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

by Ruth Saberton

  “Perfect. Celeriac and sweet potato mash,” said Symon. Food. Think of food. He had a million recipes crammed inside his head, surely enough to ensure there was no room for thoughts of the past?

  While Tony set to work, Symon helped Perry unload, marvelling at the beautiful field mushrooms with their delicate gills, the frilly winter greens that were the same jewel-bright hue as his new sister’s name, and the mass of sweet potatoes still clad in peat. Already his mind was imagining what wonderful dishes he could create to do justice to all this, and the old excitement was igniting.

  “You’ve certainly got a flair for growing excellent produce, Perry,” he said, and his friend flushed at the praise.

  “Just as well I’m good at something. Maybe I should try paying off the overdraft with veg? What do you think the exchange rate is for carrots?”

  Symon laughed bleakly. “I was wondering the same for chowder. At this rate you and I will be bankrupt together.”

  “That bad?”

  “Between us, yes, I think so,” Symon told him. Once they were out of earshot and unstacking Perry’s produce in the cold store, he added, “My takings are a bit low at the moment, even after that review. Worse, the landlord doesn’t want to renew the lease when it comes to an end. He probably wants to convert the premises into a holiday cottage, I imagine. I don’t know how I’ll afford another place with the way things are; all the prices are sky-high.”

  “He’s seen a potential goldmine in this building,” Perry observed.

  Symon nodded. “It’s going to happen right across the county, especially if people stop buying second homes abroad and head to Cornwall.”

  “Maybe an oligarch will want to buy the manor,” Perry said hopefully. Then his face fell. “Bugger, forgot the bloody place is entailed. I’ll probably have to live in a caravan and rent it out for glamping. Hey! That’s a brilliant idea, don’t you think? Glamping’s huge. That could work!”

  Over the past two years Perry had been the enthusiastic genius behind many brilliant ideas, none of which had turned out to be quite as brilliant as he’d originally believed. Polwenna Manor’s tithe barn contained the relics of these grand schemes: they included a rusting cider press, crates of mildewed leaflets for Polwenna Ghost Tours, ten beehives purchased for the Manor Honey venture (Perry was allergic to bees as it turned out) and a punctured bouncy castle. It didn’t require a huge leap of imagination to picture a pile of cobweb-draped yurts joining this collection.

  They set to unpacking, both men deep in thought, and by the time they’d finished Symon was ready to throw himself in the River Wenn. Judging from the expression on his friend’s face, Perry wouldn’t be far behind him. With everything now stored away, Symon made them both a coffee, which they carried into the empty restaurant.

  “Something will turn up. You’re very talented,” Perry said, but he didn’t look too hopeful. If even Perry’s optimism was on the wane, then things were looking grim.

  Symon was about to reply that no mattered how talented he might be, nothing short of winning that evening’s lottery would help. It was at this moment that the restaurant door opened and a tall slim blonde glided inside.

  His heart sank. Ella St Milton. What now?

  “Lunch is finished, I’m afraid,” he said politely.

  Ella tucked a strand of hair behind a shell of an ear. Her face was flushed and she looked decidedly hot and bothered.

  “I’m not here to eat,” she replied.

  Of course she wasn’t. Women like Ella didn’t eat. They lunched à deux in trendy restaurants where they pushed a few Parmesan-sprinkled rocket leaves about their plates before declaring themselves stuffed. Similarly, Claudette would rather have died than eaten more than a morsel of the beautiful food served in Papillon.

  “I’m here to see you, actually.”

  “Right,” he said, feeling cautious. What was it? Were Granny Alice and Jonny back on again? Had Nick delivered the wrong fish? Or maybe this was industrial espionage and she was on a mission for Charlie Barton?

  Ella looked nervous. A triangle of pink tongue darted over her lips and she was clasping her hands tightly in front of her.

  “I’ve got a proposition for you. Hear me out before you say anything, because I think it could work really well for us both.”

  Ella was rarely seen in the village; something must be up, for her to make the effort to visit the restaurant. Judging from her rosy cheeks and the slightly untidy hair she was smoothing back into place, she’d actually walked down over the cliff path rather than hopping into one of her fleet of luxury cars. Despite not liking the woman, Symon was curious.

  “In that case you’d better have a seat,” he said, rising and pulling one out for her. “Can I get you a drink? Perry and I are on coffee but the bar’s fully stocked.”

  Was it his imagination or did she colour even more at this?

  “I don’t drink when I’m working,” she snapped.

  So this was a work proposition then. She probably wanted some catering done for one of Charlie’s day’s off. Mentally, he was already totting up his costs and adding another couple of noughts for good measure. Yes, that might help.

  “Let me fetch you a coffee and we can talk,” he said.

  “In private would be good,” Ella told him, looking pointedly at Perry. “And I don’t need a coffee. Thanks.”

  Symon’s hackles rose. Who did she think she was, swanning into his restaurant, demanding to speak to him and deciding who could and couldn’t be present? Typical St Milton behaviour. Only they would lord it over an actual Lord!

  “I’ll go and finish up in the kitchen,” Perry said tactfully.

  “So what’s all this about?” Symon asked Ella once his friend was gone.

  That pink tongue flicked over her lips again. They were full and plump and Symon looked away. He felt oddly disconcerted.

  “Look, this isn’t easy to say so I’ll come straight out with it.” Ella’s hands were still clenched tightly. She was on edge, almost trembling with nerves, and her grey eyes seemed troubled.

  Symon, who had a kind heart, smiled encouragingly at her. “Go on.”

  “I need your help. Charlie Barton’s walked out on me and we’ve got Georgie Angel’s wedding on Saturday. I’m without a head chef.”

  Symon whistled. This was low even for Charlie Barton, who in his opinion was a first-class tosser. No wonder Ella looked stressed.

  “It’s a mess and I have no idea how we can carry on without him unless another chef’s able to step in. I know it’s at short notice but would you possibly do it?”

  Short notice? The wedding was three days away. Everyone in the village was talking about it. Little Rog was convinced that if he staked the hotel out one of Little Mix would be bound to take pity on him. Meanwhile, Jake was so wound up about Justin Anderson’s imminent arrival that he was all but chiming.

  “I don’t think so, Ella.” Symon couldn’t think of anything worse than having to pick up Charlie’s mess. He knew lots of the staff at the hotel and they’d all told him horror stories. In fact, Klaus had visited The Plump Seagull several times to sound out the possibility of a job. Symon could imagine that the bulk of the preparations were still to be done and that Charlie, the kind of chef who flew by the seat of his pants, hadn’t even thought about finalising the menu. At Charlie’s behest, someone had probably persuaded the bride and groom that it was best to wait for their celebrity chef to come up with something bespoke nearer the time, rather than planning too far ahead in advance and spoiling the surprise. In other words, the menu would be made up on the spur of the moment when Charlie could be arsed to think about it.

  It would be utter chaos and Symon’s head ached just at the thought.

  “I’m flat out here too,” he added, crossing his fingers under the table. Bookings were bound to pick up soon, weren’t they?

  An expression that looked like panic flickered across Ella’s perfectly made-up face.

  “I know it’s a b
ig ask but I’ll pay you really well. I’ll match what Charlie would have made and I’ll even throw in a bonus. It will win you a lot more bookings for here too. You know it will, Symon. The hotel will be crammed with celebrities all eating your food, hearing your name and talking about you. It’ll be fantastic advertising.”

  She was good.

  “It sounds like I should be paying you,” Symon remarked drily.

  Ella smiled. “You’ve said it! But seriously, I’d really like you to do this. You’re an exemplary chef and we both know you’re ten times better than Charlie anyway. Just think of the opportunity this could be to showcase your talent, get media attention for The Plump Seagull and stick two fingers up at Charlie, who’ll be expecting it all to fall flat on its face. You can really show him.”

  Charlie was a huge show-off and Symon had been the recipient of many sneering comments from him, as well as having his suspicions about the origins of some nasty rumours. He had to admit that it would be very satisfying to better his rival. The extra money and publicity were enticing too. All the same, Symon knew that this job could be a poisoned chalice. Part of him wanted to tell Ella to stick her offer anyway, because she’d treated his family appallingly in the past. And yet, he sensed that beneath Ella’s apparent confidence and her smooth sales pitch she was utterly terrified. Taking everything into consideration, Symon was sorely tempted to rise to the challenge.

  “How much are we talking about?” he asked, and Ella named a figure that made him glad he was sitting down. He couldn’t turn this down. No way.

  “OK,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  “You will? Oh, that’s brilliant!”

  Symon hadn’t seen Ella St Milton smile properly before. He’d seen her lips curve upwards in a polite expression, but he’d never witnessed her real smile. It was one that filled her eyes with sparkles, softened the sharp edges of her face and popped two cute dimples in her cheeks.

  Symon stared at her transfixed. She was utterly beautiful.

  “Thank you!” Ella cried. “That’s wonderful!”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Symon replied, feeling a little as though he’d looked too long at the sun and couldn’t quite focus anymore. Her smile was imprinted on his vision even though it had swiftly been replaced by her habitual measured expression. Feeling thrown, he added, “Just make sure Justin Anderson keeps out of my way.”

  “Totally,” Ella promised. “You won’t even know he’s there. I promise.”

  She held out her hand and they shook on the deal. Ella was now busy discussing the details, but Symon was unable to put aside the unexpected glimpse of that excited girl behind the icy façade. This aspect of Ella had vanished as quickly as it had appeared; by the time Ella departed, promising to email some further information and a contract once she was back at her desk, Symon was wondering if he’d imagined it.

  Of course he had. This was Ella St Milton, wasn’t it? Everyone knew she didn’t have a nice side – and Symon told himself sharply that he ought to keep this in mind.

  After all, nobody knew better than him exactly what could happen when two people were thrown together in a hot and busy kitchen.

  Chapter 17

  “You are going to love Symon’s grub! Trust me on this one! Our brother might be socially inept but he’s a great chef.”

  Emerald hadn’t known her brother Nick for very long, but there were two things she thought she’d figured out. The first was that Nick liked to party hard and the second was that when he said to trust him it was really best not to. So far, he’d told her to trust him when he said that Cornish pasties were the world’s greatest culinary experience ever (two days on, Emerald’s stomach still hurt from the carb-filled assault) and to trust him that all his mates were “mint”. Bobby and Joe Penhalligan were nice enough, even if their conversation about fishing and constant questions about cheerleaders soon became wearisome, but the one called Little Rog hardly said a word. Instead he just stared at her. In the end, convinced that she must have something in her teeth or a massive spot thanks to her new English diet of pasties, fries and cream teas, Emerald had fled to the bathroom to check.

  “Don’t mind Little Rog. He doesn’t get out much, that’s all. I heard he went to Plymouth once but that might be an exaggeration,” Nick had explained when Emerald asked what the problem was. “You’re from America, that’s why he’s gobsmacked. You may as well have come from the moon!”

  Emerald was learning that the Brits had a very odd sense of humour. Nick was exaggerating. Right? Or maybe not? It was very hard to tell.

  And anyway, what on earth did gobsmacked mean?

  “And while we’re talking about our friends, do you have any who are cheerleaders? Or, even better, who work at Hooters? Would they like to visit?”

  Nick had yelped when Emerald had walloped him and called him a sexist, which had been the end of that conversation.

  Today Emerald was meeting Jimmy in The Plump Seagull and she’d bumped into Nick on the way. Together they’d wandered through the village, with Nick pointing out characters and landmarks and filling her in on gossip and history. Emerald tried to take it all in but there was so much to remember that her brain felt as though it was overflowing. She’d wanted roots and history though!

  “And that’s Silver Starr. She runs the psychic shop and she’s a total fraud. Don’t ever get your hair cut in Kursa’s salon: she’d be better off topping verges for the council. And unless you want to be his latest muse, avoid that guy over there. He’s our resident writer.”

  “Gotcha,” Emerald said. The man in question looked like he’d stepped out of a Jane Austen novel. Did guys really still wear cravats and frock coats here?

  “OK. That’s the end of today’s tour. I’m off to the pub. Sy’s place is just up that road,” said Nick, pointing to a narrow cobbled side street. “And well done on pinning Dad down, by the way. None of us can ever manage it!”

  A lunch date with Jimmy was indeed something of a coup. In the short time since she’d arrived, Emerald had soon learned that her father was as elusive as the Cornish mist and equally capable of vanishing in an instant. It had come as a surprise when Jimmy had pulled up at the stables and asked her if she wanted to have lunch. She’d hardly seen him since she’d arrived in Polwenna Bay, but then she’d been so busy getting to know the rest of her family and helping Mo out. This arrangement was generally going well, with the exception of her sister freaking out when Emerald rode one of the horses like a barrel-racing pony.

  “What the hell are you trying to do? Break your neck?” Mo had screeched, flying across the arena and practically dragging Emerald off the horse. “This isn’t the Wild bloody West!”

  “He was going real fast!” Emerald had protested. She was totally confused. Wasn’t this the whole point?

  “He’s not supposed to go fast in here! It’s a dressage arena!” Mo had sprung into the saddle and then spent the next ten minutes trotting around in circles, which looked neat but made Emerald yawn. She couldn’t imagine a stadium filled with cheering crowds wanting to watch that. Not for the first time since she’d arrived in England, Emerald felt lost and rather homesick. Not that she’d admit this to a soul. No way. When her mom called, Emerald just told her what an awesome vacation she was having – and Leaf, being Leaf, didn’t question this. If Emerald went to sleep each night in the rather damp caravan wondering why she was here and longing for warmth, she’d rather die than let on.

  Besides, it all made great material for her vlog. Maybe she’d be the next big YouTube sensation. An America teenager in England? It could work. As soon as she got some decent broadband she’d upload some of the entries. You never knew and, anyway, her friends back home would just love to see what she was up to. The English guys were kind of hot too, if you ignored their wonky teeth and love of beer…

  “Hey, you two!”

  It was her brother Danny, waving and hurrying towards them. His face was split with a smile and he looked excited. Morgan, camera in
hand, was with him and on seeing Emerald started taking photos.

  “It’s to add you to my family pictures,” he explained and Emerald, thrilled to be included, posed happily.

  “Glad to have caught you, Nick,” said Danny. “I need a favour.”

  “I’m not babysitting for the squirt,” Nick said, ruffling Morgan’s hair and neatly sidestepping as his nephew lunged at him.

  “I’m not a baby!”

  “It’s just turn of phrase, mate,” said Danny quickly. “Anyway, it’d be you looking after your uncle and you’d need danger money.”

  “I’d just take him to the pub,” Morgan told his father matter-of-factly. “Grand Granny says he lives there anyway.”

  From what Emerald had seen of her new brother this was a fair assessment. What was it with Brits and pubs anyway? No wonder the legal drinking age in the UK was eighteen – as Nick had delightedly told her. When Emerald had informed him that she didn’t drink, he’d been floored.

  “So what do you do for fun back at home?” he’d asked and she’d shrugged.

  “Read books? Write? Yoga? Go hiking?”

  “Blimey,” Nick had said. “Are you sure we’re related?”

  “What I need from you guys is some practical help,” Danny continued now. “I’m organising the village Easter Egg Hunt and I could do with a hand – seeing as I only have one these days!”

  “I thought that Easter egg stuff was Jules’s job?” Nick asked. “It’s all in the Bible, right?”

  Danny gave him a withering look. “Oddly enough I don’t think the Easter Bunny and chocolate eggs feature strongly in the New Testament. Anyway, Jules has got enough on. What I’ll need is some help placing the eggs and organising the children. There’s one egg that I’ll need to make sure they don’t find because it’s going to be a big surprise for Jules.”

  “What is it? A monster Easter egg? Giant chocolate bunny?” guessed Nick, but Danny tapped his nose.