Today, the sky was gun-metal grey and the horizon hazy, as the late morning sunlight pierced holes in the low-lying winter clouds. The sunbeams shone through like lasers, highlighting areas of the sea. He loved the variety of horizons that Conwenna Cove boasted, whatever time of the year it was, but this one today, sombre and dark with flashes of light here and there, matched his mood.
However, this wasn’t about Linda or the cat; something else was bothering him this morning.
He had been quite positive when he’d set off for a late morning walk to the café to pick up cakes for his staff and for the children’s tea. Oli was pretty confident they’d find homes for the cat and her litter; there were a great many animal lovers in Conwenna. But then he’d walked past the Conwenna Café window, and he’d seen the most striking woman he’d ever set eyes on. Linda had been beautiful, yes, with her pale skin, brown eyes and light blonde hair. But Grace Phillips… she was a head turner, reminding him of a painting he’d once seen of a mermaid who’d walked right up out of the sea. And even the fact that he’d thought about her beauty had left him consumed with guilt, because he shouldn’t be noticing other women in any way, shape or form. It just wasn’t right; it was a betrayal of his wife and of the love they’d shared.
But Grace’s red hair had caught his eye first, like wavy flames in the café window, and as he’d passed, to enter the café, she’d thrown back her head and laughed at something Nate had said. It was then that Oli had seen her face: heart-shaped, perfect little white teeth in a rosebud mouth and a smile that had lifted his heart. Or would have had it fallen on him. But she hadn’t been smiling for Oli, it had been for Nate.
Of course it had been. And Oli really liked Nate. He was a happy-go-lucky kind of guy with his surfer good looks and his apparent devil-may-care attitude. And that was what bugged Oli the most about this. Nate could have had his pick of the local women; whether it was high summer or the dead of winter, he always had a pretty woman laughing at his jokes. He just seemed to have a gift for relaxing them and always seemed totally relaxed himself. It must feel amazing to be that comfortable around the opposite sex. And now it seemed that Nate had the interest of beautiful Grace too, and Oli wondered if she had any idea what she was getting into.
He shrugged, then released a deep sigh. It was none of his business anyway. It wasn’t as if he was going to try to form any sort of connection with Grace, or any other woman for that matter. One broken heart in a lifetime was enough and in the two years since Linda had died, Oli had steered clear of women altogether. And that was how it would stay. He knew for certain that his damaged heart wouldn’t survive another loss, or even another bump in the road. He was barely holding on as it was.
He stood and picked up the cake box, and started walking; he passed the art gallery called A Pretty Picture, and Café Paris, before walking along the coastal path that took him back towards the surgery and his home. Hopefully, Pamela would have the kettle on and he could enjoy a cake and a cup of tea, because that was about as much excitement as Oli wanted from life right now.
Chapter 3
The delicious aromas of roast dinner and woodsmoke met Grace’s nostrils as she entered The Conwenna Arms that Sunday morning. She’d decided to take a walk along the harbour – before making her way up to the pub that Nate had told her opened on Sunday mornings to serve brunch – and been delighted at how pretty it was, even in December. Small boats bobbed on the water, their windows glinting in the morning sunlight, and the sea lapped at the harbour wall. She’d stood there for a while, leaning against the railing, deeply breathing in the fresh briny air until her nose had turned cold and her eyes started to water, then she walked briskly up the hill to get a coffee.
She was pleased to see that it was still relatively quiet, as it was only just gone eleven o’clock. She went to the bar and ordered a spiced cinnamon latte, then took it over to a cosy corner near the log burner. She put her coffee down on the small round table, then sat on the soft leather couch and looked around.
The pub was warm and quaint with the log burner glowing and its low ceiling with dark wood beams. The slate tiles on the floor were worn and uneven in places and the tables and chairs were made of reclaimed wood, some of which Grace suspected might be from boats. The semi-circular bar was in the middle of the pub and around the other side was the restaurant, although the menus on the surrounding tables suggested that patrons could eat in this area too. Her stomach gave a rumble; the smells drifting from the kitchen were mouth-watering. But she couldn’t eat here: her parents were expecting her home for one-thirty. Besides, it wasn’t much fun eating out alone, which was why she rarely did it back home in Cardiff, even though there was an abundance of places to choose from.
Grace couldn’t believe it was the first weekend of December and their second in Conwenna. The past few days had flown by while she’d helped her parents to settle into their new home, and squeezed in as much writing as she could when she wasn’t moving furniture around to see if it looked better another way, or clearing out the garage to get rid of the previous owner’s weird collections – although none of them had been as strange as the prosthetic legs.
The pub owners had already put the Christmas decorations up, but then Grace knew how quickly December passed, so those aiming to drum up festive business had to make the most of the season. And it was nice to enjoy the festive cheer that the large Christmas tree in the corner and the other decorations around the cosy pub offered. The tree, which stood in a large red clay planter, reached the ceiling and was decorated with gold and silver tinsel. Matching baubles adorned its plush branches and in between those, red and green orbs twinkled. At the top was a glittery silver star.
On the slate grate in front of the log burner stood four gold glitter reindeer, each one with a red tinsel collar, and the wooden surround that served as a mantelpiece was draped with bright green holly with fat red berries. Each table in the pub had a golden tealight holder with snowflake cutouts on them, and Grace suspected that when lit they would be very pretty indeed. The overall mood in the Conwenna Arms was festive, and Grace felt a frisson of satisfaction that she was able to enjoy some time there.
She took a sip of her coffee, which was creamy and delicious with its festive spices, then pulled her lightweight laptop and spiral bound notebook from her bag, along with a set of coloured biros. If she was lucky, she’d get a good hour of writing in before the lunchtime rush began. After all, she’d excused herself from her parents’ house because they were currently cooking dinner and she’d wanted to get in a good word count before eating; she knew that Sunday dinner always made her drowsy so she wouldn’t get much done at all that afternoon.
Grace also knew she was lucky to be able to take her work with her; it made her portable and she could work anywhere as long as she had some peace. Sometimes, she liked to work in the calm quiet of her flat, sometimes she chose a café or a pub to soak up the ambience and to people watch, and sometimes she’d write outdoors. It depended upon her mood, the weather and her deadline. And if she was in need of some inspiration that she couldn’t get from sitting home alone.
She pulled the laptop onto her knees, then switched it on and opened her work in progress. She was enjoying writing this one: a twisty psychological thriller. Grace’s literary agent in London had drummed up excitement around her debut four years earlier, and she’d just signed her second three-book contract with a big publisher. Her writing career was going extremely well and she hoped it would continue to do so. The thrill of seeing her books on the shelves in shops and supermarkets would never get old.
As she waited for the laptop to finish its page count, she took another sip of her coffee, then selected a pen from her stash and jotted some key words onto a clean page of the notebook that she’d placed on the table. She always did this before she started writing; it was a routine that helped her to focus and to get back into the writing groove if her mind wandered or she hit a plot snag.
Then she started to ty
pe and was catapulted into the fictional world she’d created.
‘What do these words mean?’
Grace was dragged from her story. She met the light brown eyes of a small boy. His white blond hair was cut shorter at the sides and spiked messily, as was currently fashionable. He looked like he was five going on fifteen, cute but trendy.
She shook her head to free herself from the tense scene she’d just composed.
‘Uh…’
She stared at the words in her notebook where: cold, broken, escape, echo and seawater. They taunted her, inviting her to get the full scene typed before the idea slipped from her mind to be lost forever in the void of the unwritten. Grace hated to be interrupted when she was into the flow, but it was a hazard of writing in public.
She saved the document, then closed her laptop.
‘They are part of a story I’m writing.’
‘A story?’
‘Yes, you see I’m an author.’
He nodded.
‘Do you know what an author is?’
‘An author writes the books and an illustrator draws the pictures.’
‘Wow, you’re clever. How old are you?’
‘Five.’
‘Five?’ Grace was impressed.
‘I know because Eve and Jack came into our school.’
‘Who are Eve and Jack?’
‘They write books and they came to tell us about the greyhounds.’
‘The greyhounds?’
‘Up at the farm.’
‘At Foxglove Farm?’
‘Yes. In the santuery.’
‘Santuery?’
‘Yes, where they save them.’
‘Oh… sanctuary.’
‘That’s what I said. Can I write on your paper?’
‘Uh… okay. Let me just turn that piece over. But don’t you think we should introduce ourselves properly first?’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m Grace Phillips. What’s your name?’
‘Tom Davenport.’ The way he said his surname made Grace’s heart squeeze. He was so cute and had the tiniest hint of a babyish lisp. And the name also made her wonder if he was linked to the rude vet she’d met at the café.
‘Where are your parents, Tom?’
‘My daddy and Maxine and Bampy are over there at the bar. With Amy.’
‘Do they know you’re here?’
‘Yes.’
He sat next to Grace and she held out her pens, ‘What colour would you like?’
‘Blue, please.’
‘Here you are.’
Grace handed him the pen, then the notepad, and watched as he sat down beside her, put the pad on the table and started to write. His tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth and he held the pen tightly in his tiny hand.
‘See.’ He pointed proudly at the notepad. ‘T-O-M. That’s my name.’
‘Very clever. Can you spell Davenport too?’
‘Tom!’ A sharp voice came from across the pub.
The little boy looked up. ‘Uh oh. That’s my Daddy.’
‘I thought he knew where you were.’
‘He did, but he tells me not to talk to people I don’t know.’
‘That’s very sensible.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ The tall man met her eyes and realization dawned on his face. ‘Grace, right?’
‘Oli?’
‘Yes. Tom, I told you not to bother people. This lady was trying to, uh…’ He frowned. ‘What were you doing?’
‘Writing. I’m an author.’ She offered a brief smile, in spite of her misgivings about this man and their first meeting.
‘An author?’
‘Yes. And Tom here asked if he could use my notepad.’
‘Tom, you say thank you to the nice lady then leave her in peace.’
Tom stood up then held out his hand to Grace. She took it and he shook hers firmly, his small hand warm and soft.
‘Thank you Grace for being my friend today.’
‘You are very welcome, Tom. Would you like your piece of paper?’
He shook his head. ‘You can keep it so you remember how to spell my name.’
‘Thank you. That’s very kind of you.’ She bit her lip to prevent herself from smiling.
‘Now go on over to Maxine and tell her what you want for dinner.’
Tom nodded then jogged back around the bar.
‘Thanks for that. He has a habit of talking to strangers even though I’ve warned him not to. One minute he’s by my side, the next he’s gone. It’s just hard sometimes doing this alone…’ He bit his lip and his cheeks coloured. ‘Sorry. Too much information, there. What I meant to say was… I need eyes in the back of my head.’
Grace felt her lips turn upwards. Was this the same man she’d seen just days before in the café? The same man who was cold, grumpy and distracted? Right now he seemed a bit awkward and bumbling, as if he was uncomfortable in his own skin. Exactly how she often felt.
‘Don’t worry about it. Tom wasn’t bothering me at all. In fact, he’s helped me to work out a plot point that I was struggling with.’
‘He has?’ Relief washed over Oli’s face.
‘Yes. So I should be thanking you.’
He looked around. ‘Are you here with anyone? Nate perhaps?’
‘No. It’s just me. Why would I be with Nate?’
‘I thought you two were…’
‘Oh no!’ She shook her head. ‘Gosh that came out wrong. Not that there would be anything wrong in being with Nate, you know, because he’s perfectly lovely and everything, but I just… uh…’ she sighed. ‘Sorry, I’m babbling. What I meant was that Nate is a really nice person, but we’re not involved. I barely know him.’
Oli’s smile lit up his face. ‘He is a really nice person.’
‘I’ve got to know him because of my visits to the café. In all honesty, I’ve probably been spending more time there than I should. It’s a way to escape some of the unpacking and rearranging that’s going on at the cottage.’ She shook her head. ‘My mother still isn’t happy with where the sofa is and my back won’t take much more shifting it around. Also, I can write in peace at the café. Today, I just thought I’d check out the pub instead.’
Oli nodded. ‘If you get a chance to go, there’s a really nice café in Truro called Espresso Yourself. I take the children there quite regularly.’
‘I’ll try to remember that one. I think Mum did mention doing a bit of Christmas shopping there next Saturday. Are you here for lunch?’
‘I’ve come with my father and his partner. Most Sundays I go to Dad’s but they like to eat out at least once a month. Saves him from doing the dishes.’
‘Sounds very sensible.’
He rubbed his head then the back of his neck.
‘I don’t suppose you’d uh… like to… uh, no. Probably not.’
‘Like to what?’
‘Well, it seems daft you sitting there alone when you could join us for dinner. Tom would no doubt be delighted and I’m sure Amy, my daughter, would be impressed that you’re an author.’
‘That is such a lovely offer, but my mother has probably made enough for an army and I promised I’d be back…’ she checked her watch, ‘by one-thirty. In half an hour, in fact. Gosh, time has flown this morning.’
‘Oh, okay. No problem. Silly of me to ask, of course you’d have somewhere to be.’
‘It wasn’t silly. It was very kind, actually. Perhaps another time?’
He smiled. ‘That would be nice. Hold on…’ he held up a finger then turned and went to the bar. Grace watched as the landlord handed him something.
Oli returned to her table and held out a bottle of red wine.
‘By way of apology.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘For Tom and for me… the first time we met, I think I might have been a bit rude. I can be like that when I’ve something on my mind and in retrospect, I think I was quite unfriendly.’
‘You don’t have to give me wi
ne.’
‘So I was rude! I am so sorry. Please take this.’
Grace accepted the bottle of what she recognized as a very nice Cabernet.
‘Well, thank you.’
‘My pleasure. I guess I’ll see you around?’
‘You certainly will.’
He smiled then walked away, leaving Grace with a big grin on her face and a fluttery sensation in her belly. The local vet had just risen in her estimation. Not only did he have a gorgeous little boy, but he was actually quite friendly and even a bit shy. She’d obviously been wrong to judge him so harshly when they first met.
If only she could have joined them for dinner. But then… he had two children.
Her heart sank. So he was likely to be happily married and certainly off limits.
She closed her laptop and put it in her bag along with her notebook and pens.
But that was all fine, as Grace wasn’t looking for a man, especially one with a little boy in tow, however cute that little boy might be.
Chapter 4
Oli slammed his pen down on top of the notepad and rubbed his eyes. He was trying to write a list of things he’d need for Amy’s eleventh birthday party, but he was struggling to focus. Linda used to do all this; she’d get really excited about special occasions including birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, Christmas and so on. She had made so much effort for him and for the children, until that final Christmas when she was too ill to do anything at all.
Linda had been a strong woman: refusing to ask for help from her own parents who lived in Scotland, even when she knew the end was coming. In fact, she’d insisted that Oli not tell them how ill she was, because she didn’t want them rushing to her side where she felt they’d be more hindrance than help. She’d never been particularly close to them, and even though she’d grown up in Conwenna Cove, and returned there after studying textile design at university in Falmouth, her parents had moved away not long after Linda and Oli married. Neither of her parents had been particularly enamoured with parenthood – Linda had always suspected she was an accident – and they apparently felt the same about being grandparents. Amy and Tom received birthday and Christmas cards from them, but that was as far as their relationship went. Having never had them around, Amy and Tom didn’t miss them or even seem to think about them that often.
Christmas at Conwenna Cove Page 3
