He nodded. “Jory and Petroc owned a trawler together. They were close as brothers. Merryn was my right-hand woman in the café. I didn’t quite have a head for business, just a talent for baking. Ten years ago there was a storm like this and they raced it back to the harbor. They were virtually home when they got a distress call and—I don’t think I could’ve been this brave—they went back into the storm to answer it. They found the trawler and got the crew safely aboard but Jory was swept off the deck.”
Locryn paused and took a deep gulp of brandy. “Petroc dived in after him, the poor blighter, but Jory was dead by the time they pulled him from the water. But the boat—the ocean—it was in Jory’s blood. He lived on the waves and he loved his boat, Jake. Zoe and David just wanted to honor him and Petroc, who still goes out on nights like this. And still answers every call for help, even though he’d never admit it.”
Jake didn’t speak for a while. The wind howled down the chimney and the rain clattered against the windows like a handful of stones flung against the panes. But a clock ticked steadily, and Dorothy lay stretched full-length across the floor, purring like an engine.
Maybe Petroc was out there at this very moment? And all he could think was how glad he was to be indoors, and how he’d never be as brave as the sailors who went back out into the storm by choice.
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” Jake tugged at his hair, frustrated and embarrassed. Until he said, “I’ve got no right to make the wedding cake. It has to be you, Locryn.”
Jake Brantham, relinquishing television space. Whatever next?
But Locryn shook his head.
“No. I don’t want anybody else to think I’m trying to push myself into the spotlight.” He picked up the sketches and tidied them like a newsreader at the end of a bulletin. “Merryn’s been so strong for Zoe, but I saw how broken she was. Sometimes after closing she’d just sit down at a table and cry and— I’ve known Zoe and David all their lives, Jake, and their lives haven’t been easy. It was never about the limelight. It was about doing one really special thing for a couple who deserve the best of everything, and you’ll give them the best cake they could wish for.”
“But the best cake is one made by you.” Jake brushed his fingers over the back of Locryn’s hand. Only for a moment. “It’ll mean far more to them than whatever I come up with, and…I’m not much of a baker. I mean, I can do it. But it’ll be average. Those cherry buns you made, that’s seriously good cake. And your brownies. Loc, will you think about it? Please?”
Because this really matters. This is bigger than making good telly.
Locryn folded the arms of his spectacles and put them down atop the sketches, his expression thoughtful.
“I’m sorry about the kerfuffle at the meeting,” he said. “We’re really not unwelcoming, you know. And there are lots of people besides me who don’t have beards. I can’t speak for the weird side of things though.”
“Fionn is…well…she’s telly.” Jake raised an eyebrow. “You know what I mean, don’t you? Everything’s this’ll make great telly. Some sort of horrendous humanitarian disaster, or an orangutan in a rainforest going apeshit at the guy who’s just chopped down his tree, not crap, that’s awful, like a normal human being, she’s…fuck yes, great telly! I’m really sorry about what she said. And I’m sorry about what I said on the boat. I mean, velvet curtains are a bit naff, but I can’t walk into the wreck and say it’s great. And Captain Cod does look like he’s Captain Birdseye’s brother. But I concede. Idiot brother was a bit too far.”
“He does the best fish and chips you’ve ever tasted. I’ll buy you some tomorrow if you like.” Locryn took another sip of brandy. “He knows every inch of your new galleon and every way to get a bargain when it comes to fitting out a kitchen. He’s a useful fellow to know in this village.”
“Okay. So. Captain—is that really his name?” Jake laughed as Dorothy leaped up from the floor onto his lap and settled there. “He’s not really called Captain Pascoe or something?”
Locryn frowned as he considered the question, then admitted, “He’s always been Captain Cod. And he’s never looked any different, as far as I can remember!”
“Wow. Is he the Old Man of the Sea? Does he live in a cave and is he five thousand years old?”
“Maybe he’s Neptune? Mrs. Cod always looks very pleased with her lot.” Locryn laughed. “Almost as pleased as young Dorothy here.”
Jake yawned. The wind howled long and low like a beast preparing to slay. “I should get going. But that storm hasn’t given up, has it?”
He shook his head. “You’re welcome to the spare room if you’d like. Freshly made croissants for breakfast, of course.”
“Locryn, honestly, you’ve been too kind to me already. I can’t kip in your spare room. Even if fresh croissants sound fucking amazing. After what I said…”
“I know, I’m a saint.” The tone was deadpan, but Locryn’s eyes danced with amusement. “Just…start again tomorrow. Maybe be a bit more this Jake and a bit less the other?”
Jake chuckled. “Yeah, but you know what the viewers want, Loc. This croissant’s fucking raw! You could’ve killed me! Death by croissant. What a load of old crap.”
“I’ve eaten in all three of your restaurants and each was as annoyingly good as the others. Even the boat thing didn’t feel like a gimmick. I wasn’t blown away by your ganache though, but I’m a hard man to please when it comes to satisfying my sweet tooth.” He smiled, the mischief growing. “Maybe I can teach you a few of my secrets.”
“All three? Fuck. That’s—well, thanks for coming back!” Jake grinned. Locryn—in his restaurant, and his staff had never said a word. “And the ganache, I know, it’s dry, isn’t it? I’ve struggled with that bastard for too long and it’s just come off the menu because I felt cross every time I saw it.” Much like every time he saw Locryn, but because he was such a handsome sod, eminently more tempting than inept ganache. “Yeah. Maybe you could teach me some of your secrets. What was all that about your smugglers’ tunnel?”
“It’s right under your feet. Runs all the way down from the cottage to the beach. My grandparents lived here before me and generations of Trevorrows before them.” Locryn drained his glass. “I bet you didn’t know that I had smuggling blood!”
“Will the boat cake have a secret compartment full of contraband?” Jake laughed, until a yawn took him by surprise. “I think it’s time for bed.”
“I said I’d think about it, but it’s up to the bride and groom.” He put the lid back on the brownie tin. “Come on, Jake and Dorothy. Follow me to your dashing smugglers’ quarters.”
Chapter Six
When Jake arrived at the harbor the next morning he was surprised, and somewhat disappointed, to discover that the pirate ship hadn’t sunk overnight. In fact, the village seemed to have survived mostly intact.
As had Jake, thanks only to Locryn’s hospitality. If he’d had to wander much longer in the storm, Jake would’ve ended up in a sorry state, but as it was, he’d had a good sleep in Locryn’s chintzy spare room.
And so had Dorothy, who Jake had left curled up on a chair by Locryn’s Aga.
As Jake plunged into the noise and chaos of the ship, he wondered what the hell he was meant to do with the cat. And what the hell he could do about the crush he now had on Locryn. Because Jake couldn’t ignore the appeal of a man with sparkling blue eyes, who looked so hot baking.
He’d last seen Locryn as he’d cycled away from the cottage with a merry wave, off to collect fresh milk from the neighboring farm. If Jake had seen it on television or read it in an interview, he would’ve laughed Locryn’s life off as fantasy, an elaborate storyline designed to sell his baking bibles. Yet it seemed as though it wasn’t. There were hens in the back garden and goats in the front, two plump donkeys grazing in a lush paddock with well-appointed stable and a royal-blue bicycle with a wicker basket. Locryn’s life was very real, and it was intimately bound up with the village
where his ancestors had once been smugglers.
“Hey!” Bright-red fingernails clicked in front of his face as Fionn commanded, “Wake up! I’ve had an email this morning that you’ll want to hear.”
Fionn. Emails. A television crew. Clipboards.
Oh, the fucking tyranny of clipboards.
“Fionn, you do know that nice man in Nigeria doesn’t really want to give you twenty million dollars?”
“Really? Thank fuck you told me before I signed the check!” She rolled her eyes. “There’s a nice man in L.A. too, and he’s looking for a British chef to launch a major new series. You’re on the shortlist.”
“L.A.? But I’m in Cornwall.” And Cornwall was actually—did Jake dare admit?—rather nice. For the first time in ages, he’d woken up hearing the soft sigh of the wind in the trees and the waves crawling back and forth on the beach. He hadn’t, for once, heard the whoosh of his pulse in his ears.
“There’re two other names on the list but I don’t know who they are.” Then she gave a sly smile and whispered, “The only thing I’ve been able to get out of him are that none of them are bakers. But you’d know that, since you spent the night with one.”
“News travels fucking fast around Porthavel.” Jake combed his hand through his hair. He knew very well what Fionn was implying, and Jake couldn’t help but be embarrassed by the fact that staying the night with Locryn sounded far more racy than it had been in reality. “You saw that bloody storm last night? I got lost in it, and Locryn, bless him, gave me a berth.”
Fionn nodded. “I saw you leaving this morning.” With a wink she added, “I won’t tell. But don’t go troppo, Jake. You’d go nuts stuck here with Locryn and his frilly doilies. Did he try to snog you into letting him make the cake?”
“There was no snogging, Fionn. Nothing like that. I was knackered and turned up looking like a drowned rat.” Complete with random stray cat. But Jake didn’t want to tell Fionn about Dorothy. “He…” Nope, can’t tell her about the dressing gown either. “He gave me a brandy and sent me to bed. To sleep. Alone. And—”
An almighty crash followed by a cannonade of yells filled Jake’s ears and he winced. A lighting rig had fallen sideways onto a table that one of the decorators had been using. Paint tins now rolled about the floor and Jake had to jump out of the way of a paint lid that was heading toward him at speed, hurling out Catherine wheels of fashionable, dull-gray matte all over the carpet.
“Fuck’s fucking sake!” Jake shouted. “What the fuck is this? Why is this so fucking hard?”
But as he shouted, he realized something. He didn’t feel the rage that he could hear in his voice.
“And as for the cake. Yeah, about the cake…”
Locryn hadn’t exactly said he’d definitely make it, but Jake was sure he’d say yes.
Fionn folded her arms. When she spoke, her voice was cool. “What about the cake?”
Jake folded his arms. His I’m in charge of the kitchen pose. Because he knew that Fionn wouldn’t be happy. “I’ve made a decision. Locryn’s making the cake.”
She laughed. “Bloody hell, he must’ve been good in bed!”
“Good at what in bed? Sleeping?” Jake shook his head. “I didn’t shag Locryn!”
Jake glanced around. Everyone had fallen silent.
Fucking great.
“Sorry, did I say it was bloody break time?” Jake bellowed, and the buzz of work resumed around him. “Look, Fionn, this is to do with Zoe’s family. It’s personal, and it’s so important for her wedding day that Locryn does the cake. For Merryn too. And David and Petroc.”
“Let’s go back up on deck, Captain.” Fionn’s expression had lost its strained mask of good humor. Now it was the face of the woman who struck terror into the hearts of commissioners across the media. “I want to know where all this is coming from, Jake. It’s the least you can do if you’re about to pull fucking rank!”
“Pull rank? I’m the executive producer on this show and it’s my face the viewers see, not yours, so yeah, I have the final say. I’m not being pushed around by the genius who came up with Celebrity Pancake Toss.” Jake headed onto deck, rubbing his forehead. He still had nightmares about Celebrity Pancake Toss.
From below he could hear the sound of sawing and hammering, and smell the paint rising through the salt air to assail him. It couldn’t be further from the gentle aroma of baking that had welcomed him last night, and it was acrid despite the fresh sea breeze. Nobody would have guessed there had been a storm here last night, and he wondered if it had been like this the morning after Zoe’s father died, leaving Merryn a widow, robbing a girl of her father and Petroc of his best friend.
It felt suddenly more important than ever to let Locryn make the cake. Not some cartoon of fondant and crispies, but something that would probably be closer to a work of art than a wedding cake.
Fionn put her hand on her hip and said, “So what’s the story, Jake? What’s changed?”
Jake leaned back against the handrail. It creaked under his weight. “Zoe’s dad…”
Jake shook his head. He’d promised not to say anything, and he couldn’t be sure that the story would have any effect on Fionn. But he didn’t want people assuming that he and Locryn were lovers. After all, he’d stood in Locryn’s kitchen wearing only shorts, and apart from some low-key flirting, nothing had happened. Fionn could have an edited version, because she didn’t deserve to hear anything more.
“Zoe’s dad died at sea, and Petroc tried to save him. And…Zoe’s mum was working for Locryn at the time. The village pulled together, and Locryn didn’t say as much, but you can bet he was there for Merryn and Zoe, above and beyond. Do you see, Fionn? If I bang on about the importance of local produce, and talent-spotting local chefs, I can’t ignore a local story like that. Those fishermen are part of Porthavel’s fabric, and it’s a fucking dangerous job they do. I have to respect that, Fionn. If I make the cake, one, it’ll be crap, and two, I’m an ignorant blow-in walking all over Porthavel, and it’s not right.”
He waited for the explosion, but it didn’t come. Instead Fionn blinked, then tapped her lacquered nail thoughtfully against her chin. A few seconds passed before she said, “That’s brilliant. Could we get them to talk about it on screen, do you think? We could maybe get shots of, I don’t know, suitably big waves or whatever. Maybe we could show Zoe and David visiting the grave? Telling Dad about the wedding and all that?”
“What?” Jake stared at her in horror. “Are you high or something? We can’t do that! It’s private. I shouldn’t have said anything, but seeing as you were intent on grilling me over the cake, then… You just need to know that the whole cake thing isn’t just a whim and it isn’t Locryn trying to steal the show. It feels like the right thing to do. Gut instinct.”
“You’re making a mistake. He’ll be all over this show and if you hadn’t noticed, his book’s sitting above yours in the bestsellers as we speak. Above. And now you’re giving him the starring role in your show? Jesus Christ!”
“I don’t give a fuck about the bestseller chart!” Jake stared, wide-eyed. Really? But no, he wasn’t. His books had been above Locryn’s before, so why did it matter if Locryn’s book was selling more than his now? “What I care about is this program, and at its core is a couple getting married, and fuck me if it’s not going to be the happiest day of their lives. And it won’t be if my ego and yours get in the way of a fucking cake!”
Fionn laughed, but it was a mirthless sound. “It’s on you. If you’re doing this, you need to know it’s all on you.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’m executive producer, after all.” Doesn’t hurt to remind her. Jake glanced at his nails then back at Fionn. She was fucking scary but Jake wasn’t going to stand down.
“On you.” She jabbed her finger, then shook her head. “I’ve got a show to produce. I’ll leave you to it.”
Jake gave Fionn a sarcastic salute. “Aye, aye, Cap’n!”
“Someone’s looking for you,”
was all she said. Then, with a sharp nod toward the dockside, she strode away across the deck of the ship.
Jake turned, smiling to himself. It would be Locryn, wouldn’t it? Locryn, with Dorothy in the basket of his bicycle? He was bringing Dorothy round to Jake’s later anyway. Maybe Locryn was taking her on a tour of the village first in case he could find her owners?
But instead, Jake saw Merryn, waving up at him from the quayside. Jake gripped the handrail. That poor woman. But she was smiling.
“You all right down there, Merryn?” Jake jogged toward the gangplank and ignored the worrying bounce under his feet as he crossed it to dry land.
Merryn shrugged and said, “I’m all right, not bad. Did you hear the storm last night? Bet you don’t get that in London, do you?”
“I was outside in it!” Jake pulled a face. “No, not experienced weather like that before. Are you okay?” Jake glanced over at the row of fishing boats bobbing up and down in the harbor then smiled gently at Merryn.
“I need a word. Have you got two minutes?” She rubbed her gloved hands together. “It’s too cold to stand around for long. Fancy a walk along the harbor?”
“Yeah, I’d love that.” Jake shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. He’d need a proper raincoat if he was going to survive in Porthavel. “What’s up?”
They began to walk as she told him, “I don’t know if you’re the person to talk to about this, but the lady on the boat, she’s been asking Zoe and David all sorts of personal questions. What’s the gossip we should know, who’s the village idiot, that kind of thing. They’re really worried about what you’re going to make them look like.”
Fuck me.
“Fionn, you mean? Gray hair, face like a halibut sucking a lemon?”
She nodded. “And she’s been asking Petroc about losing his wife. Bev was my best friend, it broke his heart when she died—that didn’t ought to be on the telly.”
“No, no it’s not going on telly, don’t worry about that.” Jake patted Merryn’s arm. “I have final say and I want you guys to be happy with what goes on air.” Jake sighed. “I’ll speak to Fionn. Nope, nothing personal like that’s going on the show. Is that okay?”
The Captain and the Baker Page 6
