Christmas in Cornwall Page 2

  His voice grew softer with these last words, his cheek almost against mine. I could feel the heat from his skin mere inches from mine as he stood close behind me, gazing out at the moonlit sea. It would feel natural to lean back against him right now, and feels his arms encircle me in return — but I resisted the urge to do it, even with the fantasy tugging at my mind.

  After a moment, Matt stirred. “Sorry,” he said. “I was lost in thought for a moment.”

  “So was I.” I glanced at him over my shoulder, with a smile that I hoped didn’t betray my blushing cheeks. Had we been thinking the same thing until now? Or had Matt’s mind been somewhere else — exploring the Lizard to document rare specimens for instance?

  We talked about the pub's quiz nights and the awful programs on television as we drove back to Ceffylgwyn later that night. Matt paused at the road sign for a moment.

  "Would you like to come back to Rosemoor Cottage for an hour or so?" he asked. "It's not late, and I had a cutting in a pot that I wanted to give you. Nothing valuable, but it's tough, hardy, and blooms beautifully with minimal care — a good choice for your first plant, I thought."

  "A plant? For me?" I answered, dramatically. "Are you sure you trust me with such a treasure, Mr. Rose?"

  "I think you're ready," he answered, trying to look serious as he said this. "After all, you've only damaged one or two protected Cornish heath plants, and un-potted a Japanese peace lily by accident. A relatively mild record of attempted plant homicide, really."

  "The heath was an accident," I reminded him. "And that peace lily was in the way when we were trying to wrestle the furniture aside for the harpist due at the Cancer Awareness Foundation's tea. It was a victim of circumstance."

  "You'll find the plant I'm giving you much harder to kill," he answered. "So, shall we stop by?"

  "Love to," I said. "Except I have to finish organizing my list of possible caterers for the ball. I didn't have time this afternoon after Lady Amanda and I finished double-checking the holiday decor. Another time?"

  "Of course," he said. "Tuesday. After the pub's quiz night."

  "Sounds perfect," I said.

  I loved Matt's cottage, with its too-full bookshelves and its garden running amok with every kind of English wildflower known to mankind. Even in the midst of winter, there were still touches of green and splashes of color. It was a place I could never picture as grey or gloomy, even on the rainiest days.

  "What would you like to do for our next outing?" Matt asked me.

  I gave this a moment's thought. "How about a picnic for the two of us in a cozy garden spot?" I asked.

  Matt laughed. "Cornwall winters may be milder, but that doesn't mean it might not be a bit cool for sitting on a blanket on the grounds," he pointed out.

  "Then how about I cook dinner for us?" I suggested. "At your cottage. I'll buy the ingredients and bring everything I need."

  "You can cook?" Matt didn't quite raise an eyebrow, but I thought he was tempted. I put on my best indignant expression.

  "Of course I can," I answered. "It's just a myth that American women burn everything they bake. I can assure you that I'm handy with a saucepan and a casserole dish — besides, Dinah has been giving me some pointers, and says I'm coming along nicely, thank you."

  "I trust her judgment," said Matthew, solemnly. I swatted him on the shoulder.

  "Take me home," I said, crossing my arms. "If we keep talking, I might end up hitting you again." Even in the car's darkness, I could spot his grin as he shifted the car into gear.

  I kissed him goodnight after he circled and parked in Cliffs House's courtyard. A kiss on the cheek, lingering for just a second to notice his aftershave, and the heat of his skin. Our lips brushed, but we both hesitated before the kiss began; we both knew what happened afterwards, the electricity making it hard to stop with just one.

  "Goodnight," I said, softly. I waved goodbye as I watched Matt drive away. With a sigh, I imagined a different ending — one in which I had whispered the truth in Matthew's ear, then waited to hear him whisper back the same words.

  Or heard silence in response. Even though I felt sure of his feelings, there was no guarantee, after all. Maybe deep inside, Matt still had doubts about us. Surely he didn't think I had them. Not after what these months had meant to me.

  I turned and walked towards the house's main door, which was standing open even though the family wasn't expecting guests and all public visitors had gone home hours ago. Someone had arrived, however, and not someone local, since they hadn't used the informal entrance.

  A man in a business suit and overcoat had been chatting with someone in the main hall, exiting the house as I approached, the door closing behind him. As I crossed his path, he glanced at me, and stopped. The visitor had blond, curly hair, a carefully-trimmed beard of light, short stubble that didn't hide his attractive, youthful features. But that wasn't why I was staring at him. And he wasn't staring at me because I looked irresistible in my red dress and wrap, either.

  "Julianne?" he said.

  My heart had fallen to the bottom of my chest. "Dwight?"

  ***

  I hadn’t laid eyes on Dwight Bradshaw since the day we broke off our casual but somewhat promising relationship outside a coffee house in Seattle. That was almost a year ago, back when I still worked for Design a Dream, and Dwight was the financial advisor for one of the biggest digital security firms in the city. He hadn’t changed a bit from what I could see in the dim light of the manor’s courtyard. Still handsome, still polished and perfectly dressed for the role of a successful businessman. Only with a startled look on his face as he gazed at me from mere feet away.

  “It is you,” he said after a moment, features breaking into a grin of disbelief. “I thought I might be imagining things for a second there.”

  “Me too,” I said. Feeling another jolt of surprise as he gave me a quick hug, the stubble from his beard brushing lightly against my cheek. Me and Dwight's breakup, while not the stuff of soap operas, hadn't exactly been cheerful, so this warm gesture wasn't exactly what I expected upon first meeting. Maybe a few awkward, forced polite lines instead.

  “You look fantastic,” he said, stepping back to assess my appearance with a glance. “Red always was your color, Julianne. Fiery and full of life—just like the girl who’s wearing it,” he added, with a teasing note in his voice.

  I felt grateful for the dim lighting, since red had began to infuse my cheeks with the compliment. Dwight had a certain charm with words that I had forgotten about since our breakup. Not so much the words themselves, but the way he made them sound—warm, playful, and completely sincere. It was a talent I imagined came in handy for his job, as well as his dating life — whatever his dating life was, these days.

  “Thanks,” I told him, summoning a smile in response. Be polite, Julianne.

  He smiled back, tucking his hands in the pockets of his wool trousers. Executive wear was practically Dwight’s everyday attire, I remembered. The closest thing to casual I had seen him wear were designer khakis and pullovers, and that was usually just for the time spent on his yacht. A sailing enthusiast, Dwight belonged to a Seattle yacht club, where he participated in several races—and frequently placed first— throughout the year.

  “Are you here on vacation?” I wondered, thinking it wasn’t likely. Dwight had always preferred a metropolitan atmosphere, except for when he was out on the water, of course. Maybe he came here for the sailing then. But December was hardly the best time of year for that sort of activity in Cornwall, was it? And Dwight seemed more like the Newquay type than someone interested in sleepy little Ceffylgwyn.

  Dwight shook his head. “I’m here on business. The firm is helping to sponsor the big Christmas Eve gala they’re hosting at this place. I’m crunching the numbers for them, as usual, so I thought I would nip over here and have a word with the host and hostess on some budget expectations.”

  “Nip over to Cornwall from Seattle?” I raised an eyebrow. “That
’s kind of extreme isn’t it?” Dwight chuckled at the words.

  “It’s not as far as you think. I’ve actually transferred to one of the company’s international offices. You’re looking at the newest chief financial advisor for the London branch of Spencer’s Digital Security.”

  “Really?” I hugged my wrap closer to my arms, conscious of goosebumps breaking over my skin. From the cold, of course, not Dwight’s unexpected words. Still…it was quite a coincidence. A stunning coincidence, even — me running into my ex just as things were finally comfortable, and my chances of starting anew were brighter than ever. My face was pale now instead of red, my head not quite sure how I felt about this.

  “What about you?” Dwight asked. “Design a Dream must be treating you well, if you can afford a Christmas vacation in a setting this idyllic.” With a nod towards the manor before us, its stone exterior and elegant carvings stretching far overhead, with bowers and chimneys that were faintly etched amid the glow of moonlight.

  “I’m not working for Design a Dream anymore. In fact,” I told him, pausing for a breath, “I’m working here now. As the new event planner for Cliffs House.”

  Surprise flooded his cobalt eyes. “So we’re both expatriates, I guess.”

  The words held a conspiratorial edge beneath the humor, making it seem as if this were some kind of bond we shared. Leave it to Dwight to make it seem as if we never lost touch with each other. As if we hadn’t fought about all the little differences that added up to the bigger reasons we couldn’t work as a couple. Or maybe he’d forgotten that last, awkward exchange outside the coffee house that ended with me taking the bus back home instead of accompanying him to our friend’s anniversary party. Curled up on my couch, I had devoured a carton of caramel salted ice cream for some post-breakup comfort, if memory served correct.

  But that should be water under the bridge, shouldn't it? After all, I had that episode to thank for helping me cut ties with Seattle without a second thought to come to Cliffs House...and find Matt's tender gaze waiting to meet mine.

  “Expatriate seems a little strong for me,” I told him. “But Cornwall is an amazing place to live. The staff here is fantastic, and I’ve never been happier than I am working for Lord William and Lady Amanda. It’s definitely beginning to feel like home.”

  That was the truth. Although I'd only been here a few short months, Ceffylgwyn and Cliffs House felt as familiar — as comfortable — as my own hometown. And this without me being able to speak a word of Cornish, understand half the speeches of anybody using strong dialect, or explain to Aimee what exactly a 'Troyl' involves, even after more than one email on the subject.

  "You? You were such a Seattle girl," said Dwight, sounding amazed. "And I thought by now you'd be in a serious relationship there — I mean after what happened. After all, I knew I didn't break your heart for good." Although he spoke these words lightly, I could tell he sneaked a glance to see what effect they had on me.

  It wasn't that Dwight hadn’t touched my heart in some way, of course. It had taken more than one cry to get over the way things ended—but I had got over it. And look or not look, I was sure that Dwight had too, given the ease with which he referred to our mutual past. Anything else would be pure imagination on my part.

  “My cab is arriving any moment now,” Dwight said, checking his watch. “I have a meeting in Westminster bright and early in the morning.”

  “Exciting,” I replied. Secretly, I was relieved he would be leaving Ceffylgwyn in a matter of minutes. No matter how innocent our re-meeting was, I didn’t relish the thought of reliving any part of it. And I didn't want to explain to Matt that yet another one of us had an ex hanging around the manor for a short time.

  How would Matt feel if he knew I was chatting with an old flame? Jealous? Trusting? Confident that I was in love with him, though I hadn't said it? Or perhaps he'd feel exactly the way I felt when I learned his ex-fiancée, Petal, was the bride-to-be in the first wedding I supervised at Cliffs House. Which meant he'd be a little bit hurt that I didn't mention this recent attachment in my past. Threatened even, although I didn’t think Matt seemed like the insecure kind.

  All this speculation was going nowhere, since I didn't plan to bring it up with Matt, even to know what he was thinking. For now, I'd prefer that part of our relationship to remain a mystery. Besides, he needn't feel threatened or jealous, since things with Dwight had ended the way they should, and I didn’t regret it for a second. Even if seeing him again had proved to be weird and unsettling in some way I couldn’t quite explain.

  England’s a big place, I reminded myself. No reason you can’t share it with Dwight—and no reason this has to be awkward or a big deal in any way at all.

  And it wasn’t. At least, not for the few minutes we stood there waiting for his cab to arrive. Catching up on news about friends back home, most of whom Dwight had seen more recently than I had. Being overseas made it hard to keep up with even my closest friends, aside from the occasional phone call or video chat with Aimee and Nate.

  When his cab pulled up, Dwight gave my hand a parting squeeze. “It was great seeing you, Julianne. A familiar face on foreign shores is nice. And who knows? Maybe we’ll bump into each other in London. Have a cup of tea and catch up.” He grinned as he climbed into the cab and shut the door.

  I waved goodbye to him from the other side of the glass. Certain I would never see Dwight Bradshaw again, least of all for a cup of tea and a ‘catch up' as he put it, not if I had my way. And those are not the words of a bitter ex, in case you're wondering.

  But we can’t really know the future, can we? This time, my instincts turned out to be quite wrong.

  ***

  “I haven’t done this since kindergarten. Honestly, that’s why it looks so bad,” I explained, folding a strip of green paper into a loop that looked more like an oval than a circle. It promptly squashed itself flat beneath my thumb.

  Gemma giggled. “You didn’t have to tell us that, Julianne. I think we both reckoned paper arts weren’t your strong point.” From the chair near the hearth, Pippa let out a quiet groan as her own scissors cut a crooked path through a sheet of red.

  The three of us were assembling paper chains in festive colors for decorating the tree in the Cornish estate’s library. Its theme was a throwback to an old-fashioned holiday, the only tree in the house that wasn’t bedazzled with colored or clear lights and ornaments of a more elaborate nature for tourists and the upcoming charity gala. Instead, simple berries and paper chains would decorate its branches, along with some antique lace ornaments from the manor’s bygone days. Only my paper crafting skills were all but nonexistent after twenty-something years of not bothering with them.

  Luckily for me, Pippa was in the same boat, struggling to paste her crookedly-cut paper strips together as the glue stuck to her fingers and hair. Watching us fumble around, Gemma let out a snort of derision. “Look at you two! I mean really, any nursery group could do this with their eyes closed.”

  “They’ve had more practice,” Pippa pleaded. "I was hopeless at paper crafts in school, anyway — must be the maths behind it."

  "Rubbish!" said Gemma. "I remember you in primary, making paper stars as good as mine."

  "They were crooked, I solemnly swear. You've just forgotten after so many years."

  Meanwhile, I was busy trying not to glue my paper to my hair again. I lifted my eyes and laughed as I caught sight of Dinah watching us in the doorway. She shook her head, a hopeless smile on her face.

  “I was about to ask if you were having tea this afternoon, but I think it’s best you carry on here,” she said, eyeing the drop cloths we had placed on the floor to cover the rug from possible spills and gummy glue bits. “At this rate, the lot of you will still be folding little strips of paper when dinner’s laid out tonight.”

  “No I won’t,” I argued. “This is just me getting warmed up. Once I find a natural rhythm, the work will fly by. You'll see.” As I mangled another strip of pa
per, tearing it nearly in half as I tried to loop it onto the chain.

  Without further comment, Dinah turned and disappeared back down the hall. Pippa and Gemma had glimpsed my latest monstrosity, and the three of us burst into giggles again. I let my scissors fall to the floor as I gave up all pretence of salvaging that part of the chain.

  “So,” I told them, retrieving my scissors after I controlled my giggles again, “tell me about some Christmas traditions at the estate. Just a hint or two at least.”

  All my co-workers were being coy about what Christmas at Cliffs House would be like, despite the fact I had prodded them for examples multiple times the past few weeks. All I knew was the menu consisted of goose with all the trimmings, and that presents would be exchanged at some point, with possibly a bowl of punch on hand to toast the holiday. It conjured up images from the 'Wassail' carol, but that wasn’t nearly enough information in my opinion.

  “Well,” Gemma began, “don’t tell her that I told you, but—” and she lowered her voice, glancing round as if to be sure we weren’t being eavesdropped on, “— Dinah’s making her special plum pudding recipe for dessert this year.”

  “Plum pudding?” I was lost, envisioning something like the cups of store bought pudding my mother used to pack in my school lunches, my nose scrunching automatically in response. Or was it more like the blackened bowling ball that Tiny Tim cheers for in the movie A Christmas Carol?

  Pippa quickly cleared up my confusion. “No, not like the nasty sort you lot probably eat — all processed fruit like gumdrops and the like."

  "It’s suet with raisins," said Gemma. "Cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger add a bit of spice to it, and black treacle makes it rich and moist.” She sighed, a hint of longing in the noise, as if anticipating the taste of said pudding.

  My mouth was already watering from the description, aware that Dinah’s skills in the kitchen would be at their best for such a special event at the Cornish manor. As of yet, I'd only sampled a handful of Cornwall's famous dishes, becoming a virtual 'oggy' addict at this point, thanks to Charlotte's pasties in the village.