scoring. Harry had given up following her around the hall. He was impressed by the number of exhibits, but there were few that inspired him. Instead, he sat by the window, watching the dynamics of the schoolchildren at break time. The younger ones playing ball, the older ones hanging around in groups practising looking bored and disinterested. This world would soon be his responsibility. He relished the thought of belonging somewhere again.

  ‘Finished!’ Ellie announced. ‘Come on then, I’m intrigued, which piece did you choose for first prize?’

  Harry got up and went to the first display board they’d viewed. ‘Number fifteen.’

  ‘Oh, no! That one can’t win.’ He could swear that her face went white.

  ‘Why not? It’s by far the best.’ He examined the canvas more closely. The title was “Fireworks” and it clearly depicted a sky full of colourful explosions above the buildings of a town, possibly Borteen. The perspective of the buildings and the reflections of the fireworks in some of the windows showed real skill. Harry could almost believe himself to be an observer of the scene.

&nbs
p; ‘I agree, but it was painted by my son, Tom, so it can’t win. It would look like favouritism.’

  ‘Won’t Tom be upset not to have his talent recognised?’

  ‘He’ll understand and I’ll put it right with him later.’

  She was messing with her hair again. Harry turned to stare at her son’s picture as he fought down his interest. In his view, the canvas stood out like a beacon amongst the other work.

  ‘He’s obviously got your artistic genes. What about if I make a special award?’ He grinned at Ellie.

  ‘There’s really no need.’

  ‘Yes, there is. His picture is definitely the best here.’

  She stared at him, curiosity written all over her features.

  He reminded himself he needed to be wary and wandered off to look out of the window again. Break time had finished and the school yard stood empty.

  After a never-ending lunch with John Williams and the school governors, Ellie and Harry sat next to each other on the stage in front of all of the pupils of the school. Ellie tried to spot her son in the faces before her. Harry’s leg brushed against her skirt. Her awareness of him was so heightened that she could feel the warmth of him, smell his subtle aftershave and settled her own breathing to the rhythm of his. She tried to look at him without turning her head and noticed he had a slightly deformed ear. It looked like a rugby injury.

  He reached out to scratch his knee and she saw a strange mark above his wrist. It covered a section of his lower forearm.

  Unbidden, a vision floated into her mind of a tattoo above a strong hand, a surf board, sandy legs…

  She stiffened in shock and examined Harry more closely. No, it was impossible. It couldn’t be him. He met her gaze and she was sure she could sense alarm in his expression. Her heart began to drum. She looked away, stared unseeing at her clipboard, tried to focus on her score sheet, but it was next to impossible given the turmoil inside her.

  John Williams stood and welcomed Harry and Ellie as the art competition judges, talked about Ellie’s gallery in the centre of town and her work with the school and introduced Harry as his successor from September. The young people sat silently in rows in front of her, oblivious to her confusion. In a few moments, she would be asked to announce the winners of the competition. A scream bubbled inside of her and she fought to control it.