Читать книгу Second Chance At Sea - Кэтти Уильямс, Jessica Gilmore, Cathy Williams - Страница 13
ОглавлениеJONAS LOVED THIS drive. The winding lanes, the glimpses of sea through the dense green hedgerows. If he put the top down he could smell the intoxicating scent of sweet grass and gorse, feel the sea breeze ruffling his hair.
And he loved the destination. The hotel he owned. The hotel he had bought. The hotel where his ex-wife was right this moment sitting at his desk, taking care of his festival.
It had been an unexpected couple of days. Of course the village gossips were having a field-day. Again. What would they do without him? He should start charging a licence fee for the resurrection of their favourite soap opera. He would always be that no-good boy who’d broken his parents’ hearts, and she would always be the no-better-than-she-should-be teen bride, flighty daughter of a flighty mother. Their roles had been set in stone long before no matter how they tried to redefine them.
Well, the viewers were doomed to disappointment. Reunion episodes were always a let-down. He had no intention of allowing this one to be any different.
Pulling into the gates of the hotel, he felt the usual spark of pride, of ownership, zing through him. Who would have thought the prodigal son would return in such style?
It would be nice, though—just once—to drive through the gates and not be assailed by memories. By the disapproving voices of his parents and their disappointed expectations.
When he’d failed his exams at sixteen his parents had wanted to send him away to boarding school—ostensibly to do retakes, in reality to get him away from his friends. It showed a lack of character, they’d thought, that rather than befriend the other boys from the private school they’d sent him to he preferred to hang around with the village kids.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. Yes, he probably should have studied rather than sneaking out to swim and surf. Taken some interest in his exams. But his achievements—his interest in food, his surfing skill, his hard-won A* in Design and Technology—had meant nothing. His father couldn’t, or wouldn’t, boast about his son’s perfect dovetailed joints on the golf course.
His parents hadn’t ever lost their tempers with him. Cold silence had been their weapon of choice. There had been weeks, growing up, when he could swear they hadn’t addressed one word to him. But they’d come close to exploding when Jonas had refused to go to the carefully selected crammer they had found.
Some parents would have been proud, Jonas thought with the same, tired old stab of pain, proud that their child wanted to follow in their footsteps. He had thought his plan was a winner—that he would finally see some approval in their uninterested faces.
He’d been so keyed up when he’d told them his idea to run a café-bar on the hotel’s small beach. One that was aimed at locals as well as tourists.
He had even offered to do a few retakes at the local college before studying Hospitality and Tourism.
It hadn’t been enough. Nothing he did ever was.
In the end they had reached a grudging compromise. They’d given him the old boat house they hadn’t used, preferring to keep their guests—and their guests’ wallets—on the hotel grounds, and they’d cut him loose. Set him free.
They’d expected him to fail. To come back, cap in hand, begging for their forgiveness.
Instead, twelve years later, he’d bought them out.
And it had been every bit as satisfying as he had thought it would be. It still was.
And, truth be told, Jonas thought as he swung his car into the staff car park, it was quite satisfying having Lawrie here as well. Working for him once again. Seeing just how much he had accomplished. Just how little he needed her.
Whereas she definitely needed him. She was doing her best to hide it, but he could tell. Her very appearance in Trengarth. Her acceptance of the job. None of it was planned.
And Lawrie Bennett didn’t do spontaneous.
There were just too many ghosts, and Jonas felt uncharacteristically grim as he walked through the foyer—although he did his best to hide it, playing the jovial host, the approachable boss. If growing up in a hotel, then running a café at sixteen, had taught him anything it was how to put on a mask. Nobody cared about the guy pouring the coffee—about his day or his feelings. They just wanted a drink, a smile and some easy chat. Funny how he had always accused Lawrie of hiding her feelings. In some ways they were exactly the same.
Walking along the carpeted corridor that led to his office—now Lawrie’s—he felt a sense of déjà vu overwhelm him. Once this had been his father’s domain. He had never been welcome here—summoned only to be scolded. Even stripping out the heavy mahogany furniture and redecorating it hadn’t changed the oppressive feeling. No wonder he preferred to base himself at the harbour.
He paused at the shut door. He didn’t usually knock at his employees’ doors, but then again they weren’t usually shut. And this was his office, after all. Jonas felt his jaw clench tight. Nothing was simple when Lawrie was involved—not even going through his own damn door in his own damn hotel.
He twisted the heavy brass door and swung it open with more force than necessary, striding into the room.
Then he stopped. Blinked in surprise.
‘You’ve certainly made yourself at home.’
There was a small overnight bag open on the floor. Clothes were strewn on the table, chairs and across the sofa—far more clothes than could ever possibly fit into such a small case. Jeans, tops, dresses, skirts—all a far cry from the exquisitely tailored suits and accessories that in just two days Lawrie was already famous for wearing to work.
If Jonas had to hear one more awed conversation discussing whether she wore couture, high-end High Street or had a personal tailor, then he would make all his staff—no matter what their job—adopt the waiting staff’s uniform of bright blue Boat House logo tee and black trousers.
Lawrie was on the floor, pulling clothes out of the bag with a harassed expression on her face.
‘Have you moved in?’ he asked as politely as he could manage, whilst making no attempt to keep the smirk from his face.
Lawrie looked up, her face harassed, her hair falling out of what had once, knowing Lawrie, been a neat bun. She pushed a tendril of the dark silky stuff back behind an ear and glared at him. ‘Don’t you knock?’
‘Not usually. Are you going somewhere?’
‘Road trip,’ she said tersely. ‘And I have nothing to wear.’
Jonas raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at the sofa. And at the table. Finally, slowly, he allowed his gaze to linger on the floor. A pair of silky lilac knickers caught his eye and held it for one overlong second before he pulled his gaze reluctantly away.
‘Half this stuff is mine. Only it’s about fifteen years old—whatever I still had at Gran’s. The rest is Fliss’s, and as we aren’t the same height or size it’s not really much use. The truth is I don’t really know how to dress down. Where I live it’s all skinny jeans and caramel knee-length boots, with cashmere for shopping and lunch or yoga pants at home. None of that is very suitable at all,’ she finished, with a kind of wail.
‘Suitable for what?’ Jonas decided not to ask why she was packing here and not at home. He wasn’t sure she even knew.
‘The road trip,’ she said.
He cocked an enquiring eyebrow and she rocked back on her heels and sighed. Irritably.
‘You know! Suzy always gets a couple of local bands to come and play Wave Fest. They send in their CDs, or links to their downloads or whatever, and she whittles them down to a shortlist and then goes to see them play live. At a gig,’ she said, pronouncing the word ‘gig’ with an odd mixture of disdain and excitement. ‘I haven’t been to a gig in years,’ she added.
‘Not much call for yoga pants at Cornish gigs.’
‘Or cashmere,’ Lawrie agreed, missing his sarcasm completely, or just ignoring it. ‘Three of the shortlisted bands are playing over the next three nights so I’m going to see them all. Two of them are in the county, but tomorrow’s gig is in Devon, so it made sense to plan a whole trip and do some mystery shopping at some of the caterers and cafés we’ve got tendering as well. We’re behind in letting them know. Only that means a three-day trip and I don’t have anything to wear. Why do you have to be so inclusive and get other people to provide the food?’ she ended bitterly.
‘Because we couldn’t possibly feed thousands of people, and it’s good publicity to make the festival a celebration of local food as well,’ Jonas said, his mouth twitching at Lawrie’s woebegone expression.
She looked like somebody being dragged to a three-day conference on dental drills—not like someone heading out for a long weekend of music and food, all on expenses.
He took pity on her.
‘Right, unfortunately packing light may not be an option,’ Jonas said, gesturing to the small bag. ‘Three gigs in three nights? You’ll need to be prepared for beer-spills,’ he clarified at her enquiring expression.
Lawrie pulled a face. ‘I’m not planning to mosh.’
‘You did once.’
Lightly said but the words evoked a torrent of memories. Lawrie, so small and slight. Vulnerable. Hurling herself into the mass of bodies right at the front of the stage. It had taken him a long time to make his way through the tightly packed, sweaty mass to find her, jumping ecstatically to the beat of the music, eyes half closed. He’d liked staying near her, to protect her from the crush as the crowd moved to the music.
Lawrie’s eyebrow furrowed. ‘What did I wear?’
He looked at her incredulously. ‘How am I supposed to remember? Probably jeans...’ A memory hit him, of thin straps falling off tanned shoulders, a glimpse of skin at the small of her back. ‘And a top?’ he added. ‘Was there a green one?’
Her eyes lit up. ‘Hang on!’ She jumped up and ran over to the table, where she sifted through a pile of brightly coloured tops. ‘Do you remember this?’ She held up a light green floaty top.
Jonas wouldn’t have said he was a particularly observant man, especially when it came to clothes. His last girlfriend had claimed that he said, ‘You look nice...’ on autopilot. And it was true that he generally didn’t notice haircuts or new outfits. He knew better than to admit it, but he preferred his women laid-back and practical. Jeans, trainers, a top. Even a fleece if they were out walking. There was nothing less sexy than a woman stumbling along the clifftops in unsuitable shoes and shivering because her most flattering jacket proved useless against a chill sea breeze.
But the sight of that green top took his breath away, evoking the beat of a drum, the smell of mingled beer, sweat and cigarettes in the air. Not the most pleasant of smells, yet in the back room of a pub, a club or a town hall, as guitars wailed and people danced, it fitted. Dark, dirty, hot. The feel of Lawrie pressed against him in the fast-moving, mesmerised crowd.
He swallowed. ‘I think so,’ he managed to say, as normally as he could.
Lawrie regarded it doubtfully. ‘I guess it will fit. I’m the same size, and luckily Gran had them all laundered.’ Now it was her turn to swallow, with a glint in her eye.
Had she grieved properly for her gran? For the woman who’d brought her up? The woman who had provided him with a sanctuary, a sympathetic shoulder and a lot of sound advice?
Had helped him become the man he was today.
‘There you go, then,’ he said. ‘Three tops like that, some jeans for the gigs, something similar for the day, and pyjamas. Easy.’ He tried not to look at the lilac silk knickers. ‘Plus essentials. Where are you staying?’
‘I’m not sure. Fliss was supposed to have sorted out accommodation. Wherever I can get in last-minute, I guess.’
She didn’t look particularly enthusiastic and he didn’t blame her. Three nights alone in anonymous, bland rooms didn’t sound like much fun.
‘I’m looking into buying a small chain that covers the whole of the South-West,’ he said. ‘We could see if any of those are near where you need to be and you can do some evaluation while you’re there. Let me know what you think of them.’
She nodded. ‘I’m near Liskeard tonight, then over to Totnes tomorrow, and back towards Newquay on Saturday. I could drive straight back from there, but there are several food producers I want to sample around that area so it makes sense to stay over.’ Her eyes darkened. ‘I wish Fliss hadn’t bailed, though. It would be nice to have a second opinion.’
‘Isn’t she going with you?’
‘She was supposed to be—we were going to road-trip. Like Thelma and Louise—only without guns or Brad Pitt. But Dave has tickets for some play she really wanted to see and I think he wants to make a weekend of it. It’s fine. I’m quite capable. Only she was going to sort out the accommodation and didn’t get round to it.’
Her face said exactly what she thought of such woeful disorganisation.
Jonas suppressed a chuckle. He’d have liked to see them set off—Fliss laid-back and happy to wing it, Lawrie clutching a schedule and a stopwatch. ‘I’ll have a word with Alex and get him to find you some appropriate rooms. What time are you off?’
‘After lunch, I think. If I can get packed by then.’ She cast a despairing look at the clothes-strewn room.
‘I’ll let you know what Alex says. Let him arrange your bookings—he knows all the good places. That’s why I employ him.’
‘Thanks.’ She was trying to hide it, but there was still uncertainty, worry in the dark eyes.
‘No need to thank me; it’s his job. I’ll see you later.’
Jonas needed some air. The room suddenly felt hot, claustrophobic. He’d been working too hard, that was the problem. Head down, losing himself in spreadsheets and figures and meetings. He hadn’t been near a board for days, hadn’t touched a guitar.
He needed a break. Lucky Lawrie. A road trip sounded perfect.
Good food, music, and some time on the road.
It really did sound perfect.
If only he had known earlier he could have offered to go instead. A trip was just what the doctor had ordered.
* * *
Lawrie checked her watch. Again. This was ridiculous. She had planned to be on the road fifteen minutes ago. Nothing was more irritating than being behind schedule.
Even worse, she was hungry. It must be the Cornish air, because far from acting like a normal jilted bride, and existing on tears alone, for the first time in years Lawrie had a real appetite. Every day she went to the staff dining room promising herself she would just have the soup. A small bowl of soup. Because she strongly suspected it was made with double cream.
Yet every day she would find herself drifting over to the bread. Carbs, wheat, gluten. Things that Lawrie had been depriving herself of for so long she had completely forgotten why. Bread covered with real butter, with rich, creamy cheese...sharp, tangy cheese. Even worse, she sometimes had crisps on the side, and the handful of lettuce and tomatoes she added to her heaped plate went no way to assuaging her guilt.
Only—as the pang in her stomach reminded her all too well—she was skipping lunch today. The first stop on her schedule was a baker’s, and she had an Indian restaurant and an ice cream maker to fit in today. She might be the same size as her teen self right now but, she thought, the chances of her remaining that slender were looking very, very slim.
She checked her watch again and shook her head. She couldn’t wait. Her schedule was packed. Alex would just have to leave her a message and let her know where she would be staying that night. She swallowed. That was okay. He would hardly leave her to sleep in the car. So what if she hadn’t checked out the hotel website and printed out directions in case the sat nav didn’t work? This was a road trip, not a military manoeuvre.
Lawrie grabbed her handbag and moved towards the door, picking up the stuffed overnight bag and the shopper she had quickly bought in the hotel shop to carry the overspill as she did so. She averted her eyes from the mass of clothes on the sofa. She had tried to tidy up but it still looked as if a whole class of fifteen-year-olds had done a clothes-swap in the normally tidy office.
‘Okay, then,’ she said out loud, but the words sounded flat in the empty room and her stomach lurched with the all too familiar panic she’d been trying to hide since Fliss had pulled out last night.
Lawrie was no stranger to travelling alone, to making decisions alone, but usually she was clothed with the confidence of her profession. Sharp suits, intimidating jargon, business class flights. This time it would just be Lawrie Bennett, unemployed and jilted. Alone.
She dropped her bags, pressing a fist to her stomach, trying to quell the churning inside. For goodness’ sake, she dealt with CEOs all the time. How could standing in a dark room listening to music be scarier than walking into a hostile boardroom?
But it was.
It had been so long. Gigging belonged to a younger, more naive Lawrie. A Lawrie she had said goodbye to many years before. Still, she thought grimly, it would all make an amusing anecdote one day—possibly even at a job interview. An example of how she was prepared to go the extra mile.
The trill of her desk phone made her jump. Good—Alex at last. Walking over to it, she prayed for a reprieve. There were no hotel rooms left in the whole of Cornwall.... She was needed elsewhere...
‘Sorted out your sartorial crisis?’
Not Alex. Warm, comforting tones, as caressing as a hot bath on a cold night. A voice she wanted to confide her fears in—a voice that promised safety. Sanctuary.
‘I’m running late,’ she said, more sharply than she had intended. The last thing she needed was for Jonas to guess how relieved she was to hear his voice, to know how scared she was. ‘Did your guy manage to sort out a place for tonight? I really can’t hold on any longer.’
‘Everything’s organised. Come and meet me in the car park.’
Was that laughter tinting the deep tones? ‘Fine. I’m on my way.’
Laden down, it took Lawrie a few minutes to make her way along the corridors and through the staff door that led to the car park.
The weather had cooled suddenly, and the sky was a mixture of grey and white with occasional glimpses of hopeful blue. It meant nothing. Cornwall was full of micro climates, and she had packed for every eventuality bar blizzards.
Her convertible Beetle was tucked away in the far corner of the car park. Hugo had laughed at it—told her that she was obviously still a hippy surf girl at heart—although she had eschewed all the pretty pastel colours for a sensible metallic grey. She had thought of it as the perfect choice for a city car: small and compact. But its rounded lines and cheerful shape fitted in here. Maybe Hugo had been right about that part of her at least.
She pushed Hugo from her mind. He didn’t belong here, in this world dominated by the sea and the open country. In the new life she was trying to make for herself. She looked around for Jonas but he wasn’t by her car or by the hotel entrance.
‘Lawrie?’
There he was, predictably enough standing by one of the camper vans that were always dotted around the car park, several of them staff vehicles. She was pretty sure ownership of one guaranteed you a job here.
This van was freshly painted a minty green, its contrasting white trim bright. Jonas leant against it, arms folded, one long leg casually crossed over the other, a look of enjoyment on his face. The same feeling of safety she had experienced on the phone rushed over her as she walked towards him.
‘I’m behind schedule, so this had better not take long,’ she said as she stopped in front of him, dropping her bags at her feet.
She wasn’t going to give in to temptation, to allow her eyes to flicker up and down the long, muscled legs, the firm torso that broadened out in exactly the right place. She wasn’t going to pause at the neck—what was it with this man and his unbuttoned shirts? One button lower and it would look sleazy, but as it was he managed to show just enough chest to tantalise. And she wasn’t going to linger on the perfectly defined jawline, on the cheekbones wasted on a mere man—even on this one. She certainly wasn’t going to step closer and allow her hand to brush that lock of dirty blond hair back from his forehead, no matter how much her hand ached to.
‘You have a schedule?’ He shook his head. ‘Of course you do. A timetable, printed maps, telephone numbers all printed out. I bet there’s a clipboard.’
Hot colour crept over her cheeks. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being organised.’
He raised an eyebrow in pretend surprise. ‘I didn’t say there was. It’s an excellent quality in a festival-planner and an equally excellent one in a navigator. Come on—hop in.’
Confusion warred with panic and a tiny, unwanted tendril of hope. ‘What do you mean?’
Jonas gestured to the van. ‘She doesn’t know whether to be pleased or offended that you don’t recognise her, even though she spent a good six months being restored.’
‘They all look the same,’ Lawrie replied automatically, but her eyes were searching the camper van, looking for the tell-tale signs, looking for the rust, the dents. ‘That’s not Bar...? Not your old van?’
‘You nearly said her name.’ A smirk played around the firm mouth. ‘Not looking so old now, is she? A facelift—well, an everything lift, really—new custom interior, new engine. She’s never been in better shape.’
‘Boys and their toys,’ Lawrie scoffed, but secretly she was impressed.
The old van did look amazing—a total change from the ancient rust bucket whose tattered interior might have been original but had definitely seen better days. The same magic wand that had been waved over the Boat House, over the hotel, even over Jonas himself had been hard at work here.
‘She looks good, but I still don’t get what that has to do with me.’
The blue eyes gleamed. ‘You said yourself you needed a second opinion.’
The tiny tendril of hope grew larger, bloomed. Lawrie stamped down on it. Hard. ‘I said Fliss was going to give me a second opinion—not that I needed one.’
‘And I realised that I need to recharge my batteries.’
He carried on as if she hadn’t spoken, pushing himself away from the van and sauntering slowly towards her. Lawrie fought an instinctive urge to take a step back. With his unhurried grace he reminded her of a predator, blue eyes fixed on her, hypnotic.
Lawrie swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. ‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Working together is one thing, but spending time alone after everything...’ Her voice trailed off. Lost for words again. It was becoming a habit around him.
Jonas paused in his tracks. ‘But we will be working. Second opinions, remember?’
‘Alone—we’ll be working together alone,’ she snapped.
He quirked an eyebrow. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I totally misread the situation. I thought you were totally over me, what with the divorce and the fiancé and the nine years apart, but if this is awkward for you maybe I had better keep my distance.’
He stood grinning at her. He obviously thought he had the upper hand.
Lawrie could feel her teeth grinding together. With a huge effort she unclenched her jaw, forcing a smile onto her face. ‘I hate to burst your highly inflated opinion of yourself,’ she said, as sweetly as she could, ‘but I was only thinking of you. If this isn’t awkward for you, then great—by all means join me.’
He moved a step closer, so close they were nearly touching. She could see the smattering of freckles that dusted the bridge of his nose, the tops of his cheeks. They gave him a boyish air, emphasised by the hair falling over his forehead, the impish grin.
But he was no boy. Jonas Jones was all grown up.
‘Ready?’ he asked, eyes locked on hers.
She stared straight back at him, channelling every ounce of cool professionalism she had right back at him. ‘Of course.’
‘Then let’s go.’
* * *
‘Did Alex book the hotels? I can plot out the best routes for the entire weekend once I know where we’re staying.’
Jonas had to hand it to her. Lawrie was never knocked down for long. He could have sworn that his decision to crash her trip had completely thrown her but she was hiding it well. The road atlas open on her lap, clipboard and pen in hand, she was seemingly back in control.
For now.
Of course she had a point. A very good point. Spending three days on the road with any colleague would be testing. Make that colleague the person you’d once thought was the love of your life and things got a little more difficult.
But this was purely business. Lawrie had been thrown in at the deep end, after all. She might be a whizz with a spreadsheet and able to decipher the finer points of contracts in the blink of an eye, but Jonas was prepared to bet good money that she hadn’t been anywhere near a tent or a crowded gig in years. This was his festival—his reputation at stake. He might agree that in the circumstances Lawrie was the right person to help them out, but she still needed hand-holding. Metaphorically, of course.
Of course he might be playing with fire. But what was life without a little danger? He’d been playing it safe for far too long.
Time to light the fireworks.
Jonas nodded towards a folder on the dashboard. ‘Our accommodation is in there.’
Concealing a smile, Jonas watched out of the corner of his eye as she slid the folder onto her knee and pulled out the sheaf of paper from inside.
Her brow crinkled. ‘These aren’t hotels.’
‘Excellent opportunity to check out some of the competition,’ he said.
‘You own a hotel.’
‘And a campsite,’ he reminded her.
‘But I’m not set for camping. I don’t camp—not any more.’ Her voice was rising. ‘I don’t even own a sleeping bag.’
‘Relax,’ Jonas said easily. ‘I’m not subjecting you to a tent. Barb has everything we need. You won’t even need a bag. I have sheets and quilts. Even pillowcases.’
‘We’re sleeping in here? Both of us?’
‘She’s a four-berther, remember?’ He flashed a grin over at her, looking forward to her reaction. ‘Do you want to go on top or shall I?’
‘I’m not nineteen any more, Jonas.’
Lawrie’s face was flushed, her eyes dark with emotion. Anger? Fear? Maybe a combination of both.
‘This really isn’t acceptable.’
Jonas raised an eyebrow appraisingly. What was she so scared of? ‘I’m sorry, Lawrie, I didn’t think this would be a big deal. I really do want to see how the facilities at the sites compare with mine. Look, if you feel that strongly about it I can drop you at a motel or a B&B after tonight’s gig. But I promise you you’ll get a better night’s sleep here than in some anonymous hotel chain bedroom.’
‘Call me old-fashioned, but I like en-suite facilities.’
But his conciliatory tone seemed to have worked as she sounded more petulant than angry. He decided to push it a little.
‘I promise you we won’t be roughing it. Barb’s newly sprung and very comfortable. All these sites have electric hook-up and plenty of shower blocks. The place I have picked out for tonight has a very well-regarded organic restaurant too. I thought it would be good to compare it with the Boat House. And Saturday’s site prides itself on its sea views, which is one thing we’re lacking. I really would value your opinion.’
‘But I thought you had the best toilets in Cornwall? I won’t settle for less.’
Was that a small smile playing around the full mouth?
‘If I didn’t think every single one of these toilets weren’t a serious contender I promise you I wouldn’t have dreamt of bringing you along. Come on, Lawrie, it’ll be fun. Food, music and the stars. I know I need the break. And...’ he slid his eyes over to her again, noting the dark shadows under her eyes, the air of bewildered fragility she wore whenever her professional mask slipped ‘...I’ll bet everything I own that you do too.’
‘This isn’t a break—this is work,’ she reminded him primly.
‘True,’ he conceded. ‘But who’s to say we can’t have fun while we’re working?’
She wound a tendril of hair around her finger, staring out of the window, lost in thought. ‘Okay, then,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll give it one night. But if it’s cold or uncomfortable or you snore—’ she gave him a dark look ‘—then tomorrow we’re in a hotel. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ he said. ‘Okay, then, woman-with-clipboard, which road do you want me to take?’
