The Captain and the Baker

by Catherine Curzon

  “‘Night. I’ll see you around.” Jake patted Locryn’s arm as he passed him.

  Chaps? Did he just say chaps?

  As the door closed, the word ‘chaps’ was the only one Jake heard. And it wasn’t even a word he used. But…Locryn Trevorrow was gay? Bloody hell. No wonder he had a bike called Betsy.

  And I stripped off in front of him.

  Jake headed back to the kitchen, where his cat was sitting in the middle of the room, one leg aloft while she had a thorough clean.

  Jake sighed. “I’m just glad you didn’t do that in front my guest.”

  There was a knock on the front door.

  Then another.

  Maybe it was the Cornish pasty militia, summoned by Locryn to seize and destroy the culinary affront to their heritage.

  Jake strode back to his front door and opened it.

  “Oh, Locryn?” And as Locryn didn’t look very happy, Jake steeled himself. “I won’t say anything about the chaps, nonexistent or otherwise, don’t worry. I’m not in the business of outing anyone.”

  The baker frowned. “I’m out, that’s not— I just had a phone call. From Fionn.”

  Jake rolled his eyes. “Have I got to apologize for her again?”

  This time the frown turned into a smile, and with a sigh Locryn said, “Maybe. She said you told her about Jory. Don’t worry, I don’t think you did it for any nefarious reason. I’m not going to tell you off. But she wanted to know if I could pop down to the pub and convince the locals to share their memories of the night he died. I don’t think that’s going to make Zoe very happy, or do you any favors.”

  “She what?” Jake’s mouth fell open in alarm. “I’m sick to death of this. I told her it was off-limits. I only mentioned it, as vaguely as I could, so she’d understand why you should make the cake. I’m the executive producer. I’m her boss! What the holy hell is she playing at?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “I thought I’d better let you know, just in case she’s asking other people too.”

  “We need to find her. Now. Before she speaks to anyone else. She’s at the pub?”

  “Grab that leather jacket that drives all the nice boys wild.” Locryn smiled. “And follow me.”

  Is he flirting again?

  No.

  In seconds, Jake had settled Dorothy in the utility room with a bowl of water, leftover salmon and a newspaper on a tray, and was zipped into his leather jacket.

  Jake glanced at the bike propped up against the wall. “Let’s take my car.”

  “Where’s that bus you drive around in on the telly?” Locryn winked. “I’m disappointed, but a car’ll have to do.”

  “Dad’s tarting her up over the winter. He’s threatening to drive her down here if we’re not careful!” Jake unlocked his gunmetal-gray Mercedes and climbed behind the wheel. Locryn took his place in the passenger seat, primly smoothing down his coat before he reached for the seatbelt. It was as much Jake as the bike was Locryn. Each had their brand, and Jake’s was leather jackets and sports cars.

  “See you later, Betsy,” Locryn said, but Jake had an idea that he was teasing. As soon as Jake started the car, his stereo came on by itself and he pulled out of the farmyard to the strains of gentle rainfall and windchimes. He reached for the off switch.

  “Shit. Sorry. Don’t know how that got on there.” But Locryn simply smiled, his serenity restored as he directed Jake through the narrow village streets toward the pub where Fionn was doing who knew what sort of damage.

  Chapter Eight

  Jake wondered if he’d get an award or a confetti cannon when he found a parking space on the narrow lane by the pub. He saw a people carrier right outside which he knew was one used by the production team.

  “Looks like we’ve found the crew as well,” he said as he got out of the car. “Maybe they all think it’s Fionn’s From Wreck to Restaurant? Bunch of bastards.”

  “Oh, don’t take it out on the crew,” Locryn told him. “They’ve already got some of the villagers in helping with the renovations and I’ve heard nothing but lovely things. They’re very good for public relations, these chippies and camera people!”

  “At least they are, while Fionn’s busy bloody well undoing all their good.” Jake shoved his hands into his pockets. “Let’s have a word.”

  “A quiet one.” Locryn pushed open the pub door, releasing a burst of noise and heat from within. Jake could see the taproom, and it was like looking back in time, dark wood and low lighting illuminating a small room filled with the same people who had pelted him with cake cases the previous evening. “Not a shouty one.”

  The pub fell silent as they walked in. It was like a Western. All Jake could hear were their footsteps across the wooden floor and his own heartbeat.

  “Fionn! A word!” Jake shouted, but just so she’d hear. He wasn’t shouting shouting. Not exactly. Fionn was perched at the bar, a glass of white wine in one hand and her mobile in the other, and if she heard Jake, she gave no indication.

  Jake was vaguely aware that he was being greeted with the same air of suspicion that he thought he’d put paid to yesterday. Bloody Fionn. But Locryn was already giving the locals the full benefit of his charm, all smiles and gentle greetings even without buns to share.

  Jake cupped his hands around his mouth. “Fionn! Hello, it’s the executive producer here! A word, Fionn. Now!”

  She put her phone into her pocket and looked at Jake. Then she grinned and said, “You didn’t have to come all the way down here. I was handling it!”

  “Handling it?” Jake shook his head. “I’m disgusted. What the hell are you doing, going round Porthavel asking people about…about… I told you it was private!”

  Fionn lifted her glass and took a long drink, as though she had all the time in the world. It was almost insolent, like a teenager faced with an angry parent.

  “I’ve set up a little stunt on Saturday down on the beach. Ten o’clock, you’re going to be cooking pasties and serving them to locals,” she told him. “Pip and Holly’re going to use it for some advance goodwill and we’ll be trailing it on Saturday Breakfast, obviously. There’ll be all the equipment there waiting, just bring whatever ingredients you want to work with. This is what I do, Jake. Leave it to me and worry about the cooking.”

  “Worry about cooking? I’m worried you’re going to turn the whole fucking village against me and my show!” He jabbed his thumb at Locryn. “And apparently you wanted Locryn to convince the locals to film their memories of the night Zoe’s dad died. I’m in charge, Fionn. Don’t you get that? If I say no, that’s the end of it. Especially something like that. I’m bloody disgusted, I really am! It’s gross. Even more gross than your Celebrity Roadkill Restaurant.”

  “I called him”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“because he’s like the yokel whisperer. Look at him! They love him, Jake. He’s got that benevolent lord of the manor act down pat, hasn’t he? Probably find out he goes like a bloody train!”

  Fionn nudged Jake and laughed her throaty bray of a laugh, the laugh of a woman who’d given up smoking a decade after her doctor had told her to.

  “Don’t you bloody well talk about him like that. Or the locals. You don’t have any respect for the people who live here, do you?” Jake slapped his hand on the bar, underlining each word. “I. Can’t. Work. With. Someone. Mocking. The. Locals! Fuck’s sake!”

  “Think of the good telly!” She seized his cheek between her thumb and forefinger, like an affectionate auntie with a toddler. “Now I’ve got to run, I’ve got a date in Locryn’s café with the happy couple and their parents. A few talking heads in front of the fairy lights, then I’m off into Plymouth for sushi and mobile signal. Fancy it?”

  “No, I bloody don’t. And don’t you bloody well trick them into talking about—about what happened. It’s off limits. Got that, Fionn? It’s off fu—” Jake’s voice cracked. Locryn, so quiet, so calm, and yet so clearly furious in the face of the producer, robbed Jake of his ready box of
swear words. He took a steadying breath, and as calmly as he could, said, “Got that?”

  She released his cheek. “It’s strictly twenty minutes on the subjects of wedding dresses, wedding cars and honeymoons. I’m not missing my sushi for anything. Don’t worry, there’ll be nothing controversial.” Fionn drained her glass in a gulp. “So you were with Locryn again, were you? Holiday fling?”

  “Get your mind out of the bloody gutter!” Jake rubbed his face. Her nails had scraped his skin. “Fine. Wedding dresses, cars and honeymoon only. I mean it, Fionn. I’m serious.”

  “Got it. And I’ve had some more intel on the US show. It’s brilliant.” She slipped down from her barstool. “Its working title’s Shock Chef and it’s a cooking contest, but every time the contestants make a mistake they get a little electric shock. I howled when I read the treatment! I’ve emailed it to you. It’s so us. Imagine you bawling and swearing at the poor bastards and them getting shocked then getting all flustered so getting shocked again. And the money’s off the chart. It’s the big time. The dream.”

  So the world really has gone insane.

  “It’s the work of a fucking psychopath, more like.” Jake stood aside. “I need a drink.”

  “See you on the beach.” Fionn waved at Locryn as he approached the bar. “Ciao, Locryn, have a good night!”

  Locryn answered with a smile as he joined Jake. He waited until Fionn had left to say, “No harm done. We’re used to it. You should hear some of the people we get in the summer. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Yeah, I’d like that,” Jake said. He folded his arms against the bar and looked along the line of taps. “A pint of your local ale, I think.”

  “You’ll have to leave the car because I’m such a Dudley Do-Right,” Locryn pointed out. “But it’s worth it. And we don’t have a local ale, but we do have a stunning cider. You’ll never have tasted anything so wonderful, I guarantee it.”

  “Cider and a taxi it is!” Then Jake paused. “Do you have taxis around here?”

  “They’re horse-drawn, of course.” Locryn laughed, signaling to the landlord with a nod that it was a yes on the pints. He glanced toward the opening pub door, then frowned. “Did I hear wrong, or is Petroc supposed to be in my café being interviewed for the show? Because he isn’t.”

  Jake turned to see Petroc heading for the bar. “Don’t tell me Fionn pissed you off before she even got to the café!”

  “I know, I know.” Petroc was addressing the two men in his rich Cornish drawl before he even reached them. “But I need a quick nip of Dutch courage before I go along for my interview. I get nervous when they turn the camera on. What’ve I got to say that anyone wants to hear? Ask me to talk fishing and I’ll be here until tomorrow, but weddings? That’s for the ladies, that is.”

  Jake chuckled and made a space for Petroc at the bar. “Bet you could talk about wedding cars, though. Could hire a nice old Daimler, eh?”

  “Frock first, cars in ten minutes.” The landlord lined up three pints of cider on the bar. “I don’t know how you boys do it, performing for the cameras like you do. You’re brave lads!”

  “You’re the one who’s brave!” Jake picked up his glass and saluted Petroc. “Were you out in the storm last night? I was walking about in it and it was bad enough. I couldn’t go out on the sea in that!”

  He nodded and took a drink of cider. “I was and I didn’t want to be! I’ll tell you this, if my boy’s getting wed then I’m thinking I might be a grandad one day. I’m wondering if it’s time I dropped anchor and retired.”

  Locryn glanced at the landlord, as though this was something they never thought they’d hear. He lifted his glass and said, “We’ll drink to that, eh, Jake?”

  Merryn will be pleased!

  Jake raised his glass to him again. “Too right. You deserve it! Time to have some fun. And be a grandad.” Jake took a sip and let the mellow taste of the cider run through him. Then he winked at Petroc and asked, “Am I going to be doing a wedding special for you too? Any ladies waiting in the wings?”

  “Oh, no.” Petroc laughed a throaty laugh. “Who’d have me but my Bev? I wouldn’t get that sort of luck twice in one lifetime. The ladies’d run a mile!”

  “Come off it, Petroc! Ruggedly handsome bloke like you!” Jake had a swig of his cider, then asked, “Anyone in the village you’d take on a date? Afternoon tea at Locryn’s café?”

  “Certain lady with a love of lippy and lacquer?” Locryn prompted. “She’s still waiting for your next date!”

  But Petroc shook his head. “I’ve no claim to Merryn, not after what happened to her man. She’s a fine woman, she wouldn’t want me hanging around reminding her of what she lost.”

  Locryn gaze met Jake’s. After a moment he said simply, “You’re wrong, you know.”

  Jake nodded. “You’re a hero, Petroc. That’s got to count for something, right? I get the impression that if you asked Merryn on a date again, she might say yes.”

  “She deserves a bloke like you. Handsome, go-getting, not an old sea salt!” Petroc said. Jake wasn’t sure that a man like him was quite what Merryn would want in a boyfriend. The whole gay part might be a problem for starters. “Or like our Locryn, but Locryn if he liked ladies. She’s classy, is Merryn. Very put-together.”

  “Well, I’m not into ladies either,” Jake admitted. “But yeah, Merryn is very glamorous. Single life, though, eh? Free and easy? You don’t want to give it up?”

  But Petroc’s wistful look was all the answer Jake needed. The trawlerman might try to hide it as he lifted his glass and drained the contents, but Jake had already seen the reflection of Merryn’s longing in his face. And when he met Locryn’s gaze, he knew that he’d seen it too.

  “That’s me off to be on the bloody telly then!” Petroc stifled a burp. “Pardon me, gents, but my public awaits.”

  Locryn patted him on his broad back as he stood. “Help yourself to a slice of whatever you fancy.” He smiled. “Bit more power to your elbow.”

  “I hear Locryn does an excellent cream horn!” Jake caught Locryn’s gaze and winked. The Cornishman held the look, his eyes sparkling even in the low light of the taproom.

  “Do you fancy one?” Locryn asked Jake as Petroc departed. “Made with passion, in case you were wondering.”

  “I wouldn’t mind having a nibble on your cream horn.” Then he lowered his voice and said, “Wouldn’t mind having a lick, either.”

  Locryn’s mouth fell open. He blinked then leaned closer and asked quietly, “How do you take your Horlicks?”

  Oh, Locryn, you delicious, saucy bastard.

  “Naked,” Jake replied. “And you?”

  “Hot,” he whispered. “And not nearly as often as I’d like.”

  “We should do something about that, shouldn’t we?” Jake edged up the bar until he was shoulder to shoulder with Locryn. “Name the day, Loc.”

  Locryn glanced around the bar as though looking for a hidden camera, returning his gaze to Jake before he asked, “Are you teasing me or—?”

  “I’m not, no.” Jake brushed the back of his hand against Locryn’s. “I’m flirting with you because I fancy you, Locryn. Do…do you like me, or are you pulling my leg with all this flirting?”

  “You’re gorgeous.” He moved his hand a little, letting his fingers accidentally-on-purpose rest against Jake’s. “And you’ve got such passion for what you do. That’s always a bit of a turn-on.”

  “Even if I put coriander in a pasty?” Jake teased. “So when you come back to mine to collect Betsy…? Although I don’t have Horlicks, I’m afraid.”

  “I was going to say I don’t have a stick up my arse.” Locryn raised his eyebrow. “But that sounds like a filthy joke.”

  Jake rubbed his forehead in embarrassment. “Yeah, sorry about that. Not the thing to say, was it?”

  “I know I can be a bit prim.” He smiled. “I just— We’re protective of our pasties. But you never know, you might hand out your London pasties to the
village tomorrow and prove me wrong!”

  “You could be right, though, and Fionn will take great pleasure in filming it for posterity as it’s great telly.” Jake rolled his eyes. “Please tell me your producer isn’t massive pain in the—doesn’t make you want to scream as well?”

  “I’m my own producer. It was the only way to stay sane.” Locryn emptied his glass. “Shall we have a wander along to the café and see how it’s all going?”

  “I think you made a wise choice, Locryn.” Jake finished his drink and hopped down from the barstool. “Let’s check and make sure Fionn’s behaving.”

  Chapter Nine

  As they left the pub together, Jake had the distinct impression that something in the evening air had changed. A subtle shift, almost a sense of settling. He wasn’t sure what would happen as the night wore on, but for the first time since he’d arrived in Porthavel, he felt relaxed. Maybe it was Locryn’s influence, when he wasn’t ranting about pasties at least.

  They didn’t hold hands as they wandered to the café but they walked close together. Closer than they had before.

  The weather was surprisingly uneventful compared to the wildness of the night before, the village quiet. All except for Locryn’s café, whose lights were spilling out onto the quayside from its illuminated windows.

  “Cream horn?” Locryn asked innocently as they reached the door. “On the house for the chap in the leather jacket.”

  “Can’t say no to that!” Jake patted Locryn’s arm as they went inside. At first all seemed calm. Zoe and David were sitting together on one side of a table bearing a cloth of pale blue gingham and opposite them were Petroc and Merryn. In the middle of the table was a china teapot and in front of each, a cup and saucer. A plate containing tempting pastries was beside the teapot and to all intents and purpose, it was a scene of village perfection. An afternoon tea by moonlight.

  Until Jake looked at their faces. To a one, the four wore thunderous expressions, and Merryn’s arms were folded tightly across her chest. He need only see Fionn, her mobile clamped to her ear behind the counter, to know that she was the source of the trouble.