The Path to the Sea

‘Joan, that’s a fierce look.’

At the sound of a familiar voice, I look up through my eyelashes and my stomach tightens. ‘Tom.’ I grin. ‘You’re early.’ I kiss his cheek and step back to study him.

‘Problem?’ He raises an eyebrow.

‘Never.’

‘Good.’ He studies my face. ‘Not sleeping?’

I touch my cheeks. The powder I applied this morning must require another application. ‘Can’t fool you?’ I turn back to the view.

‘I should hope not.’ He laughs then asks, ‘New friends?’ He opens his cigarette case, the one I gave him for his thirtieth birthday. It’s inscribed with one word, Always. That was years ago and the feeling hasn’t changed. Never have we ever crossed that line, but I don’t know if that is true of Tom and Allan.

He lights a cigarette and hands it to me. I take it while he lights one for himself then squints into the distance. ‘They don’t look local,’ he says.

Exhaling, I watch the smoke swirl. ‘American.’ I turn to him, noting the tell-tale darkness under his eyes. It only serves to enhance the blue of his irises. They remind me of a Cornish sky on a perfect summer day.

‘Interesting.’

‘Indeed, they are joining us for dinner tomorrow, so you can discover for yourself.’

He frowns. ‘George Russell arrives tomorrow around noon.’

‘Everyone will hopefully be out enjoying the sun they are promising.’ I look at the darkening clouds. ‘Which should give us some time alone.’

‘It will be like old times.’ He rubs his chin and a boyish grin appears.

‘Yes.’ I take his arm and we walk together towards the house. However it could never be like old times and we both know that.

We reach the front door where he picks up his bag asking, ‘Usual room?’

I nod with my mind on the Venns then what he’d said sinks in. ‘Sorry, Tom, not the usual room. Due to numbers I’ve had to move you into the little one by my parents’ old room.’

He smiles. ‘Downgraded, eh?’

‘Sorry.’ I raise my shoulders.

‘How many guests?’

I shake my head. ‘Too many.’

‘Allan?’ He holds out an arm directing me to enter first.

‘Yes, ever the host.’ I check my watch.

‘Some things never change.’

‘True.’ I chuckle. ‘Shall I show you up?’

‘No need, you are tight on time. I’ll see you,’ he pauses, ‘just before drinks?’

‘Diana,’ I say. ‘She comes to tell me about her day’s activities then.’

‘Ah, yes.’ He turns away. ‘A bit later then.’

He walks through the dining room to the far staircase and I remember the past. Things could have been so different. The scent of the roses in my trug catches the breeze. I pick up a bright red bloom and bring it to my nose. Its fragrance is a heady damask touched with spices. Arabia. Rose water. Souks. Innocence. A thorn pierces my index finger and I squeal, dropping the flower. Pulling the thorn out, I watch the blood pool then drip into the basket before I put my finger into my mouth. The blood tastes metallic. Memories . . . sailing and catching my finger on a splinter, Tom coming to the rescue, removing the bit of wood and placing my finger in my mouth. As I did that, he stared at me with such intensity, I shiver even now. Those intelligent blue eyes have haunted me ever since. I shake my head and dismiss the past, I have work to do.

7 (#ulink_c40c7efd-bb76-57df-b0ff-eed14487ad19)

Lottie (#ulink_c40c7efd-bb76-57df-b0ff-eed14487ad19)

3 August 2018, 5.00 p.m.

Just as they went through the gates and onto the gravel parking area, her mother’s phone rang. It sounded important. Lottie prayed it wasn’t some world crisis that needed her mother’s award-winning reporting. Her mother veered back towards the gates where the phone signal was stronger. Inside the house Lottie checked downstairs for Gramps, but there was no sign of him. He must be with Gran or maybe taking a walk in the garden but she doubted that, with the fog. She couldn’t see past the end of the lawn.

In the snug she found an old wooden tray resting against Gramps’ chair and loaded all the tea stuff onto it. The small kitchen revealed more evidence of the neglect she’d noticed earlier, and her heart sank. She had been so bloody self-involved she hadn’t realized what was happening here. Rerunning the phone calls in her head, the conversations followed a normal course . . . the garden here, the weather, but mostly it had been about the collection she had been putting together for exhibition of young designers at the V&A. They were both so proud of her and had planned to come to London for the opening of the exhibition in the new year. She held her breath for a moment as a sharp pain pierced her temples. There was no sense in dwelling on what was lost. In all those calls they never mentioned Gran’s health, but there were things she’d never said either. She checked her phone: nothing.

But looking around there were signs of distress. Dishes and pans were washed but not put away. It wasn’t just breakfast things either but items from the night before. Opening the fridge, she saw ready meals. This wasn’t how her grandparents lived. Her heart sank further; she should have been here, no excuses.

After washing and clearing, she glanced out of the kitchen window towards the small walled garden. She would cut some flowers for Gran and the rest of the house. It might give her an indication of the amount of time her grandmother had really been ill. She knew Gramps wouldn’t tell her. He might be American, but through Gran or maybe just his own nature, he did the stiff upper lip thing rather well.

Both her grandparents adored the garden, be it the special camellias or the vegetables. They grew most of their own produce so if the vegetable patch wasn’t in good shape then they had been keeping Gran’s illness from her for a while.

Out in the courtyard, the mist swirled across the cobbles – blazing sun to impenetrable fog in the same day. She smiled, pushing open the gate and thinking of all the happy hours spent here with both of them. Vegetables, roses, and in the glass-houses, peaches and tomatoes. Her nose twitched anticipating the smell.

Hearing a noise, she looked to the nearest glass-house and gasped. She had been prepared for anything but what she saw. Alex Hoskine, her first love, stood with hose in hand watering the tomatoes. She hadn’t conjured him out of her memories earlier. It had been ten years almost to the day since she’d last seen him. And during those years he’d haunted her dreams and she woke wanting to say so many things. Now she was standing here with her mouth open and her vocal chords seemingly disabled. Memories raced around in her head, from their first kiss to the last angry words she said to him.

He looked up and squinted at her. Damn. This wasn’t going to be easy. She needed to apologise, but she also wanted to know what the hell he was doing here at Boskenna working in the kitchen garden. Where to start?

‘Lottie.’ His voice had become deeper since she’d last seen him. Back then he’d been twenty, lean and fit as hell, but now the promise of youth had been fulfilled and then some. Her mouth dried. She couldn’t still be attracted to him, not after all this time, but her body was telling her years made no difference. She was standing in front of her first love and her body remembered each and every caress, whether she wanted it to or not. This was not convenient. Her focus must be on Gran and Gramps not on her romantic history.

He turned the tap off and put the hose down. ‘Your grandfather mentioned he’d called you.’ He walked towards her but stopped just short. This was awkward. How did she greet him after all these years . . . a handshake?

‘Yes, this morning.’ She looked down.

‘She’s been ill for a while.’ He turned from her, giving her his back.

That said it all. She’d been too self-absorbed. ‘How long?’

‘There’s been a sharp decline these past few weeks, but it’s been months.’

She should have known. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, trying to think clearly.

He picked up the watering can. ‘Where have you been? They needed you.’

‘I didn’t know.’ She clenched her fist.

He looked up with a dismissive glance. ‘You haven’t changed then?’