One Summer in Cornwall
Page 1
Copyright © 2021 Karen King
The right of Karen King to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published in 2021 by Headline Accent
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
First published as an Ebook in 2021 by Headline Accent
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Cover images © Victoria Yanushkevskaya, Bariskina, Volushka & GoodStudio, all Shutterstock
eISBN: 978 1 4722 7872 2
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.headline.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Karen King
Praise for Karen King
Also by Karen King
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
About the Author
Karen King is a bestselling author of fiction for both adults and children and has also written numerous short stories for women’s magazines. The Cornish Hotel by the Sea was an international bestseller, reaching the top one hundred in the Kindle charts in both the UK and Australia.
Karen is a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, the Society of Authors and the Society of Women Writers and Journalists. She lives in Spain with her husband Dave and their two cats, Tizzy and Marmaduke.
www.karenking.net
@karen_king
Readers love Karen King:
‘A great romance story by a superb author, I loved the main character from the start’ 5* Amazon review
‘Such a lovely summer book that I just couldn’t put down! Absolutely loved the character of Ellie and I was desperate to see how everything would work out’ 5* Amazon review
‘The story takes you to wonderful scenes of pebbled beaches, rock pools, narrow streets and all the glory of summer. It’s a great holiday read and even you if aren’t on holiday it gives you a feel of that freedom and relaxation. You can’t help falling in love with the main characters and following their every move with suspense. I loved this book and read it in a couple of days because once I started reading, I couldn’t put it down! Highly recommended!’ 5* Amazon review
‘Most enjoyable read. Always interesting. Very believable characters. I can thoroughly recommend it. What could be a better summer read than one set in beautiful Cornwall’ 5* Amazon review
‘This was a truly delightful book to read. Just light-hearted feel good’ 5* Amazon review
By Karen King
Romance titles
I do? – or do I?
The Millionaire Plan
Never Say Forever
The Cornish Hotel by the Sea
The Bridesmaid’s Dilemma
Snowy Nights at the Lonely Hearts Hotel
The Year of Starting Over
Single All the Way
One Summer in Cornwall
Thriller titles
The Stranger in My Bed
About the Book
Escape to Cornwall this summer . . .
When Hattie is made redundant and evicted from her flat in one horrible week, she needs time to rethink. Her Uncle Albert left her and her father each half of Fisherman’s Rest, his home in the Cornish town of Port Medden, so this seems the perfect place to escape to until she can figure things out.
As Hattie stays in the cottage, clearing it out, tidying it up and getting it ready to sell, she starts to find her feet in Port Medden and making a new home here begins to feel right. If only her dad didn’t need a quick sale and things weren’t complicated by her unwelcoming neighbour Marcus . . .
For my friends Annie and Richard whose parrot, Tipsy, is the
inspiration for Buddy the parrot in this book. Xx
Acknowledgements
Firstly I’d like to thank the publishing team at Headline for allowing me to revisit Port Medden, the Cornish town where my bestselling romance, The Cornish Hotel by the Sea, is set. I really enjoyed meeting Ellie, Reece, Sue and Mandy again, bringing Marcus out of the kitchen and introducing new characters to my readers. Writing about Cornwall always brings back happy memories of the summer holidays spent there when my children were young, and the years I lived there. It will always remain one of my favourite places.
I’d especially like to thank my fabulous editor Katie Sunley, copy editor Eloise Wood and proof-reader Kay Gale for their expertise and support. Thanks also to talented artist Emily Cordelle for designing both this beautiful cover, and the gorgeous new cover for The Cornish Hotel by the Sea.
I am indebted to the bloggers and authors who support me by hosting me on their blogs, reviewing my books and sharing my posts. Particular thanks to the members of the Romantic Novelists’ Association who are always willing to share their writing experience and advice. Also thanks to Rob Tysall of Tysall’s Photography for answering my questions on photography – any mistakes are my own. And of course, my thanks to the readers who buy my books, allowing me to live the dream of being an author. Thank you all so much.
Finally, last but not least, everlasting thanks to my lovely Dave, the wind beneath my wings, and my family and friends who all encourage me and support me so much. I love you all. x
Chapter One
‘Bloody hell! Who is it?’
Hattie Rowland froze at the voice, her finger poised on the light switch that she had been about to flick on. Someone was already in the cottage! Who could it be? A squatter? A burglar? For a moment she p
anicked, her breathing quick and shallow as she backed against the wall, wondering whether to run out again. Then she pulled herself together. She had every right to be here – whoever it was, they were trespassing, and she wasn’t going to be intimidated by them. She took a deep, steadying breath and grabbed hold of her motorbike helmet, which she had tucked under her arm, ready to use as a weapon if necessary. The intruder would soon realise that she didn’t scare easily. She pressed down the switch, gripping the helmet tightly, ready to spring into action. As the room lit up, there was a loud screech.
‘Turn it off! Turn it off!’
Buddy! Hattie burst out laughing as she spotted the green parrot, perched on a thick branch running across a huge cage tucked into the corner of the living area, just before the open archway into the kitchen. The parrot’s head was turned towards the door, his beady eyes fixed on her as he squawked crossly. Uncle Albert’s beloved parrot. She hadn’t even realised that Buddy was still alive. As the big bird glared at her from his perch, his green feathers ruffled, the yellow ring around his neck clearly visible, she was transported back to her childhood. Hattie remembered stepping into the cottage with her parents to be greeted by Buddy screeching, ‘Bloody hell! Who is it?’ and her mother immediately trying to cover her ears. Uncle Albert, a fisherman, was her father’s much-older brother. He had never married and Buddy was his sole companion. Albert had worshipped the bird – and loved his little cottage by the sea. When he died a couple of months ago, Hattie had been surprised and touched to hear that he had left Fisherman’s Rest jointly to Hattie’s father, Owen, and Hattie. She had fond memories of summer holidays spent here in Port Medden with Uncle Albert when she was younger, and her parents were still together.
‘Hello, Buddy. It’s only me, Hattie. You probably don’t remember me. It’s been years since I last came down here,’ she said softly. She felt guilty about that, but her parents had finally divorced, after years of acrimony, when she was twelve, and then she had barely seen her dad, who had immediately moved to France with his new girlfriend, now wife, Raina and remained there. Obviously, her mum, who now lived in Portugal with her partner Howard, hadn’t wanted to spend summers with her ex-husband’s brother in Cornwall, so Hattie had lost touch with Uncle Albert.
She dropped her saddlebags down onto the old brown sofa; she was sure it was the same one that had been there when she’d last visited – was it sixteen or seventeen years ago? In fact, nothing seemed to have changed, she thought, as she looked around, her mind going back to her childhood holidays. The thick grey curtains were the same, as was the now-threadbare brown patterned carpet on the floor. The TV was a more recent model than she remembered, and the fireplace was now boarded up with a gas fire in front of it. Not that she’d ever seen the fireplace in use when they’d come down in the summer, but there had always been a basketful of logs beside it, ready for the colder evenings. The old wooden rocking chair was still in the corner by the fire, but there was now a thick cushion on the seat. The dark wooden dresser, full of ornaments and decorative plates, still stood against the wall by the window. Over the fireplace was a stunning painting of fishermen tending their boats in the harbour. She didn’t remember that, but the rest of the downstairs of the cottage was almost exactly as she remembered, except it no longer looked exciting and welcoming but dusty, faded, old.
Her eyes flitted back to the rocking chair where Uncle Albert had often sat, smoking his pipe and telling them stories of his fishing escapades. He’d been a broad, larger-than-life man, who had always made them welcome, cooking them hearty breakfasts, taking them out on his boat, joining them for a drink at the local pub where everyone had seemed to know him. And now he was gone. And he’d only been in his late seventies, no age nowadays. She felt sad that she had lost touch with him over the years. She wondered if her dad had kept in contact.
She walked over to the cage, which sat on a wooden wheeled trolley. Buddy immediately ruffled his feathers and eyed her warily from his perch. ‘Bugger off!’ he screeched.
‘Charming!’ Hattie thought with a smile. Had the parrot been here on his own ever since Uncle Albert was taken to hospital, over two months ago? she wondered. Uncle Albert had died within a couple of days of being admitted. Surely Buddy hadn’t been here alone all that time?
The cage was clean, the water seemed fresh and was half full. Buddy appeared cared for, if irritable. There were several things to keep him amused: a thick rope, a mirror, ladders, even a swing. Someone was obviously looking after him. Who? Maybe one of the neighbours had a key.
‘Bugger off! Go to bed!’ Buddy shouted, obviously wanting his sleep, too.
She grinned. From what she remembered of Buddy, he was cantankerous and prone to cursing! There had been no mention of any arrangements for the parrot in her uncle’s will, but she was happy to look after him. She owed Uncle Albert that much. It had been so generous of him to leave her half of his cottage, especially now when she desperately needed a haven. Not that this was a permanent move: Hattie and her father had agreed to sell the cottage and split the money, but at least it was a roof over her head until they found a buyer, giving her breathing space to decide what to do next.
‘I think I will. Goodnight, Buddy,’ she said.
She took her toiletry bag out of one of the saddlebags – she’d unpack the rest in the morning – then walked through the arch into the galley kitchen and put it on the table while she searched the dark wooden cupboards for a glass. Letting the tap run for a while to clear out the pipes, she poured herself a drink of water and leant back against the sink, surveying the kitchen as she drank the cool liquid. It didn’t seem to have changed much in here, either: the same wooden table with a red, checked, plastic tablecloth over it, the same old cooker – how could it still be working? A washing machine – surely that had been replaced – and, amazingly, a silver microwave. And even an electric kettle!
She yawned. She was weary after the motorbike ride down from Bristol. It had been a long day and was now almost midnight. She really needed her bed. She’d wheeled her bike into the front garden – which was nothing more than a small, tiled patio – and parked it against the wall, taking off the top box containing her necessary clothes and possessions and leaving it in the hallway until morning. Hattie toyed with the idea of wheeling her bike into the more secure back yard but it seemed too much effort.
She’d packed the rest of her belongings and left them with her best friend Mali, who’d promised to bring them with her when she drove down next week, with her six-year-old daughter Lou, for the end of May half-term holiday. Mali was a teacher, and luckily her holidays coincided with her daughter’s so they could get away together. Hattie had planned to travel down next week too. She, Mali and Lou had been going to spend a few days at the cottage, tidying it up a bit, but then Hattie had been made redundant and homeless within a couple of days, so had decided to come down earlier.
She finished her water, picked up her toiletry bag, flicked off the light and headed off for the stairs at the end of the hall. She’d forgotten how narrow and steep the staircase was, and held tightly to the wooden rail as she climbed up, the dim bulb above not helping much to light the way. How had Uncle Albert managed? He was twenty years older than her dad, which was one of the reasons they hadn’t been particularly close. Uncle Albert’s dad had died when he was a young boy, and his mother had remarried again years later then Owen, Hattie’s father, had been born, so Uncle Albert was actually his half-brother.
After stopping off at the dated bathroom to go to the loo and clean her teeth, Hattie continued up the other flight of equally steep stairs to the attic bedroom where she and her parents had always used to sleep – it didn’t feel right to sleep in what had been Uncle Albert’s bedroom. She pushed open the creaky door and groaned in dismay when she saw that both the double bed, and the single bed by the window that used to be hers, had only a mattress on them. Of course they wouldn’t be made up! She cursed her impetuousness in coming down tonight. W
hy hadn’t she waited until the morning when it would be light? She could have stayed with Mali.
There hadn’t seemed much point in waiting, though. There was nothing left for her in Bristol. Once the keys had been handed over to her landlord, who had decided he was going to let his recently separated daughter live in the flat that had been Hattie’s home for the last three years, she had set off. Originally, Hattie had intended to sit out her month’s notice and look for another flat, but when she lost her job, too, she decided that getting away from it all and going to Cornwall while she sorted out her life was the best thing to do. The flat had been furnished, so she hadn’t had much stuff to pack up, and Mali had been happy to take the few boxes of items Hattie couldn’t fit on her bike and then bring them down to her. The landlord had been so grateful – his daughter and baby were temporarily staying with him and his wife – he’d returned her deposit immediately and let her off with that month’s rent. So, here she was. Jobless, homeless – well, once Uncle Albert’s cottage was sold – and boyfriend-less, since her lying, no good ex, Adam, had cheated on her a few months ago and she’d told him where to go.
It can only get better, she thought, determined to remain positive. Now, where did Uncle Albert keep the bedding? She was so tired, she felt as though she could fall asleep on the spot. She glanced around, then spotted the huge dark-wood wardrobe across the far wall. She vaguely remembered her mother getting bedclothes from there. She walked over to check inside, but the doors wouldn’t budge. There was no sign of a lock, so she tugged hard. Still they wouldn’t budge. She held the handle with both hands and tugged again. The door sprang open with such force she fell back onto the wooden floor. Ouch! Scrambling back up and rubbing her tender – and probably bruised – bum, she checked out the wardrobe, and to her relief, folded on the bottom, was some bedding. Thank goodness! She pulled a clean pillowcase onto the feather pillow, threw a sheet over the bed, and a bedspread over that – nothing as modern as a duvet for Uncle Albert! – then pulled off her motorbike leathers, draping them over a chair, and got into bed naked: she hated wearing pyjamas, they always seemed to tangle around her in the night. She was so exhausted, her eyes closed as soon as her head hit the pillow.