The Captain and the Baker

by Catherine Curzon

  “Perhaps you’re so used to shouting and swearing that you don’t recognize a friendly community when you see one.” Locryn buttoned up his deep-blue overcoat. “You’re not in London now. The pace of life’s very different here.”

  “Friendly?” Jake’s laughter boomed around the village hall. “Is that what you call friendly, is it, your fucking fan club pelting me with bits of paper?”

  “After your wife and you called us naff wicker cod burners!”

  Wife. Jesus.

  “Why do you all think I’m married to her?” Jake bounced up and down on his toes in frustration. “I’m a gay man. She’s hardly my type!”

  “Gay?” Locryn blinked his blue eyes. “You’re not— Really? Well, that’s certainly a surprise!”

  “I don’t shout about it.” Jake bit his lip before saying, “I just hoped people would guess, seeing as whenever I have to go to some event with a plus-one I take a bloke. Or my mum. Seems it didn’t bloody work.”

  “Well, we Porthavelans don’t worry about that side of things.” Locryn shrugged. “I’ll say goodnight, Captain.”

  “Goodnight, then.” Jake held out his hand to shake, but it wasn’t the thrusting, bold gesture that it usually was. “And don’t worry, I’ll keep out of your hair.”

  Your lovely dark-gold hair.

  Jake shook his head to chase the thought away.

  The handshake was brief then, with a little smile, Locryn and his cake box were gone.

  Chapter Five

  Jake began his walk home. The sun had set and the streets were empty, a strong breeze gusting through the lanes of the close-clustered houses.

  Have I fucked everything up?

  No, but now it was going to be very hard to live in Porthavel and not at every moment fear the return of the mob. And who knew what they’d throw at him next—mussel shells? Dried-up old starfish? Lobster pots?

  After passing the harbor—the last thing Jake wanted to see that evening was his sodding pirate ship—he went down the concrete steps to the beach and decided to wear out his rage in a brisk walk, pushing against the wind. But the wind only grew stronger, until Jake could barely force through it, and the waves began to roll and foam, towering up like mountains before crashing on the beach.

  He jumped back as a wave rushed at him, and the first spattering specks of rain began to fall.

  Porthavel doesn’t like me. Not even the sea likes me!

  Jake abandoned the beach and began to make his way home, but he was in the dark and barely able to open his eyes in the wind, which carried sharp sand and salt.

  And he lost his way.

  And it wasn’t as if he could ask for help.

  There were no streetlamps, nobody else out walking, just Jake and the narrow, winding streets with their picturesque cottages cozy and safe against the storm. London suddenly seemed like the most welcoming place on earth. If Jake woke up in any random corner of the city, he’d have found his way home without so much as a moment’s panic. Not so here, though, in the village that had already decided it loathed him. Here he was lost.

  Jake managed to find a road out of the village and he was soon wandering along a lane with high hedges on either side. It looked a bit like the lane where his house was, but he could barely see a thing. And one hedge-lined lane looked much like another on a good day.

  Something darted across the road ahead and Jake gasped. It was probably only a rat or something, but before he could identify it, it had vanished under a sheet of corrugated iron by the verge.

  And when the wind gusted again, the iron trembled before lifting up of its own accord and flying up and over the hedge.

  Jake ducked low, hoping the wind wouldn’t lift him up off his feet and hurl him too, but now he saw, shivering where the sheet of metal had once been, not a rat but a small black cat with a white bib.

  It looked terrified and was drenched through.

  Jake battled with the wind and the rain and bent down to the cat. It made no attempt to run, so Jake scooped it up in one movement and zipped it into the front of his jacket.

  Can’t just leave the poor sod.

  The cat wriggled against him, shivering, and Jake protectively placed one arm across his chest, groping through the darkness with the other as he tried to find his home.

  And now Jake hurried, the small, wet creature his prime focus as he headed through the storm. He turned a bend and a cottage was up ahead, its lights shining their welcome.

  Jake experienced a strange sense of déjà vu, just as he always did whenever he met someone in person for the first time after only ever seeing them on television before.

  How could he not recognize the cottage from all those bakery programs Locryn did?

  Because wasn’t this Locryn’s house?

  Which, he realized with a miserable shudder, was nowhere near Jake’s.

  He couldn’t just walk in, but equally Jake couldn’t walk another step. He was well and truly lost.

  And he had a cat in his jacket.

  He battled to open the garden gate, which the wind was determined to keep shut, and once Jake had won his fight, he knocked on Locryn’s front door.

  Jake waited as patiently as he could, but it wasn’t easy standing outside in a gale with a plaintively mewing cat fidgeting inside his jacket. He tried again, but still Locryn didn’t answer.

  Was he even in?

  Jake walked around the perimeter of the cottage, the leaded, diamond-shaped windows staring blank and unlit back at him.

  So it was all a façade, then. Locryn didn’t live here at all.

  Then, at the back of the house, Jake saw lights from the window, and when he pressed his face against the glass, he saw Locryn’s kitchen.

  And there at the table, wearing only a dressing gown, was Locryn himself.

  Baking.

  The wind whipped and shrieked around Jake, the falling rain rushing back and forth like a curtain of water, but he couldn’t move from the spot. All he could do was gawp in wonderment.

  There was no denying it, Locryn was a beautiful man. Those forearms were on show again from his rolled-up sleeves, and a very tempting expanse of firm chest, decorated with a manly layer of dark hair, peeped from the vee of his dressing gown.

  And he’s a bloody annoying Peter Perfect!

  A fresh gust of wind battered Jake, almost knocking him off his feet. He lifted his fist and rapped on the window with his knuckles, but Locryn didn’t even look up. As another heavy deluge of rain fell above him, Jake knocked again, harder this time. Locryn paused, then blinked toward the window, peering into the darkness.

  Don’t you dare close the bloody curtains.

  Instead Locryn crossed to the kitchen door and opened it, admitting Jake to his welcome sanctuary, light spilling out from within and bringing with it warmth and the smell of baking bread.

  “Locryn? I’m the last person you want to see right now, I know, but where’s my house?”

  Locryn frowned, then shouted against the storm, “Where’s— Have you been drinking?”

  “No! I went for a walk! And…I’m lost, Locryn. Will you help me, please?”

  The cat struggled and Jake pulled the zip on his jacket down enough for it to pop its head out.

  “And I found a cat. Is it yours?”

  “You’d both better come in.” Locryn stepped back into the kitchen, battling to keep the wind from snatching the door out of his hand. Not that it was much of a fight, with those broad shoulders. “Quick, before we get blown away!”

  Jake plunged into the welcome safety of Locryn’s kitchen. The cat sprang out of Jake’s jacket and nearly knocked him backward, but once he’d steadied himself, he saw that the cat had made straight for Locryn’s Aga and was soon curled up in front of the large old-fashioned oven.

  “This leather jacket’s not going to cut the fucking mustard down here, is it?” Jake laughed with relief to be out of the storm. “Have you got enough rain? Sure you don’t want some more?”

 
; “What on earth are you doing out on a night like this?” Locryn glanced at the cat, but she already looked very satisfied with her lot. “Let me fetch you a towel or you’ll catch your death. Pull up a chair to the Aga, get warmed up with your kitty.”

  “You don’t have to. I just want to know where my house has gone.” Jake was dazed, and he now realized how tired he was from his hike through the storm. He dropped down onto a chair and held out his palms to the Aga. “Has it been blown away? I’m a friend of Dorothy’s, but I never intended to be her.”

  “Does that make me the Wicked Witch of the West or Glinda?” He could hear Locryn bustling about in the hallway and a few seconds later he was padding back into the room on bare feet, his arms filled with fluffy bright-blue towels. “Here you go. I’ll let you dry off while I get my fruit cake in the oven. I’ll get you something to warm you up too. Brandy ought to do it!”

  Jake placed the towels on the chair beside him. When he took off his jacket, he realized that his T-shirt underneath was soaked and had stuck to his skin. “Brandy would be amazing, Locryn. Thanks. I don’t think I’ve been this wet through since I was dunked in that tank on telly to raise dosh for charity!”

  “Oh, that was worth seeing.” Locryn put the cake tin into the Aga then turned. Was Jake imagining it or did— No. Why would Locryn sweep his gaze over Jake? They didn’t even like each other, and just because Locryn was a baker with an Aga and no obvious significant other, it didn’t necessarily mean he was gay. Or that Jake was his type even if he was. “Do you want to borrow—I don’t wear T-shirts, I’m afraid. Your clothes are soaked to the skin. Let me pop them in the dryer and you can borrow a huge dressing gown while you wait.”

  “That’d be great.” Jake paused, halfway out of his T-shirt, his stomach shiny with the rain. “Are you sure? After what happened earlier?”

  “You might not think much of me, but that’s what we do in Porthavel when someone needs help.” Locryn stroked the little cat’s head then headed for the door again. “I told you, this isn’t London, Jake!”

  “I think a lot of you, actually.” With effort, Jake pulled off his T-shirt. Then he was, surreally, topless in Locryn’s kitchen. “I had one of your little cakes earlier. It was really good. It’s just—this bloody program.”

  Locryn threw him another glance, clearly not convinced, then was gone again, leaving Jake alone in his famed and very real kitchen.

  And what a place it was. If a set designer and dresser had created this kitchen in a studio, they couldn’t have made it more picture-book perfect than it was. From the vast old Aga to the scrubbed pine table and the dresser on which mismatched pieces of china were carelessly if artfully arranged, it was perfect. Cozy and homely and everything that Jake would call twee. But not tonight. Tonight it was heaven.

  It suited Locryn to a tee.

  “Here we are, Captain Jake.” Locryn’s gaze didn’t waver from Jake’s face as he strolled back into the kitchen and held out a white robe. It was huge and fluffy and as bright as freshly fallen snow. “Not quite so on-brand as a leather jacket or a Jolly Roger, but a lot more cozy.”

  “Right now, that dressing gown looks very appealing indeed. Just a second.”

  Jake turned around and took off his soggy trainers, then peeled himself out of his jeans. He was left in only his boxer shorts.

  “Sorry, my jeans are soaked through too. I’m sure you don’t need to see me in my shorts!” Jake turned back to Locryn and took the dressing gown, hurrying into it. He could hear Locryn pouring the drinks, tactfully giving Jake some space to change. The wind and rain battered against the little cottage but now Jake felt as cozy as the kitchen had seemed from outside, safely cosseted in the warmth and light.

  Jake piled up his discarded clothes, adding his socks. What Locryn would make of their repeating pattern of cartoon fish skeletons on plates, he couldn’t imagine. Then he started to rub his hair dry.

  “I never thought you filmed in your actual kitchen, but this really is it, isn’t it?”

  “Of course!” Locryn put the brandy glasses down atop a sheaf of sketches on the table. He picked up the bundle of damp clothes. “Sometimes we use the bakehouse in the garden too. I don’t know if I dare put these jeans in the dryer. They look rather expensive to me!”

  “I’ve got some more in my suitcase,” Jake said, but his house, wherever it had got to, seemed very far away. “I could hang them over a chair?”

  Locryn was already there though, hanging the jeans over the back of a chair before he positioned it in front of the Aga. Then he asked, “What’s your little chum’s name? She’s adorable!”

  “I was hoping you’d know. She must be a local moggy.” Jake crouched down next to the cat and fussed her, and a loud purr vibrated in her throat. “She was in the lane, just down from your cottage. Hiding under a sheet of metal, and when it blew away—she looked too tired to move, and I couldn’t leave her, could I?”

  Locryn shook his head. “Of course not. I don’t recognize her from the village. Does she have a name?”

  “She’s not wearing a collar. Doesn’t look like she’s had a good meal in a long time either.” Jake grinned as the cat rubbed her head against his knee. “Oh, what the hell, let’s call her Dorothy, seeing as I’m her friend.”

  Locryn laughed. “Would you like some water, Dorothy? I’ve got some fresh crab in the fridge too, if it’s to madam’s taste?”

  “She’s Cornish, I bet she loves it!”

  Dorothy got up from her patch by the Aga and threaded herself around Locryn’s legs, peering up at him with her large emerald eyes.

  Locryn’s bare legs. Which Jake told himself not to look at.

  “Let’s see what we can do for you, Dorothy,” the baker said. “There’re some brownies in the tin next to your brandy, Jake. Help yourself if chocolate takes your fancy.”

  “Thanks, mate.” Jake opened the tin and the smell of the brownies that rose up to tease his nostrils was nothing short of divine. As Jake bit into one—the flavor was even more gorgeous than the smell—he glanced at the sketches on the table.

  And Jake realized that Locryn had been drawing out a design for a cake that looked very much boat-shaped. Jake helped himself to one of the glasses of brandy and took a deep gulp before returning to the chair by the Aga.

  Don’t be cross. Don’t tell him you’ve seen the sketches. He could’ve done them ages ago. The bloke’s just saved you from being washed out to sea.

  But as Jake watched Dorothy follow Locryn around the kitchen, he couldn’t dismiss the thought.

  “So…” Jake rolled the word around his mouth before asking, “…the wedding cake?”

  “Zoe and I drew up the sketches months ago,” Locryn explained, clearly realizing too late that he hadn’t tidied them away. He stopped and put two delicate china bowls down on the floor, one filled with crabmeat, one with water. “Zoe popped over after the meeting to collect her favorites so she could show you what she had in mind for her cake. We’re not scheming, so don’t start shouting and swearing at me, all right?”

  Jake raised his hand. “Locryn, I’m not going to shout. I’m sat here in your dressing gown, drinking your brandy. I just…I saw how disappointed Zoe was yesterday when she was told you couldn’t bake the cake, and I’m not daft. That wasn’t her being Bridezilla, was it? You baking her cake really means something to her.”

  Finally done with feeding the cat and drying clothes and pouring brandy, Locryn settled into one of the chairs. He took his spectacles from the pocket of his dressing gown and put them on, then leafed through the sketches. Eventually he sighed, “There’ll be plenty of other cakes. And yours’ll be wonderful, I know that.”

  Jake sat quietly for a few moments, watching Dorothy gratefully hoover up the crabmeat, purring nonstop. He leaned back in the chair and sighed.

  “I don’t want to be an arsehole about it.” Jake’s bottom lip began to quiver. He wasn’t sure why, but words were trying to force their way out of him, word
s he’d never thought he’d say. “I’m banging on about it being my television show, but I can have loads of them. This is Zoe and David’s wedding. They might only have one in their lives, and… Shit, it’s not fair, is it? Not having the cake you want at your wedding because of some adult baby like me whining about his precious television show.”

  “It’s honestly fine. That producer of yours would only make some sort of awful sob story out of it, I couldn’t bear that.” He picked up one of the brownies and took a bite. “Just make it a really nice cake?”

  “Except that I’m the executive producer.” Jake sipped the brandy again. A wonderful warmth and calm was spreading through him, and he glanced at Locryn. Handsome bloody Locryn. “What sob story?”

  But Locryn looked at him with a hint of suspicion in his eyes. “I’m not saying another word until you swear to me you won’t put this in the program. Not a mention of it, Jake, I mean it.”

  “It’s okay, I won’t say anything. I’ve already put the brakes on Fionn trying to use hidden camera footage, so don’t worry.” Jake mimed zipping his mouth. “Not a word.”

  “This isn’t the world you know.” He looked down at the sketches again and shook his head. “You’ve seen the storm tonight. It’s ferocious out there but our trawlermen still have to put to sea. We live from the land when it’s out of season. Fishing, farming, we depend on it. Storms like this come out of nowhere and they can be deadly in villages like Porthavel.”

  “It certainly took me by surprise.” Jake pictured the fishing boats he’d seen drawn up in the harbor earlier. Maybe some of them were out there now in the storm?

  “All over the village tonight people are waiting for the trawlermen to come safely home.” Locryn ran his hand back through his hair. “And sometimes—not often, thank the Lord— they don’t. Zoe lost her dad on a night like this, Jake.”

  “I had no idea.” Jake put his empty glass aside. Suddenly being a television chef seemed inadequate, swearing down a camera about a flat soufflé nothing short of pathetic. “And that’s why the boat-shaped cake is so important?”