In a past life, before death duties and the cost of upkeep had become issues, the Polwenna Bay Hotel had been the country residence of a wealthy family. As such, it occupied a breathtaking headland position, from which its floor-to-ceiling windows gazed across the formal gardens and out to sea. A sweeping gravel drive wound its way to the hotel, taking a leisurely route through several acres of grounds and up a gradual incline before circling the building like a scarf and ending at the foot of a flight of elegant steps leading to the vast front door. As each vehicle crunched over the immaculate gravel, valets in white gloves stepped forward to open doors, assist the passengers as they alighted and magic the cars away to the parking area. All that remained for the guests to do was air-kiss the hosts, take their flutes of Moët and drift away to the terrace where Zak Tremaine was channelling his inner Frank Sinatra by crooning about flying to the moon and playing among the stars.
Jules certainly felt as though she was no longer on planet Earth. With a glass clenched tightly in her fist, she leaned against the balustrade and watched the other guests drift about like gorgeous butterflies. It was like being on a film set, she thought dreamily; none of this felt anything like her real life. The sensation that this was all make-believe was heightened by everyone being dressed in eighteenth-century clothing, unrecognisable behind an array of Venetian carnival masks. The music floating on the breeze, the fairy lights swaying gently, the champagne now fizzing through her bloodstream – all of these things gave the evening even more of a magical quality. Jules knew she wasn’t looking like her usual self either: her sweeping claret velvet gown pulled her stomach in and gave her a cleavage that Katie Price would envy, and her long silvery wig and glittery butterfly mask complemented the dress perfectly.
Catching a glimpse of her reflection in one of the shiny windows Jules felt a little thrill of pride, which she made a mental note to ask forgiveness for at some point. The costume suited her well; it was far more feminine and flattering than her usual attire of clerical shirt and black trousers.
It was just her luck not to have been born in the eighteenth century when boobs and killer curves were in. Still, vanity was a sin; she really must be careful.
“Having fun, mate?” Danny asked, chinking his glass of orange juice against her champagne flute.
Jules nodded, the feathers on her mask bobbing enthusiastically. The past three hours had been perhaps the most glamorous of her life. This certainly beat dressing up in a cassock. “It’s great. I can’t tell who anyone is though, can you? Apart from Jake, of course.”
Danny’s mouth, or rather the uninjured corner of it, turned upwards. “Yeah, but even if he had dressed up the fact that Ella St Milton is practically hanging off his neck is a bit of a giveaway.”
“She’s certainly keen,” Jules agreed. Dan wasn’t exaggerating. From the moment they’d arrived at the hotel, Ella had glued herself to Jake’s side. Not that Jules blamed her. Jake really was a gorgeous-looking man – although now that she knew him better, Jules wasn’t nearly as intimidated by his beauty as she’d once been.
Besides, he didn’t make her sides ache with laughter or drive her mad with infuriation like Danny did…
“Keen!” Danny was snorting into his orange juice. “That’s diplomatic, Rev. You must be good at your job. Stalker nut job is how I’d describe her, even if she is hot.”
“Don’t be mean,” Jules scolded. She glanced across the terrace to where Ella, dressed in white and with her blonde hair tumbling down her back in snaky medusa waves all threaded with roses and ribbons, was holding court while Jake stared out over the inky sea, looking deep in thought. “She’s beautiful.”
Danny’s good eye, a blue circle behind his mask, narrowed. “You mean she looks beautiful. Personally, I wouldn’t trust her a single inch. She’s up to something. Mark my words, there’s something she wants.”
Goodness, but men could be thick sometimes, Jules thought in amusement. It was as obvious as the pretty nose on Ella’s face that it was Jake she wanted. Her body language was all but screaming it. Jake didn’t seem particularly interested in all the arm touching and hair tossing but, because he was a gentleman, he was trying to do a good job of being her partner – even if he looked as though the experience was on a par with having a root canal.
“That’s his fourth drink just since we’ve been watching,” Danny observed as they saw Jake take a glass of Moët from a passing waiter and knock it back. “God knows how many he had before that. Still, if in doubt get pissed.”
“That’s the worst advice I think I’ve ever heard,” said Jules disapprovingly. “Just remember, I can’t walk you home if I’m in heels – and besides, it’ll cost us a fortune if you start smashing glasses here.”
“Your feet are safe, Rev: I’m doing my best to stay on the wagon. Besides, a masked ball is perfect for someone like me. Second only to Halloween,” Dan quipped.
His tone was light but Jules felt the pain underneath the words and her heart ached for him. His injuries were certainly life changing but Jules no longer noticed the scarred face or missing arm. To her these things were just part of him being Danny, as much as his piercing blue eye colour, the fiery temper and the tinder-dry wit.
She couldn’t say this though – not without sounding as though she was dolloping out platitudes or, even worse, being patronising. Fortunately at this point one of the Polwenna teenagers who’d been hired to hand out canapés came waltzing past with a plate of miniature bruschetta, and she was able to shut herself up by cramming several into her mouth.
Unlike Jules, Danny waved the food away. Ever since they’d arrived he’d been searching the crowds of people and she guessed he was looking for Tara. In a strange masochistic way she was eager to catch a glimpse of his wife again too. Although she knew that she and Dan were only friends and would never be anything more, Jules was curious to take another look at the woman who’d walked away from him just when he’d needed her most. It was just part of her pastoral duty, she told herself. She wasn’t at all bothered by how thin or how pretty Tara might look in a ballgown.
“There you are! I’ve been looking for you all evening!” Here was Mo, striding across the terrace looking flushed and rather fed up. Jules had to smile because under her gorgeous dress Mo was still wearing her yard boots and thick socks.
“Having fun?” Jules asked.
“I’m bored stiff. How long before we can get out of here?” Mo grumbled, swiping a drink from a passing waiter and glugging it thirstily.
“Hours and hours for you yet, missus,” Dan told her. “Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be talking about nags with all the important people? You’re here to schmooze your way to the Olympics as I recall.”
Mo rolled her eyes and tossed her mane of red curls, which had come unpinned about five minutes after leaving the house. She looked as highly strung and as ready to bolt as any of her horses.
“That was what Salmonella said I was here for, but I can’t find anyone who’s remotely interested. Richard and Judy were very sweet about it but they’re not horsey, and some of the other celebrities I spoke to were encouraging but not up for sponsoring an eventer. I tried talking to Ella’s father but he didn’t have a clue what I was on about. I don’t think he even knows about Bandy – and if he does then he was far too busy trying to put his hand on my bum to listen to a word I said,” she sighed, pushing her mask up onto the crown of her head and rubbing her eyes wearily. “At least Zak’s having a good time. I really hope there is a record producer here tonight. If Ella’s fibbed about that as well I’ll murder her.”
Across the terrace, and on a small stage set up at the edge of the lawn especially for him and his band, Zak Tremaine was crooning into a microphone while surrounded by a rapt audience. He had a beautiful voice, Jules thought wistfully, rich and dark like Bourneville chocolate and so soulful that it made the hairs on the nape of her neck stand to attention. Add to this the sexy dishevelled looks of a fallen angel and those compelling Tremaine
eyes and there you had it – the kind of artist that Simon Cowell would trample over One Direction in order to be the first to sign. The Tremaine family had some impressive genes, that was for sure.
“The place is full of VIPs,” Jules assured Mo. “I’m sure one of them would be interested.”
Mo crossed her arms and looked fed up. “I’ll give it a couple more hours and then I’m out of here. The horses still need feeding and exercising tomorrow morning. Shall we grab some more drinks and listen to the band for a bit?”
They made their way across the terrace and down to the lawns where, with fresh drinks in hand and plates piled high with canapés, they found a space at one of the white wrought-iron tables. Each table was topped with a huge glass bowl filled with water in which bobbed floating candles and white roses. Jules supposed she could try something similar with the font if she ever felt the urge.
With her foot tapping beneath her long skirts, Jules soon lost herself in the music. The night grew thicker, a slice of moon smiled down at them and stars sprinkled the sky as though the St Miltons had put in an order with the Milky Way. Even the weather was mild enough to sit outside and enjoy the evening, although the army of patio heaters that had been lined up with regimental precision probably helped. Jules sighed contentedly. This was all a materialistic show, and she was fully aware that she should be in the world but not of it; nevertheless, there was something truly wonderful about being here tonight, all dressed up and watching the beautiful people at play. Tomorrow she would be back to the reality of an empty church and Sheila Keverne’s complaining, but just for tonight Jules really did feel like Cinderella.
And Danny, even though he didn’t know it, was her Prince Charming.
Thankfully, Dan was oblivious to her train of thought as he watched the brightly dressed guests flitting across the lawn. Although he was wearing a mask Jules could tell he was frowning.
“Please tell me I’m hallucinating,” he said slowly, pointing at a group of wigged and masked guests who were dancing with flutes of champagne in each hand and laughing loudly. “Tell me that isn’t Nick, pissed out of his head and making a tit of himself?”
Even as Danny was speaking a tall man staggered into one of the tables, knocking it sideways and sending water and candles slopping everywhere before ending up lying on the grass and laughing hysterically in the way that only the totally drunk can. A smaller figure, dressed identically in tight white breeches and a powdered wig, pulled him to his feet, giggling and swaying under his weight. Seconds later they were both back in the huddle of equally merry young people and out of sight.
“Mo?” Danny turned to his sister, who was affecting sudden interest in the floating candles. “Is that Nick over there?”
Mo was still peering into the rose bowl, so Danny gave her a prod. When she looked up, her face was a study in guilt.
“Mo?” said Dan again. “Is that Nick?”
His sister sighed. “Who else? He’s gate-crashed with a load of his mates.”
“And now he’s on the piss as usual. Of all the bloody idiots!” Danny’s fist thumped down onto the table. “Zak sneaked him in, I suppose? And Issie?”
His sister nodded miserably. “I think half the youngsters from the village were stowed away in the band’s van.”
“Including the Penhalligan brothers, no doubt.” Danny shook his head despairingly. “Jesus Christ. Were we ever that stupid?”
“Probably,” admitted Mo, “but at least we didn’t work on a trawler.”
“And they’re supposed to be going to sea at four,” Jules said, horrified. She was recalling an earlier conversation with Alice after they’d initially been discussing the flower arrangements at St Wenn’s. Alice, clearly worried, had spoken to Jules at length about Nick’s latest antics and Big Eddie’s rage. As a general rule, Birmingham didn’t have many fishing boats so this was all Dutch to Jules – but even as a newbie she could appreciate the dangers involved. The sea was an unforgiving environment, as the Bible often highlighted. That aside, Jules had worked with enough young people to know that so often the only way they would ever learn for themselves was the hard one, with each painful lesson taught through bitter experience. Polwenna Bay might not have the gang crime or drug problems of the inner city but Jules was learning fast that life in a fishing village had its own unique brand of danger.
“Why didn’t you stop him?” Danny demanded. His hand was shaking and orange juice slopped onto the table.
“He’s twenty-two, Dan! What was I supposed to do, send him to his room without any supper?” Mo jumped to her feet, her red curls flying. “He promised me that he was only going to have a couple of drinks.”
“And then a pig flew by,” Danny replied sarcastically. As though driven by some destructive instinct, his hand reached for Mo’s champagne glass; it hovered over it for a few seconds, before returning to the table with a thud of clenched fist. Jules felt relieved. A drunk and angry Danny was not a good prospect either.
“I’ll kill Zak when I see him next,” Danny promised. “As if Nick and Issie need any encouragement to be stupid. And the Penhalligan boys as well? Bloody idiots.”
“Getting angry isn’t going to help, Dan.” Jules put her own drink down. “Let’s just find Nick and take it from there.”
“Yes, we’d better grab him and get him home – and the Penhalligan boys as well – before it’s too late and they head off to sea,” agreed Mo.
Danny squinted into the dancing crowd but there was no sign of Nick anywhere now. He’d completely melted into the whirling colours.
“Where the hell is he now?”
“Probably at the bar,” said Mo.
“Let’s split up and see if we can find him,” Jules suggested. It was scary how easily she slipped into vicar mode when there was a crisis. “How about I sweep the dining room and the bar? Danny, you can do the terrace and the ballroom, and that leaves Mo to search the grounds.”
Her eyes met Mo’s and saw in them unspoken agreement that Dan shouldn’t be left to wander the uneven gardens and cliffs.
“Fine,” said Danny flatly, and Jules knew from his tone that he’d seen her and Mo exchange that glance. He’d hate feeling that they were making allowances for his physical problems and would hate even more knowing that neither woman wanted him near the cliff edge when he was in a volatile mood. She felt some of the trust they’d built up lately slip away, and this was followed by a sensation like barbed wire tightening around her stomach.
Danny checked his watch. “If there’s no sign of the moron then we’ll meet back here in half an hour.”
“If either of you finds him, text me,” Mo said, checking inside her clutch bag that her mobile was on. “And if I find him first then he’ll need Jules to do the last rites!”
There was a look of such grim determination on Mo’s face that Jules almost felt sorry for Nick Tremaine. Almost but not quite. This was supposed to be a fun night out, not a rescue mission.
Walking towards the hotel, it occurred to Jules that she seemed to be making a bit of a habit of sorting out drunken Tremaine men since she’d arrived in the village. Was God trying to tell her something about the evils of drinking too much, Jules wondered as she headed inside, murmuring apologies as she wove her way through the guests and cannoned into waiters, or was this part of His plan? If so, Jules wished she knew what the plan was. Mysterious ways could be marvellous, of course, but sometimes they were slightly frustrating to a weak and frail mortal. A For Dummies guide might have helped.
As she crossed the lobby Jules recalled Alice’s anxious expression and Danny’s stricken face. The deep dark sea stretching away below the hotel was full of dangers and no place for anyone who didn’t have their wits about them. Danny would never forgive himself if anything happened to his brother, and Jules knew that in turn she would never forgive herself if anything happened to set Danny back. She had to find Nick.
Jules bit her lip. Her feelings for Danny were more complex than any theolog
y lectures or confusing doctrine, and she knew she must put them aside. They were inappropriate and unfair. She had to focus on being his pastor and his friend; anything else would just cloud the issue. She felt a sudden stab of longing for her old, safe life in Birmingham. So much for having a quiet few years in a sleepy rural parish.
Being the vicar of Polwenna Bay was proving to be much more complicated than she had ever imagined.
Chapter 25
The hotel’s grounds were deceptively large, stretching from the headland almost to the sea in a series of beautifully landscaped terraces, and the further Mo walked from the house the darker the night became. Now it was the stars that lit her path rather than pools of lamplight from the hotel, and instead of music the pounding of the waves beat time and filled her ears with an endless melody of their own. An owl hooted from the big cedar tree that guarded the top terrace, and Mo shivered at the lonely sound and the sensation of being watched by the curious eyes of unseen night-time creatures.
Thank God she was wearing her yard boots, Mo thought as she crunched along the path. It led to a sharp flight of steps, plunging her into the blackness of the next terrace. She couldn’t imagine trying to make her way down here in a pair of heels; she’d probably have broken her neck in the attempt. With her skirts bunched in her fists and feeling like something from Poldark, Mo cautiously made her descent. She was relieved when the land became level again. Now she remembered why she lived in her jeans or jodhpurs.
There were no fairy lights or lanterns on this lower terrace. Mo supposed the guests were meant to remain on the smooth lawns of the upper formal gardens, away from the dangers of steps and uneven ground. Heaven forbid that an A-lister might trip and seek to sue the St Miltons. Still, knowing her brother as she did, Mo was certain that if Nick was in the garden and up to something she would find him in the very place where he wasn’t supposed to be. If he wanted to smoke a quiet joint somewhere then he was bound to be down here. She just hoped that he hadn’t had so much to drink that he’d passed out somewhere or, even worse, tripped and knocked himself out. Mo supposed this would save Big Eddie a job, but if Nick was injured the logistics of getting him back to the house would be complicated to say the least.
Runaway Summer: Polwenna Bay 1 Page 29
