She shuffled up to him and, uncaring of the paint on his shirt, wrapped her arms stiffly around him. From someone who’d been so badly used by her mother’s partner it was a huge deal. Ruby had come a long way from the scarred, scared, borderline dropout she’d been when he’d first noticed her potential.
‘When are you leaving,’ she muttered into his chest.
‘The unveiling ceremony’s next week and I’m running out of time. So hop it.’ He dropped a kiss on her fluffy blonde head and she stepped away.
‘Oh man!’ she said, looking at the canvas for the first time. ‘You’ve really done it now.’
‘Promise me you’ll bring your children up at Penmorfa.’
His father’s final words. This from the man who’d been so quick to banish him from the place. And Gethin had been happy enough to agree if it meant the old man had one fewer burden on his conscience when he closed his eyes for the last time. The voice was suddenly so clear in his head that Gethin could almost imagine his father was up at the cottage waiting.
The hired Mondeo he was driving past the garden centre and up the rutted track towards his father’s cottage wasn’t nearly as luxurious as the Land Rover he’d used last time, or as much fun. But it would stop any rumblings about him flashing his cash and he hoped any villagers catching sight of him the day before he was due to hand over his painting would approve of his frugal choice and feel more generously disposed towards him.
Behind him the green tracery of the overlapping trees gradually closed a veil over the little village and it was easy to forget it was there. But for the intrusive arrival of PVC windows and the occasional plastic door squatting brutishly in the once-humble terraced houses, nothing much ever seemed to change. Penmorfa was everything he’d been glad to leave and yet – maybe he had a touch of hiraeth? – he was almost glad to see the place again.
He could, of course, have stayed in the States, but it was time to make decisions about his father’s cottage. It was as good a place as any to let the fuss about his latest exhibition blow over, which, he was confident, it would. And Coralie? Maybe this was his chance to show that he was willing to do all he could to make amends.
‘What’s that you’re driving there, boy?’ he could imagine his father saying, leaning out of the window of his ancient Land Rover. ‘Some sort of girl’s car, is it?’
For a moment he was reminded of the old man’s cutting sense of humour, sharpened and honed by a quick and clever mind. Mam, bless her, hadn’t been the brightest tool in the box, lovely as she was, and hadn’t always kept up with Gwyn’s voracious reading and lively curiosity. No wonder the old man had lost his rag at times, hemmed in by his land, his cattle, and with no outlet for that keen mind – and yet he’d been eager for his own son to perpetuate the misery.
‘Don’t think you’ve won,’ he muttered out loud, ‘this is only temporary. The whole idea of me staying here is preposterous.’
His father’s aspirations for him had always been narrow: the farm or nothing. Qualifications were a waste of time; university a waste of money. ‘Watch me, boy, and you’ll learn everything you need to know.’
So he’d watched his parents struggling to earn a living wage, seen them buckle under concerns about BSE, Foot and Mouth disease, the withdrawal of subsidies and the rising cost of feed and fuel. What he’d learned was that he’d be better off following his passion, pursuing his artistic ambitions, instead. His father had accused him of treachery, of walking away from the fight to rejuvenate the industry and keep the local community alive. And, later, even of being the cause of his mother’s early death.
The old man had never given in and admitted that he might have been right to leave. Not even after the sale of the old farmhouse, when the monies, as he’d later found out once his father had been too ill to refuse help, had barely been enough to keep him once outstanding debts had been paid. Well, it was too late to resurrect the family farm, but maybe he could do his bit for the community?
A sickly farmyard odour that he always associated with his father wafted into the car. Gethin waited to hear his dry snicker behind him and glanced up into the mirror. His harshest critics would have agreed with his father’s assessment: that he’d overreached his ambition and should have stayed on the farm. But they hadn’t seen anything yet. This time, he’d thrown out all the artifice and pretension and returned to first principles to paint what really moved him. At long last he could look himself in the eye and know that the work he was about to unveil came straight from the heart.
The thin smile he’d found, against the odds, was replaced by sheer amazement when he reached the cottage and wondered if he was at the right place. The practical brown-framed replacement windows his father had been forced to install when the originals had gone beyond repair, had been swapped for something far more sympathetic to the character of the building. The ugly rendering had been painted a sunny cream, the front door given a heritage paint makeover in a powdery seaside blue and a new slate roof sat snugly against the weather.
Inside, the mephitic stink of mildew mixed with plague pit had been ousted by the smell of fresh paint and new carpets. Plastered walls and new ceilings gave the rooms a clean, modern feel. Cream units and oak worktops gave the kitchen what the magazines would have described as a classic country feel, though not one that his father would ever have recognised, and the ghastly avocado bathroom – a so-called improvement installed in the seventies which his father insisted was ‘good enough for me, boy; it’ll get me clean, won’t it?’– had been replaced with a modern white suite and a power shower. All he was missing, he thought, as it suddenly occurred to him, was some furniture. At least he’d had the sense to stop off at what he thought of as Penmorfa’s shoddy goods store, where you were nearly beaten back by the smell of cheap plastic before you’d got through the door, to buy a sleeping bag and some basics.
He trudged back to the car just in time to be snarled at by a wire-haired Jack Russell as it leapt off the back of a quad bike before heading off on important business in the undergrowth. Huw Bowen, his hair sticking up from the breeze in an ‘owner most like dog’ moment, looked just as gruff.
‘Alys saw you go past. She was worried that you might be hungry so she sent you up some lunch.’ Regarding him suspiciously, Huw handed him a thin cotton bag that was heavy with a couple of foil-wrapped packages and a flask. His expression suggested that the gesture was nothing to do with him and he sincerely hoped that Alys had laced it with laxatives.
‘Alys is a thoughtful woman,’ he said. ‘You’re a very lucky man, Huw.’
Huw flushed, as if he’d hit a nerve, and glared at him. ‘Just don’t let her down, will you? She’s worked hard trying to persuade her committee that you’re genuinely trying to help the village, which is no easy task considering how many people still think that Samba painting was a bit of a piss-take. Mair’s been going around telling everyone you’re about to present them with another painting of a scantily-clad floozy on the beach and turn Penmorfa into the laughingstock of Wales again.’
Gethin shook his head. Nothing had changed. And he was trying to help these people? He took a deep breath. Not these people. One person: himself.
The clouds, which were almost as dark as Huw’s face, let loose an April shower that threatened to soak them in seconds. Gethin beckoned to the cottage and Huw and Edith hurried after him.
‘Tell Alys not to worry,’ he shouted above the sound of the rain echoing in the bare hall. ‘It’s an entirely new work, that hasn’t been created for an exhibition or gallery. I hope it will have resonance for everyone who comes into contact with it.’
Huw nodded, not looking completely convinced. ‘So, everything all right here?’
‘As far as I can tell the builders you recommended did a good job. Trying to oversee it at a distance, I was afraid I would come in to wet plaster and wires dangling out the ceiling, but they were as good as their word. I’m grateful to you, Huw.’
Huw’s expression softe
ned and he relaxed enough for Edith to leap out of his arms and skedaddle upstairs to take herself off on a tour.
‘But you’ve got no furniture!’ Huw said, slightly out of breath from chasing after her, as he returned with Edith squirming in his arms. ‘You can’t stay here, boy. Where are you going to sleep? Young Kitty’s in the holiday cottage – and that’s another story, I can tell you. There’s The Cabin at Abersaith, though it’s pricey, mind you, although I daresay if anyone can afford it, you can.’
Gethin waved his hand, slightly too close to Edith who tried to take a couple of fingers off in passing.
‘Thanks, I’ll be all right here.’
Huw positively beamed. ‘Getting a feel of the old place again, eh, boy? That’s the spirit! I wouldn’t want to be away from it for a moment longer than I had to be if it was mine, either. Maybe you’ll decide to return to the village, after all, then no one will be able to say that you think you’re too good for us.’
Gethin refrained from saying anything to darken his mood again. He still couldn’t make up his mind where he stood with Huw, but that was true of so many people in the village. And one woman in particular. ‘And in the meantime,’ he said instead, ‘your good wife has packed more food than I can possibly eat. Would you care to share some lunch?’ He opened one parcel and handed a chicken salad sandwich in good, thick granary bread over to the older man who, with Edith slavering in his arms, took a huge appreciative bite.
Good, thought Gethin. If Alys had laced the food with laxatives, he wouldn’t be the only one suffering.
‘Pinky-winky,’ announced Alys, looking over her reading glasses as the glass doors of the garden centre shop slid open. Coralie, who had wandered into the revamped former shed for company, wondered if she’d been spending too much time with her grandson.
‘The names they come up with now!’ she went on, with a smile, coming out from behind the counter.
‘What, Kitty and Adam?’ New parents sometimes got a bit carried away, but the new baby would have to grow up tough if he got lumbered with that.
‘Oh no, he’s definitely James, after Adam’s late father.’ A shadow flitted briefly across Alys’s face. ‘I’m relieved one of them came to a decision, and since Adam’s only got his brother and sister now it seemed a lovely gesture. Do you know I had visions of that poor child starting school still being called The Baby if it was left to Kitty. No, it’s one of our catalogue range of new plants. Lovely ornamental hydrangea, though.’
Coralie hoped that Alys, who could get very passionate about plant trends, wasn’t going to nag her about the dominant trend in her own garden, which was mainly to let it look after itself.
‘Bird Poo Remover.’
Coralie looked up.
‘I must order some,’ Alys reminded herself. ‘Everyone’ll be wanting to clean up their garden furniture soon. Have you seen how much mess the house martins have made over Willow’s unit? She’s having to dash for it every time she crosses the threshold. Wilfie got stuck in there with her for ages recently. Came out looking quite dishevelled. Still, nothing you can do about it once they’ve established their nests, of course.’
Willow and Wilfie? Coralie shook her head; she still couldn’t quite believe the evidence of her own eyes.
‘Poor man,’ Alys went on. Although as far as Coralie could tell, whatever was going on in Willow’s unit was doing Wilfie the world of good. Even his beard looked clean and tidy these days.
‘Imagine how much it must have hurt Gethin to be described as an indifferent painter who’d got away with pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes for far too long? It just goes to prove how little those New York critics know,’ Alys continued, as she slowly paced one side of the shop, checking her stock. ‘I’m confident that none of this nonsense about the current exhibition closing hurriedly will make a blind bit of difference over here. The publicity might even help. I daresay even Delyth and Mair will be on his side, now that the Big Apple’s spat out one of Penmorfa’s own. They all love a loser round here.’
‘He certainly doesn’t need to face any more criticism,’ Coralie had to agree. ‘Getting that from the city he loves must have come as a terrible shock.’
‘Anyway, we’ll make sure we put on a good show of strength at the presentation ceremony and give him the reception he deserves,’ Alys called over. ‘Have you managed to catch up with him yet?’
In fact, when Coralie heard he was back in the village, she had decided that she ought to talk to him sooner rather than later, just to dissipate some of the potential awkwardness between them. But somehow she hadn’t screwed up enough courage to do it. She looked down at her feet.
‘No? Well, never mind – here he comes now!’
Chapter Twenty-One
Oh no! Coralie’s stomach lurched. He was just as gorgeous as she remembered. So much for telling herself that when she saw him it would be like digging out an old picture of a pop idol she’d once had a crush on. Part of her hoped to discover that her libido had tricked her into falling for someone who, in hindsight, she might be embarrassed by.
She remembered vividly her shame as a teenager after she’d got carried away at a Christmas party for the staff of the local supermarket where she worked on Saturdays. Snogging the manager of the meat counter, who’d looked almost attractive under fairy lights after a glass of Lambrusco, seemed like a particularly poor idea when he turned up at her house and offered her mum free sausages hoping to ingratiate himself with her.
But seeing Gethin again, all she could do was congratulate herself on her impeccable taste. Even in the height of summer it was never scorching in Penmorfa, due to its proximity to the sea, but today it was pleasantly warm and it was great to see Gethin without his leather jacket. She could admire his fine forearms, with their dusting of dark hair, and the curve of strong biceps disappearing under his short-sleeved black tee shirt. His thick dark hair was unruly, his jaw was set off by at a least a day’s worth of stubble – though she’d have to run her fingers across it to be sure – and his dark eyes looked just as sexy in broad daylight as they did across a pillow. In fact, he looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed.
‘Who died?’ he said, looking from her to Alys and frowning. Coralie winced.
‘Oh, we are all in black, aren’t we?’ Alys beamed.
It was true that Alys and Gethin were both wearing black tee shirts and jeans, and both wearing them very well in their own ways, but Coralie had resurrected another of her management consultancy outfits.
‘Coralie looks well, doesn’t she?’ Alys nodded at the black silk vest top and straight linen skirt.
‘What happened to all the colour?’ Gethin asked, his scowl deepening.
‘It’s lovely to see you again too, Gethin,’ Coralie said, miffed. ‘I told you in New York, if you remember, that I was going to start looking forward. The retro clothes didn’t feel right anymore.’
‘So you’ve shrugged them off, along with the past, have you?’ he growled.
Coralie went over to pick up a packet of seeds that had fallen off one of the shelves as an excuse to hide her face. Giant Red carrot seeds, renowned for their size and vigour. Gethin looked big and vigorous too, although the carrots, she hoped, were less prickly.
‘Goodness me,’ said Alys, ‘someone got out of bed the wrong side this morning. I hope you’ll be in a better mood this evening at the presentation ceremony. Come here and give me a kiss, you great brute!’
‘The things I do for you, Alys,’ he said, shaking his head. A smile spread across his face at last, lighting up the dark corner where they were standing as he held her, then kissed her on both cheeks.
‘And don’t forget Coralie,’ Alys reminded him. ‘She was the one who went all the way out to America to get you on board.’
‘As if.’
Even that brief contact was enough to make her want to burst into tears because every pulse in her body was beating a little ‘touch me’ tattoo at having him so close.
; ‘I apologise, but I’m still trying to figure out where everything is up at the cottage. Like hot water,’ he added, running a hand across his stubble. ‘I was so travel weary when I set the timer switch that I punched in the wrong programme.’
That explained why he looked as if he’d slept in his clothes then. And that mildly musky, wildly attractive masculine scent of him.
‘Not quite what you needed after a long journey, you must be worn out,’ Alys agreed. ‘And although Huw and I don’t usually hire out our bath, I’m prepared to make an exception if you’d like your back scrubbed. Unless Coralie wants to do it …’
Coralie glared at her.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ Gethin said, with the ghost of a smile. He took the seeds from her and slotted them back into place. ‘I reckon a cold shower will do me good.’
‘Well,’ Alys said, clearly choking back a laugh, ‘it looks as if we’ve got a really good crowd coming this evening. I’m so looking forward to seeing what you’ve got to offer us. Which reminds me, I need to check how many chairs we’ve got. Coralie, can you mind the counter for me?’
‘I came back to try to make amends,’ Gethin said.
‘How?’ Coralie wandered away and leaned back against the counter. He followed and stood in front of her, longing to touch her but afraid. The brief flare of heat of her body as he’d leaned in to greet her was the only warmth he’d felt. It wasn’t just her bright clothes that had cooled.
‘You made it obvious the way you felt about Penmorfa and, by extension, me, in New York. That’s one bridge burning.’
‘I can start by fixing it for Alys,’ he said, trying not to lose hope.
‘Really? I hope so because Delyth and Mair will have a field day laying all the blame at her feet if anything goes wrong.’ She shook her head and he longed for just one recalcitrant curl to escape from the sleek chignon that made her seem so frosty and remote.
Gethin folded his arms. He’d given up caring about what a few small-minded people with nothing else on their minds thought of him years ago. It seemed to have escaped her notice that there was only one person he was trying to impress. ‘Not in front of me, they won’t,’ he told her, aching for her to drop her guard. ‘Don’t look like that,’ he said reproachfully. ‘I’m not going anywhere until I’ve smoothed everything over here.’
Move Over Darling Page 20
