Oli’s father, on the other hand, had been amazingly supportive and he didn’t know how he’d have managed without him. His mother lived in Helston, having left when Oli was fifteen after falling in love with her boss at the haulage firm where she worked as a PA. She was there if Oli needed her, but he tried not to bother her too often because she always seemed so busy. And anyway, Oli always tried to be strong around his parents because he didn’t want his own grief – or, his loneliness – affecting their lives. It wasn’t good for them, or for the children who were incredibly intuitive and would pick up on it all.
And so his life went on… day after day, he got up, got the children ready then put one foot in front of the other. But, unfortunately, party planning wasn’t his forte and he knew he was working himself up trying to organize this one.
He cocked his head at a noise from upstairs. Probably just one of the children going to the toilet, but he should check. He pushed the kitchen chair back and got up, then went out into the hallway and listened. Sure enough, there was the sound of the toilet flushing then someone padding across the landing.
‘Tom?’ he called softly.
A white face surrounded by messy blond hair appeared on the landing.
‘Did you wash your hands?’
‘Oh… No. I had to have a Sunday dinner poo. It was the cabbage, Daddy, it made me stinky.’
‘I thought you might have. Go and wash your hands and use soap like I showed you.’
Oli shook his head, knowing that his sleepy little boy would probably fail to do a good job of washing his hands, so he climbed the stairs and supervised Tom’s ablutions. When he was done, he guided him back to his bedroom and tucked him in.
‘Daddy?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had a dream.’
‘You did?’
Tom nodded, his eyelids already fluttering as tiredness claimed him.
‘What did you dream?’
‘About the nice lady with the coloured pens. She was so pretty. She had red hair like dragon fire and lots of brown spots on her face like Maxine.’
‘Those were freckles.’
‘What are freckles?’
‘I’ll explain tomorrow. Right now you need to get some sleep.’
‘Daddy, I really liked her.’
Oli stroked his son’s hair before planting a gentle kiss on his forehead.
‘I did too,’ he whispered as he left the bedroom, making sure that the door was left ajar.
He descended the stairs, thinking about what he’d just admitted. It was silly really; he was a thirty-five year old widower with two young children. He’d felt not even a flicker of interest in women since Linda had died. And now… the beautiful Grace Phillips had appeared in Conwenna and he couldn’t get her out of his head. But he knew that she was probably already involved, even if not with Nate, and that she’d have no interest in Oli himself. Why would she? He was hardly an attractive proposition with his emotional baggage and domestic situation. Besides, he couldn’t allow another woman into his children’s lives, as much as he knew they sometimes wished they had a mother. What if something went wrong and they lost another mother figure? Oli knew he couldn’t put Amy and Tom through that, neither could he cope with it himself. He just wasn’t strong enough.
He returned to his list and added birthday cake and candles. He’d go to the Conwenna Café tomorrow and speak to Nate about arranging a birthday cake. Of course, he knew that he could ask his father to sort it all out while he was in work, but it just didn’t seem fair to lay his responsibilities at Paul’s door. He was a wonderfully loving father and grandfather, but Oli was a grown man and he hated the idea of anyone thinking he wasn’t coping alone.
He was doing okay. He just had to keep telling himself that. He had to display a strong front because at least if he did that, he could almost believe in it too.
* * *
Mondays had never been Grace’s favourite day of the week, but here in Conwenna it didn’t seem so bad. She’d woken in her parents’ cottage and appreciated the peace and quiet of a morning in a small seaside village. There was no traffic noise, no drunken student antics happening below her window and no heart-wrenching sirens in the early hours.
When she’d opened her curtains to see the incredible view from her bedroom window, she’d actually been breathless. Over the weekend, her father had worked to clear the brambles from the upstairs windows and to cut the hedge out front, and now there was a clear view out to sea, from the cottage’s elevated position. In the early morning sunlight, the sea sparkled as if millions of diamonds were floating on its surface, and just seeing that view had filled her with hopeful anticipation about the day and week ahead.
Initially, Grace had only intended to stay in Conwenna for a week or two, until her parents were settled, but over Sunday lunch yesterday, and following the very nice bottle of wine that Oli Davenport had given her, Grace’s mother had persuaded her to stay until the new year. What did Grace have to go back for, she’d asked? A small empty flat and drinks with old school friends if she was lucky – Grace didn’t really have any close friends in Cardiff. Growing up, she had focused on her family life and her education, and she had no regrets about that at all. When people her own age were experimenting with drink and sex in their teens, Grace was at home studying or keeping Sam occupied. Her brother had been such a bright young man, such good company and they’d been so close. He would have loved it here and she wished he could see the view. She would have sacrificed the front bedroom for him, just to see him smile.
She rubbed her chest above her heart. Her grief was not as raw or as sharp as it had once been, but her heart still ached whenever she thought of her brother and how much she missed him. The only thing that really helped ease the ache was her writing. When her mind was creating new characters and putting them into difficult situations, she could escape the sorrow for a while. She’d always written growing up and enjoyed creating stories, but after losing Sam, immersing herself in fiction was her escape – her creative therapy. She was grateful every day to the counsellor who had suggested that she try something creative to deal with her grief. Before Sam died, she’d gone to Cardiff University and studied English Literature, which she had adored. Following graduation, she’d spent a few years temping in offices and found it quite boring. Then, in her grief, her love of writing was rekindled. It had started as journaling, but she’d soon found herself writing whole novels and her father had suggested that she send some of them off to literary agents. To her surprise, one of her books had been snapped up by an agent and that had been that. A generous advance meant she hadn’t needed to temp any more, much to her relief.
Her mother and father read every word she wrote and were her personal critique partners. She believed that they felt some relief in seeing her create her novels, because it was as if she was leaving something behind in the world, so that even after she’d gone, there would be proof that she existed. Because she’d sworn never to have children of her own; it was far too risky. There was nothing left of Sam, except for photographs, memories and the urn of ashes that her parents had kept on the mantelpiece in their living room in Cardiff, and that was now on the wooden shelf above the fireplace in the cottage. They’d, so far, been unable to let go of the ashes and they’d become like part of the furniture: always there, reassuring in their presence. Grace believed that they’d need to let go of Sam at some point, but when she wasn’t yet certain.
Sam had been too young to have a family of his own, his life had barely started, and even if he’d met someone, he never would have risked having a child. It was just something that he and Grace knew they could never do. In fact, they’d made a pact when she was eleven, and he was twelve, that they’d never have children in case those children had to suffer as he had. And Grace still carried the memory of making that promise around with her; it was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.
But that was life. Everyone had to make sacrifices and Grace wasn’t ab
out to allow hers to darken her doorstep. She intended to live for as long as she was able, preferably without hurting anyone else along the way.
And right now, Conwenna Cove seemed like a great place to do just that.
She dressed then went down to the warm kitchen where things were taking shape. She’d helped her mother to unpack their kitchen utensils, pots and pans, and her father had put them where he wanted them; after all, he used them more than his wife or daughter. They’d also hung the dried lavender and herbs – that they’d brought from their Cardiff garden – from the beams on the low ceiling, and just outside the kitchen window, a pretty wind chime tinkled. Sam had loved wind chimes and told his parents that whenever they heard one, they should think of him. Therefore, Louise and Simon had wind chimes wherever they went, and their tinkling had become synonymous with the comfort of home and of the love they’d all shared.
The large oak kitchen table was also from their former house and it easily seated eight people. Not that they entertained that often, but her father liked the idea of being able to invite guests. Under the window that overlooked the back garden and the evergreen trees that bordered it – providing privacy from the rental cottages that sat further along the main road that led through Conwenna – sat an apron-fronted sink with an antique copper mixer tap. The wooden units in the kitchen were painted a very pale blue and had a genuine distressed effect that Grace really liked. In fact, now that the cottage was clean and warm, she could see its character and she found herself actually wishing that she had a cosy little cottage too. She could certainly afford one with the money she was bringing in – and with her lack of commitments – plus she’d been saving for years, but she’d never thought about buying a property like this.
Until now.
She shook her head. The bright morning sunshine and the pretty cottage were playing havoc with her sensibilities. Grace rented a perfectly nice flat in the centre of Cardiff. She could go to the shops or the pubs whenever she chose, and was close to the train station for when she needed to get up to London. Moving to a village like Conwenna Cove would make all of that more difficult: she wouldn’t be able to hop on a train whenever she chose. Not that she did just hop onto trains, ever, but at least the option was there.
As she ran through these thoughts, her father appeared in his navy towelling dressing gown with his grey hair sticking up and a relaxed smile on his face. They’d been in the pretty Cornish village a little over a week, and in that time Simon had lost the haunted look that she thought he’d had most of her life. His face seemed to have filled out a bit and the brown of his eyes was somehow warmer. It lifted her heart to see him looking so much better, as if life was giving him a second chance at happiness.
‘Morning, Dad.’
‘Morning, Grace.’
‘Tea?’
‘Yes please, and make one for your mother too. She’s having a lie-in.’
‘She’s having a lie-in?’
Grace swallowed her surprise. Louise was usually a whirling dervish, spinning constantly from the moment she woke until she passed out exhausted on the sofa at night and had to be woken by her husband and guided up to bed. And now she was having a lie-in?
‘I know, can you believe it? I woke up to find her still softly snoring.’
‘The sea air must be having a good effect on her then.’
Her father nodded. ‘On me too. I slept better last night than I have done in years.’
‘Me too, funnily enough. I thought I’d miss the city noise but apparently not.’
Grace made three mugs of tea.
‘You know, Grace, I do think that being here is having a positive effect on us all. We suspected that it might. The locals would say that it’s the magic of Conwenna Cove.’
Grace snorted; she couldn’t help herself.
‘Who’ve you been talking to, Dad?’
‘Yes, my girl, you can mock the idea, but—’
‘It’s ridiculous. Superstitious nonsense.’
‘You might be right. But all I do know is that it’s not just the hard work getting this place shipshape that’s improved our appetites and helped us to sleep better. Being here is just…’ his voice caught then and he blinked hard and stared down at his corduroy slippers. Grace went over to him and stroked his arm. She’d never seen her father get emotional, not even at Sam’s funeral. Simon had been a rock for her and her mother, holding them together when their world crumbled around them. But here Simon was, on the verge of tears, his pain bubbling to the surface.
He cleared his throat and his Adam’s apple bobbed furiously, ‘Must be getting soft in my old age, Grace.’
‘You’re not old,’ she said, as she shook her head.
‘Getting there, though. You know, I’d love to see you settled and happy. If you found someone… a good man, then your mother would finally find some sort of peace.’
‘Come on, now.’ Grace forced a laugh. ‘Bit heavy for the morning cuppa, isn’t it? You don’t need me married off, you know. I’m perfectly fine as I am.’
‘You don’t have to be on your own forever. And when we’re gone, I’d like to think you’ll have someone to look out for you. It can be a lonely life.’
‘I’ll be fine, Dad, and you and Mum will be here for a long time yet.’
He smiled, then leaned forwards and kissed her cheek, being careful not to spill the tea.
‘Right, off to grab another hour. See you later.’
‘You do that.’
Grace took her tea to the kitchen table and sat down.
It wasn’t like her father to be so open about things; it was usually her mother telling her to find a man and settle down. As if that was the magic cure for everything they’d all been through. For Grace, that idea didn’t seem realistic, and her parents knew why, as well as she did.
But perhaps she could consider making a change in her circumstances. And a cosy cottage of her own, with a picturesque sea view, seemed more appealing by the minute.
Chapter 5
Grace entered the Conwenna Café and closed the door behind her. She stood still for a moment, catching her breath after having it stolen by the biting sea wind that was sweeping through Conwenna. Her teeth had literally been chattering on her walk from Rosehip Cottage and she’d been glad of the hat, scarf and gloves that her mother had pressed on her before she’d left.
She pulled the hat and gloves off then unwound the scarf, before looking around for somewhere to sit. The air was filled with the mouth-watering scents of festive baking – reminding her again that it was December – and the haunting sound of a church choir drifted from the speakers around the café. In the corner, a large Christmas tree glowed with hundreds of tiny white lights and the front of the counter had been decorated with a colourful string of miniature lanterns.
The table nearest the tree had been taken by a striking looking couple. The woman was very pretty and petite with large green eyes and short blonde hair. Her companion was tall and broad with brown hair and eyes so dark they seemed black. They were currently cooing over the baby that the woman was cradling in her arms and their love for the child was written all over their faces. As Grace watched, an older woman approached the table carrying a tray of mugs and cakes, which she set down on the table. They looked like a perfect little family and Grace wondered if they lived locally.
Grace continued her scan for a table and her cheeks filled with heat as she met the blue-green eyes of Oliver Davenport. Were they destined to keep bumping into each other as if they were the leading roles in a Hollywood blockbuster? Then again, it was a very small village and it was highly likely that she’d bump into him more than once, and she was probably only noticing him because they’d been introduced. There were other faces she’d seen around that were becoming familiar, but she had yet to put a name to them. She held her breath, unsure whether to smile or wave, but as his lips turned upwards and he beckoned her with a wave of his hand, she released the breath and returned his smile.
‘Hello, Grace. How’re you?’
‘Cold.’ She removed her coat. ‘Actually, I’m freezing.’
‘You want to sit down?’
She glanced at the table where he had an empty coffee cup, a plate with a few crumbs on it and a notepad with a pen sitting on top.
‘Wouldn’t I be disturbing you?’
‘Not at all. To be honest, I’d be glad of the distraction.’
‘Okay, then. Thanks.’
She hung her coat on the back of the chair and sat down.
‘Do you always go out for lunch?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Only when I need some thinking time… or some cakes.’ He laughed. ‘I needed to try to get my head around this…’ He gestured at the notepad.
‘You’re writing?’
‘Not exactly… more planning.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘A birthday party.’
‘Who for?’
‘My daughter.’
‘Oh… that’s right, I remember you mentioning her.’
‘Yes, Amy. She’ll be eleven on Friday. I’ve left all this a bit late, but things have been busy and then it was the weekend and then…’ he sighed. ‘I’ve no excuse really, other than to say that I’m still getting used to doing all this stuff, and I was probably subconsciously delaying because I knew I’d struggle.’
Grace nodded, although she wasn’t quite sure what he meant and didn’t want to pry. Not when he was being so nice again. She realized who he reminded her of this morning with his short dark hair and eyes the colour of the Caribbean ocean: the actor Tom Hardy. His wife was a lucky woman.
Christmas at Conwenna Cove Page 4
