The Christmas Cafe at Seashell Cove: The perfect laugh-out-loud Christmas romance

by Karen Clarke

  ‘It’s in Exmouth, so not far.’ I had the impression that if we’d been talking on the phone, he’d be throwing a victory punch. ‘Honestly, Tild— Tilly, we’ll have a great time, you’ll see.’ His eyes shuttled to my lower half. ‘I’m looking forward to dancing with you,’ he said. ‘They say if you’re a good dancer, you’re good in the bedroom department, though I don’t think we’ve anything to worry about there.’

  ‘Bedroom department?’ It sounded like something Mum would say. What’s he like in the bedroom department, Tilly? You want a man who knows what he’s doing!

  He reached for my hand. ‘We make a good pair, Tilly, you and me.’ His fingers were freezing. ‘I’ll never forget our first night together, when you said I had a good body.’

  I glanced round, imagining my friends’ reactions if they could hear this conversation, but there was only a disinterested seagull strutting about on the sand. ‘Well, you do,’ I agreed. Divested of his clothing – including the sort of billowing boxers favoured by my dad – his body was tanned and muscly (he’d confessed to starting a work-out regime after one of his sixth-formers said his granny could beat him in a fist fight) and, I admit, our encounters in his hotel-like bedroom had been pleasant so far – though I’d sensed him reading more into them than I had, saying he loved my ‘laid-back vibe’ and that I was the yin to his yang. ‘It’s very nice,’ I added, as if complimenting him on a new tie.

  ‘I don’t mind you using me for my body.’ Letting my hand go, he flapped his coat open and shut like a flasher in what I assumed was an attempt at appearing irresistibly sexy. ‘But I’d like there to be more between us than the physical.’

  The physical? ‘Right,’ I said, wishing we could fast-forward a week, so that the wedding was over and he could stop being weird. ‘Well, I suppose there are worse ways to spend a day than watching someone get married.’

  ‘Oh, great, that’s great.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘So, you’ll definitely come?’

  ‘My word is my bond,’ I said, hoping he didn’t want it in writing.

  ‘You won’t regret it, Tilda.’

  ‘Tilly.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a black streak of fur tearing across the beach. It was a sleek-haired dog, barking as it darted to the water’s edge, and I remembered someone had recently bought the old cottage on the other side of the headland.

  The dog was frisking about, barking at the waves, and I hoped he wasn’t about to run into the sea. Often deceptively calm in the cove, the water possessed strong undercurrents and there were rocks further out where ships used to run aground.

  ‘How about Mattie?’ Rufus was saying.

  ‘Sorry?’ I dragged my gaze back to see him flick up the collar of his coat, his hair flapping sideways in the wind.

  ‘Mattie’s got a nice ring to it.’

  ‘I prefer Tilly,’ I said. ‘It’s my name.’

  ‘You could call me Roo.’

  I stared. ‘I… don’t think I can.’

  His face coloured down to his neck. ‘Don’t you think it’s nice when couples have pet names?’

  ‘I think it’s supposed to happen organically.’ I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself laughing, sensing he wouldn’t like it. ‘When they’ve got to know each other much better.’

  ‘All the more reason to take our relationship to the next stage.’ Before I could ask him to please stop saying next stage, his head shot forward and he pressed cold lips to mine before backing away, his round-toed boots sinking into the sand. ‘I’m going to go now,’ he said, as if I’d been trying to detain him. ‘I’ll give you a call later, make sure you haven’t changed your mind.’ He mimed putting a phone to his ear, and waved with his other hand.

  I waved back, stamping my feet. I felt like a Popsicle and needed to move to warm up, and was aware of a sweeping relief as I watched him walk back up the winding path to the café. It’s only a wedding, I told myself. Dad would be pleased I’d agreed to go. Date a man who deserves you, Tilly. Stop messing about with beach boys. He’d meant surfer types and I had to admit, I’d had my fill of them. Maybe my sister would approve of my ‘grown-up’ relationship too, and stop treating me with her usual contempt. I just wished I hadn’t boasted to her about a well-paying design job I’d had lined up – to prove that I was capable of working just as hard as she did – which had fallen through at the last minute. There was nothing else on the horizon. It wasn’t that I needed the money, thanks to the savings I’d accrued from jobs I’d done over the years (unlike Bridget, I didn’t covet expensive furniture, or have a mortgage to pay), but she’d been driving home how a satisfying career would give meaning to my ‘empty life’.

  Shivering, I started walking, pulling my chin into the fur at the neck of my jacket, deciding that once I’d filled my lungs with fresh air, I’d drive to the supplier and pick up the rest of the paint.

  As I strode out, my gaze travelled the length of beach I knew so well and had missed a surprising amount when I’d moved to Canada with Mum and Dad, twelve years ago. A movement caught my eye and I paused. A boy had sprinted onto the sand from the same direction as the dog, a bright blue towel flaring from his shoulders like a cape. Like the dog, he was hurtling towards the sea, shouting, ‘Digby!’ in a high, panicked voice. ‘Digby, come back!’

  I shifted my gaze, heart stalling when I saw the dog’s head bobbing about in the water. The weak sunshine had retreated, and the sea was a choppy mass of foaming grey that I knew was capable of sweeping a person (or animal) away in minutes.

  ‘Wait!’ I called, starting to run as the boy flung off his towel and ran through the waves in his pants, but he either didn’t hear me, or was too intent on rescue to see the danger.

  I picked up speed, adrenaline charging through my brain, the salty wind stinging my eyes as I threw off my jacket and peeled my sweatshirt and T-shirt over my head. I slowed to a stumble to kick off my boots, and when I looked up, the dog had made it back to the beach and was shaking off water in a spraying arc, but the boy was struggling in the sea, drifting close to the rocks.

  I waded out, sucking in a breath as the icy water gripped me. ‘Hang on!’ I yelled, before ducking beneath the surface, swimming away from the beach with steady strokes as the current wrapped around me. The freezing water prickled my scalp and shot up my nose, making me splutter and gasp, while the undertow tried to pull me off course. I kicked harder and swam faster, as if I was back at school, my coach urging me on.

  Come on, Tilly, you’ve got this! You’re winning, come on, Tilly!

  I raised my head, caught a flash of saucer-wide eyes and a slick of dark blond hair, and then I was beside him. ‘Just go floppy,’ I panted, grabbing him under the arms. Making sure his face was above the water, I struggled back to the shore in a one-armed crawl, my legs thrashing frantically against the undercurrent, distantly aware of someone shouting from the beach.

  My lungs felt on fire, and my neck was burning from the effort of holding the boy, and then he was being lifted from me by whoever had been shouting. Suddenly weightless, I half-crawled onto the soft wet sand and collapsed, gasping and choking for air. After coughing up a mouthful of salty water, I rolled onto my back, sounds rushing in as I blinked at the oyster-pale sky: boyish protests; a deep male voice, sharp-edged with panicky relief, and a series of staccato barks that came closer and a long pink tongue unfurled to lick my face.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Twisting away from my canine face wash, I spotted a pair of sand-gritted feet by my head. ‘I’m fine,’ I tried to say, but my teeth were chattering like wind-up novelty gnashers and the words didn’t quite make it out.

  ‘Christ, you must be freezing.’ As soon as he said it, I became shiveringly aware of my half-naked state, having stripped to my bra and jeans, both of which were clinging like a second skin.

  ‘The boy…’ I pushed myself upright and scanned the frothing sea, as if he might still be out there.

  ‘It’s
OK, he’s fine.’ Behind me, the man’s voice had a touch of urgency. ‘Here, put this on.’

  Before I could process what was happening, the view disappeared in a shroud of navy, musk-scented wool, and I began to struggle as though I was being taken hostage. ‘It’s my sweater,’ the man said, and the view reappeared as my head popped through the neck-hole, my dripping hair clinging to my cheeks. I shoved my arms in the sleeves and hugged my waist, shudders rippling through me. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Over there.’

  Twisting round, I saw the boy chasing the dog back up the beach, a man-sized jacket dwarfing his frame, as if he hadn’t been on the verge of drowning minutes earlier. I’d half-expected a crowd to have gathered, or paramedics to be rushing over with foil blankets, but apart from a distant dog walker the beach was still deserted, and it was doubtful we’d have been seen from the café, unless someone had been on the terrace.

  The whole episode already felt dreamlike.

  ‘Thank god he’s all right,’ I said, pushing awkwardly to my feet. A wave of dizziness overtook me and I stumbled against the man.

  ‘Take it easy, you’re probably in shock.’

  For a moment, I leaned against a solid wall of chest while a pair of strong hands rubbed my arms, as if trying to get my circulation going. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d placed my head on a man’s chest, apart from my dad’s when I was little, which meant he was taller than me. His skin felt warm through his T-shirt, and I could hear his heart, thumping as hard as mine was.

  ‘You saved my son’s life.’ His voice rumbled through me, and I recognised a soft, Home Counties accent – Hampshire, perhaps. Not Made in Chelsea posh, but well educated. ‘If you hadn’t been here, and I hadn’t just happened to look out of the window…’ A convulsion ran through him. ‘I don’t think he even realises—’

  ‘Why was he running about on the beach on his own?’ A shot of anger propelled me backwards, and I looked at him properly for the first time, noting that I had to tilt my head. Wow. OK, so he was attractive: rumpled dark-blond hair, a matching, close-cut beard and eyes the colour of swimming pools. He was in his late-thirties, maybe older; it was hard to tell when his face was creased with anguish. ‘Your son could have died!’

  ‘Don’t you think I know that?’ A frown cut between his eyebrows. ‘It was because of the dog. He must have got out somehow.’ He was wearing black jeans, fitted around strong thighs. ‘I must have left the back door open.’ I dragged my gaze up to his face. ‘Jack would never have come out, otherwise. I thought he was still in the bath.’ At least that explained the towel – now pooled around his feet – and why the boy had only been wearing pants.

  ‘Do you know how many people die trying to save their dogs from drowning?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘It was a rhetorical question,’ I snapped. ‘Nine times out of ten the dog survives and the owner dies.’

  He ran both hands through his hair. ‘Please don’t keep saying those words.’

  ‘What words?’

  ‘Drowning. Dying.’

  I stared in disbelief. ‘Well, I’m sorry for pointing out that rushing into the sea in December, after your badly-behaved dog, is a recipe for death.’

  ‘Please, stop.’ His voice had lowered and I saw the boy – Jack – approaching, his hair almost dry already and curling around his neck. He was probably six or seven, skinny-limbed, ribs showing beneath the too-big leather jacket. ‘I don’t want you to scare him.’

  ‘He should be scared.’ I wished my teeth would stop chattering as I turned to look at the boy. ‘You know you could have drowned out there?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’ Despite his big, scared eyes – a shade darker than his dad’s – his tone was resolute. ‘I could have easily got back on my own.’ I could see he desperately wanted to believe it, but keen to drive my point home I pulled my head back and jabbed a finger to where a couple of rocks were sticking up out of the water. ‘You were being carried out to sea. You could have been knocked unconscious.’ I made a slapstick performance of bashing my head and sinking underwater, my eyelids fluttering shut.

  The boy giggled. ‘You’re funny.’

  My eyes snapped open. His response was so unexpected, I couldn’t think of a single response before he’d turned his attention back to the prancing dog. ‘C’mon, Digby.’ They ran off once more, the dog tail-waggingly unaware of the drama he’d caused.

  ‘I’m sorry about that.’ The man bent to scoop up the soggy towel. ‘Get your things and come back to the house to dry off. The least I can do is fix you a hot drink.’ Straightening, he extended a hand. ‘Seth Donovan.’

  ‘Tilly Campbell,’ I said automatically, ignoring his hand. ‘He needs to take this seriously.’ I gestured at the sea. ‘You both do.’

  Seth’s arm dropped back to his side. ‘Believe me, I do,’ he said with a grimace. ‘We both do, and I’ll make sure nothing like this ever happens again. It’s… Jack’s…’ He shook his head, as if the right words wouldn’t come. ‘It’s complicated.’ His tightly muscled arms were pimpled with gooseflesh and his jaw looked clenched, as if he was trying to stop his own teeth from chattering. Divested of his jacket and jumper, his T-shirt was no match for the wind, which seemed to have gathered strength, and his jeans were soaked to the knees where he’d run into the sea. ‘Please, come back with me,’ he urged. ‘We’re just up there.’ He pointed to the path worn into the rocky hillside, the grey-stone cottage at the top stamped against the rise of another hill. ‘You can’t go home in that state.’

  I glanced down at my sea-sodden jeans, then at my boots discarded on the sand, my sweatshirt, T-shirt and jacket nearby. I could easily grab them and leg it up to the café car park, drive home and leap under a hot shower; fix myself some drinking chocolate and hunker down on the sofa with my duvet for the rest of the day.

  But home – our solid house, designed by Dad, with its elegantly proportioned rooms and sturdy walls – wasn’t the same now Bridget was back with her two-year-old daughter, and right now, I felt… what? Looking at the heaving sea, pushing closer as the tide crept in – nothing like the flat expanse of silky, turquoise water I’d floated around in during the summer – I remembered striking out towards the boy. It had been ages since I’d swum like that, and although it had been frantic and frightening, it had also been… exhilarating. The whole thing had been over in a matter of minutes, but I felt different; and not just because I couldn’t feel my legs any more.

  ‘OK,’ I said, my anger deflating as I retrieved my clothes and boots, hugging them to my chest, desperate now to get my sopping jeans off. ‘I could definitely do with a hot drink.’ My few hours at the café, and my chat with Rufus seemed ages ago. I wondered if he was home now, practising his best man’s speech for his brother’s wedding.

  ‘Me too,’ said Seth – I’d never met a Seth before – just as it began to rain. Not the soft light rain that south-west Devon was known for, but rain like needles of ice that made me squint unglamorously as we began a lumbering run towards the path. Jack and the dog had already vanished, presumably into the cottage, and the part of my brain that hadn’t gone frigid with cold was curious to look inside. There’d been some gossip about the new owner, but I’d been too sidetracked by my sister’s recent return home to take it in. Hopefully, Seth wasn’t a suspected serial killer, posing as a loving dad. I wasn’t getting that vibe from him, but a psychopath could appear charming and charismatic on the surface. Not that I thought Seth was either on first appearance, but the circumstances had been exceptional.

  He turned back suddenly, tenting the towel over his head, then held out a hand as if to help me, but I had my arms full and quickly scrambled past him. I was used to rough terrain – admittedly not in wet socks – and didn’t need the hand of a man who hadn’t realised his son wasn’t in the house, until it was nearly too late. What had he been doing that was more important than keeping an eye on him?

  We finally reached the top of the hill, f
eet squelching through puddled mud, and then we were on the stony stretch of path outside the cottage. I fleetingly registered that the powder-blue paint was peeling off the front door, before Seth led me inside a low-ceilinged hallway criss-crossed with old oak beams. It was only when he’d reached past me to close the door that I realised how noisy it had been outside, with the rain and wind, the crashing waves, and the wailing cry of seagulls.

  Inside, it was silent – almost too quiet – and I stood, dripping onto a carpet so densely patterned with tiny beige and green swirls it made me go cross-eyed.

  ‘There’s a lot needs doing,’ Seth said. ‘I mean, the building’s structurally sound but the decor leaves a lot to be desired.’ He sounded apologetic, anxious to explain why we appeared to have zipped back to the seventies.

  ‘It does have a retro look,’ I said, taking in the tobacco-coloured wallpaper, and a single swaying pendant light we’d have to duck to avoid. On my right was a steep wooden staircase, where pale light filtered down from a window on the landing, emphasising bare patches on the walls where pictures used to hang.

  In spite of everything, I slid into design-mode, mentally planning the improvements I’d make if the place was mine: a mirror at the bottom of the stairs to bounce the light around; neutral walls to give the impression of space; a wooden floor (more hard-wearing than carpet) and touches of colour with a rug, some artwork, flowers – maybe a console table with drawers to store clutter, and a lamp on top for warmth.

  ‘Come through to the kitchen.’ Seth’s voice ruptured my thoughts. ‘It’s nicer in there.’

  ‘What about Jack?’ I couldn’t believe he didn’t seem interested in where his son was, or what he was doing. He’d almost drowned ten minutes ago – even if Jack had been in denial.

  ‘He’ll be in his bedroom. He won’t want me there.’ Seth had turned away so I couldn’t see his expression, but there was something in his voice – a sort of grim acceptance – that hinted at a troubled relationship.