Читать книгу Second Chance At Sea - Кэтти Уильямс, Jessica Gilmore, Cathy Williams - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

‘WHAT HAVE YOU done with the helipad? And didn’t the ninth hole start over there? I’m not sure your father ever recovered from that lesson. Or your mother...although I did offer to pay for the window.’

Lawrie would have bet everything she owned that a country house hotel catering for the rich was not Jonas’s style. But now she was here it was hard to pinpoint the changes she instinctively knew he must have made. Coombe End looked the same—a tranquil Queen Anne manor house set in stunning acres of managed woodland at the back, green meadows at the front, running into the vivid blue blur of sea on the horizon—and yet something was different. Something other than the change in owner and the apparent loss of a golf course and helipad.

Maybe it was the car park? There were a few high-end cars dotted here and there, but they were joined by plenty of others: people carriers, old bangers, small town cars and a whole fleet worth of camper vans, their bright paintwork shining brightly in the sun. Last time she had been here the car park had been filled with BMWs and Mercedes and other, less obviously identifiable makes—discreet and expensive, just like the hotel.

Lawrie hadn’t seen many camper vans in London, and the sight of their cheery squat box shape, their rounded curves and white tops, filled her with a sudden inexplicable sense of happiness. Which was absurd. Camper vans were for man-boys who refused to grow up. Ridiculous, gas-guzzling, unreliable eyesores.

So why did they make her feel as if she was home?

As Jonas led Lawrie along the white gravelled path that clung to the side of the graceful old building her sense of discombobulation increased. The formal gardens were in full flower, displaying all their early summer gaudy glory—giant beds filled with gigantic hydrangea bushes, full flowered and opulent—but the gardens as a whole were a lot less manicured, the grass on the front lawns longer than she remembered, with wildflowers daring to peek out amongst the velvety green blades of grass.

And what was that? The rose garden was gone, replaced by a herb garden with small winding paths and six wooden beehives.

‘You’ve replaced your mother’s pride and joy?’ she said, only half in mock horror.

‘Doesn’t it all look terribly untidy?’ Jonas said, his voice prim and faintly scandalised, a perfect parody of his mother.

Lawrie shook her head, too busy looking around to answer him, as they walked up the sandstone steps that led to the large double doors.

The old heavy oak doors were still there, but stripped, varnished—somehow more inviting. The discreet brass plaque had gone. Instead a driftwood sign set onto the wall was engraved with ‘Boat House Hotel’.

‘Come on,’ Jonas said, nudging her forward. ‘I’ll show you around.’

He stood aside and ushered her through the open door. With one last, lingering look at the sun-drenched lawn Lawrie went through into the hotel.

She hadn’t spent much time here before. Jonas had left home the day he turned sixteen—by mutual agreement, he had claimed—and had slept above the bar or in the camper van before they were married. He’d converted the room over the bar into a cosy studio apartment once they were. It had always felt like a royal summons on the few occasions when they were invited over for dinner—the even fewer occasions she had persuaded Jonas to accept.

They had always been formal, faux-intimate family dinners, held on the public stage of the hotel dining room. Jonas’s parents’ priority had clearly been their guests, not their son and his wife. Long, torturous courses of beautifully put together rich food, hours full of polite small talk, filled with a multitude of poisoned, well targeted barbs.

Her memories made the reality even more of a shock as Lawrie walked into the bright, welcoming foyer. The changes outside had been definite, but subtle; the inside, however, was completely, obviously, defiantly different. Inside the large hallway the dark wood panelling, the brocade and velvet, had been stripped away, allowing the graceful lines of the old house to shine through in colours reflecting Jonas’s love of the sea: deep blues and marine greens accentuating the cream décor.

‘It’s all reclaimed local materials—driftwood, recycled glass, re-covered sofas,’ Jonas explained. ‘And everything is Cornish-made—from the pictures on the walls to the glasses behind the bar.’

‘It’s amazing,’ Lawrie said, looking about her at the room at once so familiar and yet so new, feeling a little like Alice falling into Wonderland. ‘I love it. It’s really elegant, isn’t it? But not cold. It feels homely, somehow, despite its size.’

‘That’s the effect I wanted.’ His voice was casual but his eyes blazed blue as he looked at her. ‘You always did get it.’

Lawrie held his gaze for a long moment, the room fading away. That look in his eyes. That approval. Once she’d craved it, looked for it, yearned for it. Like the perfect cup of tea at the perfect temperature. A slab of chocolate exactly the right mixture of bitter and sweet. A chip, crisp and hot and salty on the outside, smooth and fluffy as you bit down.

Of course the only tea she drank nowadays was herbal, and she hadn’t had a chip—not even a hand-cut one—in years.

And she didn’t need anyone’s approval.

‘Some of my clients own hotels,’ she said, injecting as much cool professionalism into her voice as she could. ‘I’ve seen some great examples of décor, and some fairly alarming ones too. This is really lovely, though, Jonas.’

The approval faded, a quizzical gleam taking its place, but all he said was, ‘I’m glad you approve. Let’s hear your professional opinion on the rest of the place. This way.’

And Jonas turned and began to walk along the polished wooden floor towards the archway that led into the main ground floor corridor.

Lawrie heaved a sigh. Of relief, she told herself sternly. Job done—professional relationship back on track.

So why did she feel as if the sun had just disappeared behind a very black cloud?

Lawrie followed Jonas through the foyer and down the corridor, watching him greet both staff and guests with a smile, a quick word, a clap on the shoulder—evident master of his empire. It was odd... He used to be so unhappy here, a stranger in his own home, and now he appeared completely at ease.

Jonas led her into the old dining room. A large, imposing space, dominated by the series of floor-to-ceiling windows along the far wall matched by a parade of pillars reaching up to the high ceiling. This room too had been extensively remodelled, with a similar look and feel to the café on the seafront, all the lace and delicate china replaced with light woods and cheerful tablecloths.

A long table ran along one end, filled with large jugs, chunky earthenware mugs and plates of small cakes and biscuits.

‘Wouldn’t want the guests to get hungry,’ Jonas explained as he grabbed a pair of large mugs and poured coffee from one of the jugs, automatically adding milk to them before handing one to Lawrie.

She opened her mouth to decline but closed it as she breathed in the rich, dark aroma.

Why had she given up coffee? she wondered as she took a cautious sip. It was delicious, and the creamy Cornish milk was a perfect companion to the bitter nectar. Two milky coffees in two days—she was slipping back into bad habits.

The coffee was the least of it.

Jonas carried his cup over to the nearest window, which stood slightly ajar, allowing the slight summer breeze to permeate the room with the sweet promise of fresh warmth. The breeze ruffled his dark blond hair, making him look younger, more approachable.

Like the boy she had married. Was he still there, somewhere inside this ambitious, coolly confident man, that impetuous, eager boy?

Lawrie had promised herself that she wouldn’t probe. The last nine years, Jonas’s life, his business... None of it was relevant. Knowing the details wouldn’t help her with her job. Or with the distance she needed to maintain between them. And yet curiosity was itching through her.

She wandered over to the window and stood next to him, every fibre acutely aware of his proximity. Of the casual way he was leaning against the window frame. The golden hairs on the back of his tanned wrists. The undone button at his neck and the triangle of burnished skin it revealed.

Lawrie swallowed, the hot clench at her stomach reminding her of her vulnerability, of the attraction she didn’t want to acknowledge.

She looked out, following his line of sight as he gazed into the distance. The sea was clearly visible in the distance, calm and unruffled, the smell of it clear on the breeze. And the urge to know more, to know him again, suddenly overwhelmed her.

‘Why here?’ There—it was said.

Jonas looked mildly surprised. ‘Where else? This room works well as a dining room, has good access to the kitchens. It would have been silly to change it just for change’s sake.’

Lawrie shook her head. ‘I didn’t mean the room. I meant the whole thing,’ she said, aware she was probing deeper than she had any right to. ‘I mean here. You hated this place. I couldn’t get you to set foot inside the gates without a massive fight. I could understand it if your parents had gifted the place to you, but if you paid full value for and then remodelled it? It must have cost a fortune!’

Jonas quirked an eyebrow at her. ‘Oh, I get it. You’re wondering about how much I’m worth. Regretting the divorce after all?’

Heat flooded through her. She could feel her cheeks reddening. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ she protested. ‘You know I wouldn’t have taken a penny.’

‘That’s my Lawrie—still so serious.’

Jonas let out a laugh and Lawrie swatted him indignantly, trying to repress the secret thrill that crept over her at the possessive word ‘my’.

‘Oh, ha-ha. Very funny.’

Jonas leant back against the window pane, still grinning, and took a sip from the chunky Cornishware mug. ‘You always were so easy to wind up. Good to know some things don’t change.’

‘So?’ she pressed him, taking advantage of his suddenly companionable mood. ‘How come you ended up at Coombe End?’

Jonas didn’t reply for a long moment, and the mischievous glint in his eyes faded to annoyance. When he spoke his tone was clipped. ‘This was my home once, Lawrie. It wasn’t a big conspiracy or takeover, no matter what the village gossips say.’

Lawrie winced. She hadn’t considered the inevitable fall-out the change of ownership must have caused. The whole of Trengarth—the whole area—knew how things stood between Jonas and his parents. And there were few without definite opinions on the matter.

‘Since when did you care about what the gossips say?’ They had always been different in that regard. She so self-conscious, he proudly indifferent.

His eyes were cold. ‘I don’t. My decision to buy Coombe End was purely a business one. I always knew this place could be more. Yes, it was successful—very successful—if that kind of thing appealed: a little piece of the capital by the sea. You could drive straight here, fly your helicopter here, use the private beach, play the golf course and return home without ever experiencing what Cornwall is about,’ he said, his lip curling as he remembered. ‘The kind of place your fiancé probably took you.’

‘Ex-fiancé,’ Lawrie corrected him. She shook her head, refusing to take the bait, but there was an uncomfortable element of truth to his words. Hugo had liked the luxury hotel experience, it was true, but they’d been so busy that just snatching a night away had been enough. There had never been time to explore local culture as well.

‘Of course,’ Jonas said, putting his mug down decisively and stepping away from the window. ‘Ex. Come on. There’s a lot to go through.’

No wonder she felt like Alice, being constantly hustled from place to place. She half expected Jonas to pull out a pocket watch. If there were croquet lawns she was in serious trouble.

Lawrie took a last reluctant gulp of the creamy coffee and placed her mug onto the nearest table before following Jonas once again. He led her back down the corridor, through the foyer and outside, along the winding path that led to the woods that made up most of the outside property.

One of Coombe End’s winter money-makers had been shooting parties. Lawrie had hated hearing the bangs from the woods and seeing the braces of poor, foolish pheasants being carried back to the house, heads lolling pathetically.

Jonas was walking fast, with intent, and she had to lengthen her stride to keep up with him. It took her by surprise when he came to a sudden halt at the end of the gravelled path, where a long grassy track snaked away ahead of them up the small wooded hill that bordered the hotel gardens.

Lawrie skittered to an undignified stop, clamping down on the urge to grab onto him for support. ‘A bit of warning would be nice,’ she muttered as she righted herself cautiously.

Jonas ignored her. ‘I never hated this place, Law,’ he said after a while, gesturing out towards the woodland, its trees a multitude of green against the blue sky.

A secret thrill shuddered through her at the sound of the old pet name.

‘I love it here. I always did. But I wanted a different way.’

He resumed walking, Lawrie kept pace with him, wishing she was wearing flatter, sturdier shoes. He had a fast, firm tread; she had always liked that. Hugo was more of a dawdler, and it had driven her mad—as had his admonishments to ‘Slow down...it’s not a race’.

Jonas didn’t look at her as she reached his side but continued as if there hadn’t been any break in the conversation. It was as if he was glad he had the chance to explain. And why shouldn’t he be? The boy had done well. Very well. He hadn’t needed her at all. It must be satisfying to be in his position. Successful, in control, magnanimously helping out your ex.

Lawrie clenched her fist, digging her nails deep into the palm of her hand. This wasn’t how her life, her return to Trengath, was supposed to have been.

‘By the time my father had his second heart attack I’d managed to expand the Boat House into twenty-seven seaside locations in the South-West and people were buying into the whole experience—branded T-shirts, mugs, beach towels. So, from a business point of view, expanding the dining experience into a holiday experience made sense.’

Lawrie pulled her mind away from her introspection. Self-pity had never been her style anyway. It didn’t get you anywhere.

‘I guess,’ she said slightly doubtfully. ‘But I don’t go to my favourite coffee shop and think what this place needs is somewhere for me to sleep.’

‘But your favourite coffee shop is near where you live or work,’ he pointed out. ‘Sure, we’re popular with the local population, but in summer especially seventy per cent of our customers are tourists—even if just a small percentage of those people want to take the experience further and holiday with us then that’s already a good deal of our marketing done.’

She looked at him in fascination. He sounded like one of her clients.

‘I was writing the dissertation for my MBA on brand expansion at the time. Fascinating to put the theory into practice.’

An MBA? Not bad for a boy who’d left school at sixteen. Not that she hadn’t known he was capable of so much more. But, truly, had she ever thought him capable of all this? Shame crept over her, hot and uncomfortable. Maybe he was right. She had underestimated him.

He flashed her a smile, warm and confiding—a smile that evoked memories of long late-night conversations, of dreams shared, plans discussed. Had she and Hugo ever talked like that? If they had, she couldn’t remember.

‘Luckily I had been planning what I would do with this place if I were in charge since I was a kid. I’ve left the hotel itself as pretty high-end, with the rooms still aimed at the luxury end of the market, but I’ve utilised the woods and the golf course more effectively and I began to reap the rewards almost straight away.’

They were near the top of the small hill. He reached it first and paused, waiting for her to catch up, an expectant look on his face.

She looked down and gasped. ‘What on earth...?’

Set beneath them were the woods, which opened almost immediately into a large glade, easily seen from the top of the bank on which they were standing. Inside the glade were eight round white cotton objects that looked a little like mini circus tents.

‘Glamping’ he said, his voice serious. His eyes, however, had warmed up and were sparkling with amusement at her expression. ‘Oh, come on—you’re a city girl. Isn’t this how the London middle classes enjoy the great outdoors?’

She found her voice. ‘You’ve put tents into the woods? Do your parents know? Your dad will have a third heart attack if he sees this.’

‘Ah, but these are luxurious, fully catered tents,’ he assured her. ‘Perfectly respectable. People can enjoy all the hotel facilities, including their own bathrooms and food in the hotel—although there are barbecues if they want to be pioneer types. They arrive to fully made-up camp beds, there’s space to hang clothes, armchairs, rugs, heating. Not what I call camping, but it’s hugely popular. The traditional bring-your-own-tent-type campers are on what used to be the golf course, and there are lots of shower and toilet blocks for their use there. According to one review site they are the best camping loos in Cornwall.’

‘Well, there’s an accolade.’

‘I’m hoping for a certificate.’

‘Anything else?’ she asked. ‘Tree houses? Yurts? A cave with hot and cold water laid on?’

He chuckled softly, and the sound went straight to the pit of her stomach.

‘Just a few stationary camper vans dotted around here and there.’

‘Of course there are.’ She nodded.

He looked at her, his blue eyes darkening, suddenly intense. ‘They’re very popular with honeymooners—complete privacy.’

She felt her breath catch as she looked at him, and a shiver goosed its way down her spine. ‘A bit cramped,’ she said, hearing the husky tone in her voice and hating herself for it.

‘They’re customised cosy getaways for two—big beds, good sheets and baskets of food delivered.’

‘You’ve thought of everything.’

So different from the two of them, with a sleeping bag and a couple of blankets, a bottle of champagne, the moon, the stars, the sound of the surf. And each other—always each other. Bodies coiled together, lips, hands, caresses... She swallowed. How did these memories, buried so deep, resurface every time this man spoke?

‘I had long enough to plan it, watching my parents cater for rich idiots who didn’t give a damn where they were,’ he said, his mood changing instantly from dangerously reminiscent to businesslike again. ‘This place is so beautiful, and yet only a handful of people ever had the opportunity to enjoy it—and once they were here they had no idea what was outside the estate walls. Opening it up to campers and glampers means anyone can come here, whatever their budget. We make sure they have all the information they need to go out and explore, hire them bikes, provide transport. All our food is sourced locally, and we recruit and promote locally whenever possible.’

Lawrie laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘It’s inspired,’ she said honestly. ‘Utterly inspired, Jonas.’

Without thinking, without even realising what she was doing, she put a hand on his arm, squeezed softly.

‘Amazing.’

The feel of his arm was warm and firm under her hand, and the fine cotton of his shirt bunched up under her fingers. How many times had she slid her hand up this arm, admired the strength inherent in the toned muscles as he emerged, sleek and shiny, from the sea? Felt their gentleness as he pulled her in close, encircling her in the safety of his embrace?

‘I’m glad you like it.’

Jonas stepped back. Stepped away from her hand, her touch.

‘The hotel isn’t just the base for the festival—it sets the tone. It’s important you understand that. Shall we?’

He gestured back towards the hotel. She shivered, suddenly cold despite the balmy warmth of the day and the wool of her suit jacket. If only she was still with Hugo. If only she were secure in her job. Then seeing Jonas, speaking to him, would have meant nothing apart from a certain nostalgic curiosity. She was feeling vulnerable, that was all.

‘You’re right—this is the perfect setting for the festival. I see how it works now.’ She could do businesslike as well. She’d practically invented it.

He registered the change, a querying eyebrow shooting up as she adjusted her jacket again, smoothing her hair back away from her face, plastering a determinedly polite smile onto her face.

‘So, what other changes have you made?’ Lawrie kept up a flow of light conversation as Jonas led the way back to the hotel, barely knowing what she was saying, what his answers were.

Thoughts tumbled around her brain. Coming back wasn’t easy, starting again was hard, but she had expected that. What she hadn’t expected, she admitted honestly to herself, was that anything would have changed.

Walking back into Gran’s cottage had been like entering a time warp, and for the first couple of days as she’d holed herself up and licked her wounds it had looked as if Trengarth had stayed the same as well.

She had walked down to the harbour on her birthday looking for the safety and comfort of her past. She had truly expected to see the Boat House in its original incarnation—Jonas behind the bar, a little older, a little more thick-set, his mind firmly fixed on waves, on guitar chords, on fun.

She had wanted to validate her choices. To know that even if her present was looking a little shaky at least her past choices had been right. She had been so convinced, once, that Jonas was holding her back, but what if she had been the one holding him back?

He was obviously better off without her. Which was good, she told herself defiantly, because despite everything she was definitely better off without him.

Or she would be once she had decided exactly what she was going to do.

The familiar niggle of worry gnawed away at her. She had just a few weeks left of her gardening leave—just a few weeks to get a job so much better than her old one that to the outsider it would look like a planned move. Just a few weeks to show Hugo and the senior partners that she was better than their firm. Just a few weeks to get her plan back on track.

They had reached the front of the hotel again and she turned to face Jonas, her features deliberately smooth, matching his. ‘This has been fascinating, Jonas, and I can’t wait to get started. If you show me where I am to work I’ll get set up.’

And then Jonas smiled. A slow, intimate, knowing smile. A smile that said he knew exactly what she was doing. A smile that saw right through her mask. It crinkled the corners of his eyes, drew her gaze to firm lips, to the faint shadow on the sculpted jawline.

It was the kind of smile that offered comfort, acceptance. The kind of smile that invited a girl to lean in, to allow those broad shoulders to take the strain.

It was almost irresistible.

But Lawrie Bennett was made of sterner stuff. Just.

She straightened her shoulders, met his eyes with a challenge. ‘After all, you must have a lot to be getting on with.’

The smile deepened. ‘Good to see work is still your priority, Lawrie.’

It was. And it evidently was a priority for him as well. So why did he sound so amused?

‘The staff entrance is round the back, but you can use the front doors. Just this once.’

Once again Lawrie was following Jonas, moving behind the stylish reception desk and through a door that led to the offices, kitchens and staff bedrooms.

‘I have an office here, of course,’ he said. ‘But I do prefer to work at the Boat House—whether it’s because I designed the office there, or because it’s where this all began I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘A business psychologist would probably have a field-day, trying to work it all out, but I’m not sure I need to know as long as it works and the business keeps growing.’

‘You don’t live in your parents’ apartment?’

He looked surprised at the question. ‘Oh, heavens, no. This place needs a whole team of managers and some of them live in. The general manager and his family have the apartment. I bought a place on the seafront a few years ago. One of the old fishermen’s cottages by the harbour. You’d like it.’

She nodded, maintaining her cool, interested air even as a stab of pain shot through her. It had always been her ambition to own one of the stone-built cottages clustered around the harbour. On moonlit nights she and Jonas had strolled along, hands entwined, as she’d pointed out her favourites, and they had laughingly argued over decorating plans, colour schemes, furniture.

Now he lived in one of those cottages, without her.

It was ridiculous to feel wounded. To feel anything. After all she had spent the last five years living in a beautiful flat with another man; very soon she fully intended to be in an apartment of her own somewhere completely new. Yet the thought of Jonas living in the dream house of their youth filled her with a wistfulness so intense she could barely catch her breath.

He had opened a door to an empty office and held it open, motioning her to move inside. Swallowing back the unexpected emotion as she went through, she saw the office was a large room, distinguished by two big sash windows, each with a cushioned window seat, and furnished with a large desk, a small meeting table and a sofa.

‘This is supposed to be my office,’ he explained. ‘I never use it, though, so you may as well have it while you’re here. As I said, it’ll be useful for you to be based on site. I’m sure it’s all in your notes, but the hotel itself usually hosts the bands, VIPs and essential staff, and most festival-goers camp in the grounds—although quite a lot book out the local B&Bs and caravan parks too.’

She nodded. Of course she had read all this yesterday, but it was still hard for her to comprehend.

Jonas had started this festival during her first year at Oxford, getting local rock and folk bands to play on the beach for free, raising money for a surfing charity that campaigned against marine and beach pollution. The first ever festival had been a one-night affair and the festival-goers had slept on the beach...if they’d slept at all. Food had, of course, been provided by the Boat House. Lawrie was supposed to have returned to Cornwall for it, but at the last minute had decided to stay in London, where she’d been interning for the summer.

Her refusal to promise that she would attend the third festival had led to the final argument in their increasingly volatile relationship. She had packed her bags on the eve of her twenty-first birthday and gone to London for another summer of interning. At the end of that summer she had returned to Oxford for her fourth and final year. She had never returned to Cornwall.

Not until a week ago.

And now that little beach festival had grown—just like the Boat House, just like Jonas’s business. Everything was so much bigger, so different from the small, comforting life she remembered. Three nights, thirty-six bands, family activities, thousands of festival-goers, raising substantial funds for charity—yet still local, still focussed on the best of Cornish music, food, literature. It was daunting.

Not that she was going to confess that to the imposing man standing before her.

Lawrie had never admitted that she needed help before. She wasn’t going to start now.

‘This is great, Jonas,’ she said. ‘I can take it from here.’

His mouth quirked. ‘I have complete faith in you,’ he assured her. ‘You know where I am if you need me.’

She nodded, but her mind was completely made up. She did not, would not need Jonas Jones. She was going to do this alone. Just as she always did.