The Little B & B at Cove End

by Linda Mitchelmore

  ‘Right,’ Tom said. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you lovely people now. The train to London, and Louise, await. Neither will wait for a mere mortal like me.’

  Louise? So Michelangelo already had a woman in his life.

  And then, Michelangelo leaned down and kissed her mother on the cheek. What was he like? Going off to meet this Louise woman, and kissing her mother before he went?

  ‘Be safe,’ her mother said.

  Be safe? That’s what her mother always said to her when they parted company, even for a little while.

  If … if … if she adds ‘love you’ Mae was going to be sick!

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘Are you going to put them back up?’ Mae asked.

  ‘Tom said he’d do it,’ Cara told her.

  She still couldn’t quite believe she had three of her paintings back, or how close they’d been to Cove End for years and she’d had no idea. No wonder Mark had always brought a bottle of wine home, or some beers, some champagne sometimes, saying he’d rather enjoy a glass of something in his own home and not in some noisy bar somewhere. Cara knew the reason for that now – so she wouldn’t see her paintings on the pub walls.

  ‘Muuum,’ Mae said. She sighed. ‘You can handle a power tool, right?’

  Could she? She’d never tried. Mark hadn’t been much into DIY and they’d always paid someone to do anything that needed doing. There was a drill in the utility room, she knew that. And some boxes of screws and hooks and things.

  ‘Of course I can,’ Cara said. ‘But I might not need to because there are still little holes in the wall where the screws were taken out.’

  She fervently hoped that was the case because although she might not have had much experience of this sort of thing, she did know there could be wires inside the plastering and if you hit them with a drill bit, well …

  ‘Let’s do it then,’ Mae said.

  She raced off to the utility room and Cara was reminded of the six-year-old Mae who used to race around the house on Christmas Day following the treasure hunt clues Cara and Mark had left for her to find her presents. She had that same excitement about her now. Cara followed rather more slowly.

  Mae was riffling through a drawer when Cara caught up with her. She came and stood behind her daughter and put her arms around her shoulders, pulled her gently towards her and kissed the top of her head – she smelled of the apple shampoo that was her current favourite.

  ‘I’m very proud of you, Mae,’ she said, ‘for doing what you did, taking control and getting the paintings back once you’d been told where they were. And for how you’re going to pay for them.’

  ‘’s all right,’ Mae said. ‘When Bailey told me I was, like, what? I thought he was winding me up at first. Glad they were somewhere we could buy them back.’

  Mae turned in her mother’s arms and put her arms around her, clasping her hands together behind Cara’s waist. She snuggled in.

  ‘What time’s he coming back?’ Mae asked.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Yeah, him,’ Mae said. She wriggled out of Cara’s embrace, turned back towards the drawer and began noisily sorting through the screws and hooks. She pulled out a handful and showed them to Cara. ‘Will these do?’

  ‘I expect so,’ Cara said, her voice weary now.

  Mae wasn’t any closer to accepting Tom in the house after three weeks than she had been on the day he arrived, was she? Was now the time, though, to take her to task over her attitude, given the wonderful hug they’d just had and what Mae had done in getting the paintings back?

  ‘Goodo,’ Mae said. ‘So, what time?’

  ‘Tom won’t be back until tomorrow sometime. He’s stopping at his house in London tonight. He’s got meetings tomorrow.’ Cara had put extra stress on the word ‘Tom’.

  ‘Great,’ Mae said, grinning. ‘It means we can get the job done before he gets back. Women don’t have to rely on men any more, Mum, the way you always relied on Dad for everything. If you start relying on him to do everything, like hang a few pictures or something, then he might never want to leave.’

  Cara considered reminding Mae she’d not had anyone to rely on for two years now and she was managing just fine. They were managing just fine. Mae had grown up in front of Cara’s eyes earlier when she’d organised getting the paintings back and getting a job to pay for them – it had been heart-warming to see.

  ‘I expect Tom will want to leave at some stage,’ Cara said.

  ‘Good,’ Mae said. ‘Then we can have our house back. He’s like always in the kitchen now.’

  ‘I know. I told him he could.’

  ‘Why?’ Mae hunched her shoulders up and let them drop again.

  ‘Because if he goes in the breakfast room when we have other guests he gets drawn into conversations and that takes time away from his painting. There’s only a fortnight to the exhibition now. Time’s running out.’

  ‘Not long,’ Mae said. ‘Then he’ll leave.’

  Cara bit her lip to stop her telling Mae she’d like a bit more respect from her for Tom – that she wanted her to use his name and not ‘him’ or ‘he’ every time she spoke about him. But uppermost in her mind was the fact she, Cara, was getting very used to having Tom around the house. She liked the fact he didn’t impose on her time or her space but was always friendly and funny when they did get to spend time in one another’s company, albeit those times were short and often just in passing. She liked the solid safety of his presence. But did she want him to leave? No. Not yet anyway.

  Mae jiggled the screws and hooks in her hand.

  ‘Are we going to get these paintings back up or what? You know, before he’s finished kissing this Louise person or whatever else they might be doing.’

  And that, my darling daughter, Cara thought, is what you are hoping might be happening so that Tom and I don’t go on to that stage ourselves and become an item.

  ‘Louise is Tom’s ex-wife. He’s gone to London to sort out some sort of business problem.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Mae said, making it sound as though she didn’t believe a word Cara had said.

  Couples did sometimes get back together again, realising they’d made a terrible mistake getting divorced, Cara knew that. The thought chilled her and she shivered.

  ‘So are we getting these pictures back up or what?’ Mae prompted.

  ‘Yep,’ Cara said. ‘We are. Of course we are. Women rule, right?’ She held out her hands for the screws and hooks, hoping that amongst them would be the right thing for the job. Mae tipped it all into Cara’s hand, then linked her arm through her mother’s and together they went back to the kitchen to hang the first two pictures.

  ‘Cara?’ Tom said, looking from one woodland scene painting to the other. ‘Seth Jago? You’ve got two Seth Jago paintings? How …’

  ‘I know.’ Cara came to stand beside Tom. It was late afternoon the next day and he’d been back from London about twenty minutes, Mae stomping off to her room the second he got in. ‘I inherited those from my grandmother, Rachel. Seth Jago was Rachel’s mother Emma’s first husband. There’s no name on them, I thought …’

  ‘There!’ Tom said, pointing. ‘Do you see? Down the side of the tree on the far left on this one, and along that bottom branch that dips to the ground on the other one. Almost as though he didn’t want anyone to know he’d painted them.’

  ‘I’ve never noticed,’ Cara said. ‘Was he famous?’

  ‘Not in his lifetime,’ Tom said. ‘But he’s become very collectable. I suspect I might have to die before I become really famous.’

  ‘Oh, don’t die,’ Cara laughed, pulling a mock-sad face.

  ‘I’ll do my best not to. These could be quite valuable, you know. Worth far, far more than the fifty quid the pub landlord wanted for them. Technically, I suppose, they’re Mae’s now she’s agreed to work in lieu of payment for them.’ He shook his head as though trying to clear it of jumbled thinking. ‘I’m finding it hard to take in that you
’re related to Seth Jago.’

  ‘Only by marriage,’ Cara said. ‘Not blood. Alas. Or I might be able to paint.’

  ‘And these two, being slight abstracted, will fetch more than his photographic studies. See how the trees are slightly out of proportion to the leaves on the ground? And how the leaf shapes aren’t botanically correct in any way – more a representation? And how that bird on the branch there isn’t anatomically correct either? And the sky? It reaches far nearer the ground in these than it would in reality. A bit of artistic licence. He’s known for painting the Rockies where I think these might have been done.’

  ‘That fits. The Rockies, I mean. I remember my grandma telling me Seth and Emma emigrated to Canada about a hundred years ago.’

  ‘God, I love them!’ Tom said.

  ‘Me, too,’ Cara said. And especially because they’d been done by her step-great-grandfather and Tom seemed to be rating them so highly. She’d had no idea Seth Jago was so famous. She was feeling slightly giddy with the knowledge of it all. It was a mercy that Mark hadn’t sold them further afield. ‘I felt sad when they disappeared off my walls, but told myself they were only paintings, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Only paintings?’ Tom said, looking mock-offended. ‘I’ll have you know paintings are good for the soul – to paint and to admire. It would be like a spear through my heart if anyone was to call my work “only paintings”!’

  ‘I’ll try and remember not to, then,’ Cara laughed. ‘Not, of course, that I’ve seen any proof that you’re painting anything.’

  ‘Ah, but you will,’ Tom said. ‘All in good time you will.’

  Tom’s voice was full of warmth and … well, what? Hope of some sort?

  ‘I’ll remember to be fulsome in my praise,’ Cara said. ‘I’ve hung the other one, too. Do you want to look?’

  ‘Lead me to it,’ Tom said.

  So Cara led the way to the room she’d set aside for herself and Mae, a room not to be used by guests. It had been the old TV room when Mark was alive, but the TV had been sold off and Cara hadn’t replaced it. A small room. Intimate. And feeling more intimate now with Tom standing so close to her as they looked at the seascape Mae had helped her to hang on the wall behind the wood-burner.

  ‘Blimey,’ Tom said. ‘How did I not notice that when I lifted it off the wall in the Beachcomber? This is definitely a Seth Jago as well. This one is more obviously signed. Very tiny writing. I’d say he used a brush with about three hairs on it to do it. And an earlier work, I’d say, although I’m no expert on him.’

  ‘It was a bit dim in there,’ Cara said. ‘Even for summer. All that dark wood and artificial light struggling to get through those dingy maroon lampshades.’

  ‘You’re too kind,’ Tom laughed. ‘Call myself an artist and I didn’t recognise a Seth Jago when I had one in my hands! Perhaps I was distracted by other things?’

  Other things? And then a thought struck her, like a bowl of cold porridge tipped over her head. Louise. She was cross with herself now for letting jealousy dance between them like the Northern Lights, but nowhere near as beautiful.

  ‘How did London go?’

  Had he, as Mae had suggested, ended up kissing Louise, and other things, for old times’ sake? She had no right to be jealous and yet, there it was, spoiling the moment.

  ‘Difficult would sum it up, Cara,’ Tom said. ‘Louise is like a dog with a bone when she gets an idea in her head, and especially one I don’t agree with. I’ll spare you the details. The short version is, well, I’m glad I’m back. Can I leave it at that?’

  ‘I’m glad you’re back too,’ Cara said, almost a whisper.

  ‘Good, good,’ Tom said, his eyes still on the seascape as though he hadn’t really been heard what Cara had said. ‘God, but this is good. I’ll be a happy man if I can get as much soul and feeling in my seascapes.’

  ‘Seascapes?’ Cara said. ‘Rosie said you did nudes.’

  ‘Rosie’s right,’ Tom said, ‘except in the art world they’re known as figurative paintings. Art should be like gardens, as my mother is always telling me – shouldn’t stand still. That said, it’s still come as a surprise to find how easily I’ve been able to change artistic direction stopping here. Move on.’

  ‘I see,’ Cara said. Tom had told her that Louise only had rights to any paintings she’d posed for. So was changing genre Tom’s way of moving on? Putting distance in more ways than one between him and Louise? ‘And Louise wants a share in these paintings as well?’

  ‘Got it in one,’ Tom said. ‘She went ballistic when my solicitor told her she’d no rights whatsoever to my new work. I doubt I’ve heard the last of it.’

  ‘No,’ Cara said.

  Louise would always be in the background for Tom the way Mark always would be for her. It was just how it was, and something neither of them could do anything about.

  ‘Anyway, Louise is now off my conversational menu! And I’m not going to let her spoil my surprise at finding Seth Jago paintings hanging on your walls. It’s been so good being here, Cara, in so many ways. Cove End is growing on me. Despite the fact Mae can’t stand the sight of me still. Hates me being here.’ Tom laughed nervously.

  ‘I know. Sorry,’ Cara said. ‘Although I think hate is too strong a word. She’s uncomfortable with a man in the house all the time who isn’t her father, I think.’

  There he was, Mark, back in the conversation again, just as Louise had crept back into Tom’s.

  ‘Do you want me to go? I can. I …’

  ‘No!’ Cara said quickly.

  There’d be a gaping hole in her life if Tom were to go now.

  ‘Well, that’s a very positive reaction!’ Tom said.

  He reached for Cara’s hands and she let him pull them towards him. He held them gently but firmly against his chest and smiled at her.

  ‘Would a positive reaction from me too, be too much?’ he asked.

  Cara could see her reflection in Tom’s eyes. She could smell whatever fragrance it was he used. She could hear her own breath escaping in nervous excitement at what was about to happen. She could feel the beat of his heart – quite fast now as though he were anxious of her reply. She knew what was coming.

  Cara lifted her face to his and Tom leaned forward and kissed her tenderly on the lips, lingering a little but not too much. A sweet kiss. A pure kiss. Cara couldn’t remember ever having been kissed like that before.

  ‘Is that the first time?’ he asked. ‘That you’ve been kissed since your husband died, I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cara said. And for a long time before it as her marriage had deteriorated, but there was no need to tell Tom that – that was the past, and Tom could be her future. ‘That felt good. Special.’

  ‘For me, too,’ Tom said. ‘Sometimes, for some people, these things – death and divorce – are meant to be so that they can become someone different with someone different.’ Tom put his arms around Cara and hugged her to him. ‘I think you know, Cara, how I’m beginning to feel about you,’ he said, his breath warming the side of her neck. ‘I don’t think I’d get a C- if I said I’m pretty sure you feel the same. But there’s Mae in the equation and while I don’t have children, I know they come first for parents, mothers and fathers. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ Cara agreed. In a few short sentences Tom had brought her up to date with his life, and shown understanding over Mae. Who wouldn’t love a man like that?

  ‘However,’ Tom said, with a mock downturn of his mouth, ‘I might need to keep a low profile for the next couple of weeks. The art festival date is getting closer and I’ve got work to do. So …’

  ‘Of course,’ Cara said, disappointment wrapping itself around her like a damp dishcloth. She didn’t think for a second Tom was saying that because he’d instantly regretted kissing her. But still … she might have to wait a bit before they could kiss again, was what he was perhaps saying. ‘I’ll be getting supper shortly. Panzanella. In fact I’ll need to get on with it right away actually
. Mae will be back soon. You can come and chat to me while I make it if you want.’

  She walked briskly towards the kitchen and Tom followed.

  ‘Panzanella?’ Tom said. He perched himself on the high stool by the counter top as Cara took tomatoes from the fridge, and some peppers, and lifted the pot of basil off the windowsill. ‘Which is? My Italian – I’m guessing it’s something Italian – is the pits.’

  ‘Right first time,’ Cara said. ‘Basically it’s tomatoes and peppers and basil and olive oil and bread … lots of tomatoes, baby ones for preference. Will you join us? At the table tonight instead of me leaving you a portion in the fridge?’

  Cara walked briskly to the plate rack and took down three plates, placing them on the table. She put the pot with the cutlery in the centre.

  Mae might have something to say about that. She might insist on eating in her room, but Cara would insist she didn’t, and that she minded her manners.

  ‘Um, maybe not,’ Tom said. ‘Not that I don’t want to because I do, but I don’t think it would be a good idea at this precise moment. You wouldn’t have to have Hercule Poirot’s powers of detection to work out that Mae would probably rather gouge her eyes out with bent paperclips than sit at a table with me.’

  ‘Ouch!’ Cara said.

  ‘So, off I go. You might hear me moving about up there for a while. I’ve got a couple of things I want to finish tonight. I’ll pop back for the panzanella later. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  They were still standing so close and to Cara it seemed as though Tom really was reluctant to go, but had decided not to invade Mae’s space at the moment.

  ‘Goodnight, then,’ Cara said. ‘And thanks, you know, for …’