Recipe for Love: A gorgeous Cornish romance (Polwenna Bay Book 5)

by Ruth Saberton

  “It’s not that I don’t want to,” she said to the beady-eyed seagull watching her from the hippy shop’s gaudy sign. The truth was that she wanted to very much indeed; even Danny’s slightest touch was enough to make her unravel. But Jules had made promises she believed in, and she would keep them. She had always made this very clear.

  Danny respected and understood Jules’s faith and was careful never to place either of them in a positon that could compromise her or cause tongues to wag. Polwenna was a small village and certain people thrived on gossip. He and Jules were rarely alone at the vicarage and spent most of their time together at Seaspray, where they were inevitably in the vicinity of one of the Tremaines. Even their walks were often accompanied by Danny’s son, Morgan. This was all very respectable but Jules was starting to feel like a character in a Jane Austen novel, constantly chaperoned and confined to small talk. All she needed was a bonnet and no one would be able to tell the difference.

  Fifty Shades her life was not.

  The seagull wasn’t impressed. Instead it regarded her with a mixture of pity and triumph. Spring’s coming, its gloating look seemed to say, and with it lots of lovely avian rooftop frolics. Oh Lord, thought Jules with a wry smile, it would have been easier to be a seagull than a vicar!

  The sun had broken through the clouds properly and there was a hint of duck-egg blue sky. The cottages’ window boxes were bristling with daffodils and the shrubs were coming back to life too, their buds tightly packed with blossom ready to burst forth. Everything in nature was waking up and tingling with energy, and Jules felt exactly the same. She was ready to move on to the next stage of her life too. More than ready!

  There was nothing for it. She was going to have to be brave and talk to Danny. It shouldn’t be so hard. He was her best friend and they told each other everything. He loved her too; Jules knew this with all her heart, and she certainly she loved him. So what was holding her back?

  Jules knew the answer. It was fear that tied a knot in her vocal cords every time she thought about raising the subject. Not the fear of saying how she felt – Jules was honest to the core and never shirked from telling the truth – but rather a stomach-lurching cold dread that if she told Danny how much she wanted them to get married he would panic and run. He’d been married before and hurt in the worst possible way, so she couldn’t imagine he had a great affection for the institution. Wasn’t it better to just enjoy what they had instead of hankering after something that could destroy them?

  No, because you’re not being honest, said Jules’s heart. She gave a sigh. Danny’s brother Nick Tremaine always said that honesty was overrated (usually when he was dating three girls at once or keeping the true state of his bank balance from Alice), but Jules knew that without it there was nothing except the illusion of happiness. Relationships were built on trust and trust came from honesty.

  She had to speak to Danny and soon. She needed to find out for certain whether they had a future as a couple. It was best to know the truth.

  “Jules! There you are. I was starting to think you were buried under a pile of confetti and that I’d have to come and dig you out!”

  Here was Danny now, smiling at her in that way of his that always made Jules shiver from the inside out.

  “I’ve made a picnic,” he added proudly. “We need to collect it from the marina office and then Ashley says we can borrow his boat. I thought we’d head out to Adriatic Bay and look for the dolphins. Nick says he saw a pod when they headed out to sea this morning.”

  Dolphins, picnics and sunshiny boat rides across the sparkling sea with Danny. What did she ever do to get this lucky?

  “It sounds absolutely wonderful,” Jules said.

  “No, you’re wonderful,” Danny replied quietly, pulling her close with his good arm and brushing her mouth with his.

  Jules kissed him back and felt all her resolutions take flight with the whirling seagulls. The sun was shining, the dolphins were waiting and the love of her life was beside her. She wouldn’t spoil things today.

  There was plenty of time to talk to Danny. Her worries could wait a little longer.

  Chapter 5

  Mo’s choice of venue for a blind date wasn’t particularly adventurous and it certainly wasn’t anonymous. She might as well have taken out a full-page advert in The Cornish Times announcing that Symon Tremaine and Tess Hamilton were ON A DATE as book a table in The Ship. Polwenna’s pub, a pretty, low-beamed affair so close to the harbour that it was almost paddling, was the centre of village life. It was also a hub of gossip, courtesy of landlady Rose Harper. There wasn’t much going on in Polwenna Bay that Rose didn’t know about, and as he stepped into the pub Symon resigned himself to being the subject of great curiosity.

  “Evening, Sy. Pint of Pol Brew?” Adam Harper, the landlord, reached for a glass and was heading for the beer pump when Rose blocked his path.

  “Symon’s not here for a drinking session. He’s here for a meal. Mo booked the table, remember?” she said, shooing her husband away.

  “Ah yes. Hot-date night.” Adam winked at Sy. “Maybe a bottle of wine would be better? If I was related to Morwenna I’d be on the booze, for sure. No doubt about that.”

  Symon laughed. “Yeah. Ashley deserves a medal.”

  “Tess is already here,” Rose told him. “I’ve given you the table in the window and she’s got the menus. There’s a couple of specials on and the baked monkfish is nice – although not up to your standard, of course!”

  The landlady was looking flustered as she said this and Symon groaned inwardly. He recognised Rose’s expression: it was the horrified one he always saw on the rare occasions he chose to eat out locally. Rose ran The Ship’s kitchen, where hearty plates of steak and chips or sticky toffee puddings were the order of the day. It wasn’t haute cuisine but her food had fuelled many a stomp over the cliffs and she always had glowing write-ups in the local press. Symon, who lived and breathed fine dining, was actually looking forward to tucking into something that came with a mound of chips.

  “Nobody does a better steak pie than you, Rose,” he said warmly.

  He was rewarded with a beaming smile. “Get on with you! I’m not the one in the national newspapers, am I?”

  “Not yet,” said Adam loyally. He patted his rotund belly. “You’ll not have any complaints from me though.”

  “Or me,” chipped in Big Rog Pollard, for once not in his shed but enjoying a pint at the bar.

  “Dad likes a big dinner – don’t you, Dad?” piped up Little Rog Pollard, perched next to his father and trying to pretend he wasn’t being ignored by a gaggle of hair-flicking, giggling teenage girls.

  “That’s right, my boy, that’s right,” his father agreed. “I like to leave a place feeling full up with proper grub, not hungry after a few fancy bits – no offence, Symon.”

  The one and only time the village builder and Mrs Rog had visited The Plump Seagull, they’d pushed Symon’s delicate dishes around their plates nervously, been bamboozled by the finger bowls and been spotted buying chips in The Codfather only minutes after leaving. Symon had offered them a refund or another meal but they’d only looked even more worried by this suggestion.

  “None taken,” Symon answered, passing a twenty-pound note to Adam in exchange for a bottle of Pinot.

  “Foreign food’s not really my thing,” Big Rog continued. Then, glancing at his watch and draining his pint, he added, “Anyway, I can’t stay here chatting all night. The missus is making lasagne for dinner. Bloody ’ansome!”

  “Lasagne’s foreign.” This comment was from Caspar Owen, Polwenna Bay’s resident author and general know-it-all, who was sitting at the far end of the bar and making a big show of scribbling in a Moleskine notebook.

  “Don’t be daft,” Big Rog scoffed. “My Karenza makes it and she’s proper Cornish.”

  “Doesn’t mean lasagne is. Lasagne’s Italian,” Caspar informed him.

  “Italian?” Big Rog echoed. “Since when?”
/>   “Since it was invented in Italy,” the writer said. “And that, I would suggest, makes it foreign.”

  While Big Rog struggled to come to terms with the fact that he’d inadvertently been enjoying foreign food for his entire married life, Symon escaped the discussion and wove his way through the pub towards the window table his sister had booked.

  It was Saturday evening and the pub was filling up. A live band was booked and the musicians were busy with sound checks and plugging in amps. It didn’t seem that long ago to Symon since he’d been helping his brother, Zak, set up in here with his band. Those had been carefree times spent meeting friends, having some drinks and listening to the music, and the memory of it all made Symon feel nostalgic for the lad he’d once been; so much had happened since then that he couldn’t imagine ever feeling that light-hearted again. In any case, Zak’s days of playing in local pubs were way behind Zak too. When they’d last hung out at Christmas, Symon’s brother had been looking forward to recording his next few tracks in LA and poised for great things. Symon, who’d also once believed that the world was at his fingertips, could only hope that everything worked out for Zak better than it had for him.

  A blast of static from the speaker, followed by several chords on an electric guitar, jolted Symon out of his thoughts. His eardrums throbbed and he guessed a lively evening was on the cards. As he negotiated all the cables on his way, Symon supposed that if conversation became too laboured he could always use the excuse that the music was too loud to talk. It would certainly be a reason to cut the date short.

  Spotting Tess Hamilton seated in the window table with her cute nose buried in a book, Symon had to admit that most men would think he was crazy to want to cut short a date with her. Recently Tess had taken to wearing red-framed spectacles and coaxing her mane of dark curls into a bun; with her thoughtful brown eyes and serious expression it was the perfect sexy school mam look, and Symon imagined it drove a lot of guys wild. This evening, though, Tess’s glasses were absent and she was wearing her hair loose. In her trendy printed dress, black leggings and chunky silver jewellery, she looked like a girl dressed up for a date. Symon almost turned tail and hotfooted it back to the safety of the restaurant, before reminding himself sharply that it was just one date and God only knew what Mo had told Tess. It was his job tonight to be a gentleman and find a way to tell Tess as kindly as he could that he wasn’t interested in dating.

  He’d never be interested in that again. Symon was tired of the games women played. From now on his heart belonged to his career.

  Tess was so engrossed in her book that she didn’t notice him approach. She seemed startled when Symon placed the bottle of wine and glasses down with a clatter.

  “Sorry,” Symon said, sliding into the seat opposite. “I didn’t mean to make you jump.”

  “Don’t apologise. I was miles away.” Tess closed the book and smiled. It was a rather tense smile, Symon thought, and it didn’t reach her eyes. She wasn’t looking exactly thrilled to see him or like a woman who was keen to be here. He suspected Mo had been a little economical with the truth.

  “Anything good?” Symon asked, nodding at it.

  “It depends on your taste in books,” Tess answered. She held it up and he saw that this was Caspar’s latest offering, all six-pack heroes and heaving-bosomed swooning heroines.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I must admit I had you down as a Penguin Classics kind of a girl. I’d have expected a Brontë or a Dickens.”

  Tess laughed. “Usually you’d be spot on, but Caspar insisted I read this proof copy and give him my opinion.”

  Symon sloshed some wine into a glass and passed it to her. “And?”

  “And it’s very compulsive reading! No wonder he sells so many. I’m desperate to know if Merribella can resist the dashing Regency rake who has his sights on her.” She slipped the book into her bag and took the glass. “Thanks for the drink. I certainly need it after that last chapter.”

  “Developing a trashy bodice-ripper habit?”

  “Somebody has to keep Caspar in cider and cravats,” shrugged Tess. “Oh dear, I think he’s about to get barred again.”

  They glanced across the pub. Sure enough, Adam Harper was frogmarching the author out of the door while Little Rog was pleading with his father, red-faced and shouting, to calm down.

  “A row about the origins of lasagne. I nearly jumped in but I thought I’d let them sort it out in the time-honoured fashion,” Symon explained.

  Tess, who’d lived in the village long enough now to be used to this kind of behaviour from The Ship’s regulars, raised her eyes to the beams. “Pasties at dawn it is. Still, you’re the right man to set them straight on anything culinary. Didn’t you train in France?”

  Symon never talked about his time in France. Whenever he thought about Paris, it felt as though one of his chef’s knives was slicing through his heart. An unbidden vision of dark eyes and red lips quirking upwards in a knowing half-smile flickered through his memory, and his fingers tightened on the stem of the glass. Jesus. He’d told himself he was over this. Would it ever stop hurting? In despair, he knocked back his drink.

  Luckily for Symon, Tess was now chatting away about how much she loved Paris and he had a few moments to collect himself. Nodding in what he hoped were appropriate places, Symon pushed the memories of Claudette back into the hidden place in his heart where he kept them locked away. By the time Tess paused to ask him about the city, Symon’s heartbeat was steadier – and, unless she was extremely sharp-eyed, she wouldn’t have spotted that his hand was still trembling slightly as he refilled his glass.

  “Oh dear, I’ve not given you a chance to get a word in,” Tess was saying. “I think having an uninterrupted adult conversation has gone to my head. You did live in Paris? Morgan said you trained at a top restaurant and with a really famous chef too. Fact!”

  Tess taught Symon’s nephew and she smiled as she repeated Morgan’s favourite expression.

  “Morgan’s very proud of you,” she added. “Who was it you worked for?”

  Symon’s mouth was dry. The noise of the pub faded and he was right back there in Restaurant Papillon watching Jean-Luc fillet fish with the precision of a brain surgeon, and hardly able to breathe for Claudette’s proximity. He had never in his life been so intensely aware of another person’s presence. It was as though even their blood was magnetised.

  “I worked for Jean-Luc Marsaud,” he said quietly.

  “Wow.”

  Tess looked impressed, which wasn’t surprising. Jean-Luc was one of the top chefs in Paris. Forty-six, driven and indefatigable, he was famous for his genius in the kitchen and his two Michelin stars. To train under him, let alone rise to become his second in command, had been a dream come true. Symon had hardly been able to believe his luck when he’d been taken on.

  “No wonder you’re getting such amazing write-ups in the papers,” Tess said warmly. “I live on toast and Pot Noodles but even I’ve heard of Jean-Luc Marsaud. I think I saw a feature about his wife a while back too, in one of the Sunday supplements. They’re a real power couple, aren’t they?”

  Claudette and Jean-Luc were certainly that. Her husband was the creative genius with the volatile temperament to match, but Claudette did all the networking, wooed the press, made sure the right celebrities dined in the restaurant and was generally agreed to be Jean-Paul’s biggest asset. Together they had built the Papillon name up from its roots as a small backstreet bistro in Montmartre to one of the most celebrated epicurean establishments on the left bank. Claudette had been the driving force behind this; as Symon had soon discovered, when she set her heart on something she made sure that it was soon hers.

  “So what brought you home?”

  It was a reasonable question and Tess was only making conversation, but Symon, who’d been interrogated endlessly about this by his grandmother and sisters, was instantly on his guard.

  “A combination of things,” he replied shortly. “Excuse me, for a minu
te, Tess. I must just check in with my sous-chef. Why don’t you have a look at the menu? I’ll have the steak pie if Rose comes to take the order.”

  He plucked his iPhone from his pocket and threaded his way through the growing press of evening drinkers. His younger brother Nick and several other fishermen were at the bar, still a little grimy from a long day trawling and celebrating a good catch with pints of Pol Brew, and his older brother Jake was chatting to Adam. It was all very normal and safe but to Symon it felt as though the pub walls were closing in on him. He saw mouths opening and shutting but no sound seemed to come from them; all he could hear was the rushing of his own blood in his ears. Panic silted his throat and it was only once he was outside and gulping great lungfuls of cold salty air that he felt his pulse slow.

  Shit. He hadn’t had a panic attack for months. Symon had thought he was through all that now. In the long, dark time after leaving Papillon he’d often woken up at night choking for air and with his breath coming in shallow gasps as his dreams ribboned away. Symon had thought this was in the past. He didn’t think of France that often and he did his very best to never think of Claudette.

  But it was hard to forget the first woman to take his heart, especially when he feared that it still belonged to her.

  Symon killed a few minutes by calling the restaurant, was told very firmly by Tara that all was well and to stop checking up on them, and had no choice but to return to his date. When he rejoined Tess, the menu was still folded on the table and her wine glass was empty.

  “I don’t know what I said to upset you but, whatever it is, I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You didn’t upset me. I just had to speak to Tony and—” Symon began, but Tess held up her hand and gave him a look that stopped him in his tracks. She must be formidable in the classroom.

  “Don’t insult me, please. I’m not an idiot. Besides, you look just like Morgan when you’re fibbing. The tips of his ears go red too.”