He groaned. “It’s only as complicated as you make it, Jules. I like you and you like me, or at least I think you do. What’s so complicated about that?”
“Everything!” Jules cried. “You and Tara for one thing. Me being your pastor for another.”
“Those are just excuses.”
“Of course they’re not! They’re reasons!”
“Yes they are. Tara and I are separated – which was nothing to do with you, by the way. We were over long before you rocked up here in your dungarees and dog collar.”
Although Jules was close to despair she couldn’t help laughing at this exaggeration. “I don’t even own any dungarees! Look, Danny, you didn’t see Tara’s face when she came to me for help. I know she still loves you and wants to make it work. I’m the vicar! I’m supposed to help save marriages, not break them up!”
His lip curled. “She’s played you, Jules. Tara hates losing.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous. It’s not a competition. You’re her husband.”
He pointed to the damaged part of his face. “She wasn’t quite so keen on my being her husband when this happened.”
“So she made a mistake. Perhaps she wants to put things right?” Jules knew she had to think like a pastor first and put her own feelings second. That was the choice she’d made when she was ordained. She just hadn’t realised how hard it would be.
“Perhaps I don’t want her to?” Danny countered. “Look, even you can’t fix everyone, Jules. Like I said, my marriage was over long before I met you. You have no idea what kind of person she really is.”
“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Jules asked. She’d met Tara and she didn’t doubt that the woman had made mistakes, but she was hardly Machiavelli’s Prince in heels.
Danny looked away. “It doesn’t matter. Never mind her anyway. It’s history. What about what you and I might want? Doesn’t that count?”
“Whatever we might be feeling, it’s wrong; can’t you see that? How can I marry Ashley and Mo tomorrow if I’m part of putting another marriage asunder? It goes against everything I believe in.”
“So you don’t want to see what could happen between us? You’re not prepared to even try?”
She took a deep breath and steeled herself to tell a lie that hopefully God would understand.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“You’re talking complete bollocks.” Danny shook his head. “Good try, but I don’t believe you, Jules.”
“Believe what you like,” Jules told him firmly.
“So you don’t have any feelings for me? None at all? This has all been in my head? A little-known symptom of PTSD?”
She couldn’t answer. Any denial was stuck in her throat. How on earth had St Peter done it?
“No feelings at all?” Danny pushed. He could sense she was struggling and, with the determination that had helped him to overcome his injuries, Jules knew he wouldn’t give in. She had to be strong for both of them. His marriage and her faith were at stake.
“You’re my friend. My good friend. Please, Danny, don’t make this any more difficult for either of us. If you have any true feelings for me at all you’ll respect my beliefs.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, Jules. How can you do this to me? I’m damned either way now, aren’t I?”
“Go back to your wife,” Jules said wearily. “Make your marriage work. It’s a sacrament.”
Danny stared at her. Hurt burned on his face, every bit as livid as the angry scars.
“You really want me to go back to Tara? Christ, if you knew the half of it. You’d rather I was with her? Seriously?”
The air crackled with expectancy. Every part of Jules longed to cry out that she loved him, adored him and had done from almost the moment she’d first met him, but she had to ignore this side of her and step away. She had to be the vicar.
She was the vicar. It was her vocation. Her life. Her faith.
“Of course I do,” Jules said firmly. “She’s your wife.”
“My wife.” He shook his head again in despair. “You have no idea what she’s capable of. Jesus. She certainly pulled the wool over your eyes that day, didn’t she? What I could tell you about her—”
Jules couldn’t risk hearing another word. She was dangerously close to crumbling, hurling herself at him and forgetting all the very good arguments for staying away.
“I have to get back to the church. I’ll see you later at the wedding rehearsal,” was all she said as she turned away from him. Her voice sounded wooden and odd and her eyes prickled. She had the feeling that she was standing on the edge of a huge precipice and that one false move could send her tumbling into disaster.
I’m doing the right thing, she told herself sharply as she strode away with his gaze searing into her back. I really am.
So how come doing the right thing felt so very, very wrong?
Chapter 25
The wedding day dawned sparkling and bright, with heavy dewfall that shone like diamonds on the shrubs and lawns at Seaspray. The sun climbed over the valley sides to float through the early morning haze and drench the village in rosy light. On the far side of the bay, directly across the glittering water, Mariners peeped through the mist as mysterious and as out of reach as a fairy-tale castle.
Mo, who’d hardly been able to sleep a wink, was wrapped in her duvet and curled up in the window seat of her childhood bedroom watching the day yawn itself awake. She wondered whether Ashley was gazing across at Seaspray and counting the hours until they met at the altar. It was weird to be apart from him after the intensity of the past few weeks, but when it had come to the night before the wedding Alice had put her foot down and insisted that some traditions should be honoured, hurry or not.
Mo chewed the skin around her thumbnail, desperately trying to avoid wrecking the shell-pink manicure Issie had spent a painstaking hour applying the evening before. She hoped Ashley was still sleeping. The last couple of days had been exhausting for him and today was going to take reserves of strength and energy that Mo feared he could no longer draw upon. In just two weeks the deterioration in his health had been terrifying.
She snatched her thoughts back to the view over the village. It was going to be a glorious September day, the kind when the sunshine sprinkled itself over the land like gold dust and fat little puffs of cloud drifted lazily across the sky, high above fields of rippling corn and green pastures dotted with sheep. This was a good omen, surely? If the worst was going to happen then wouldn’t it be tipping down with rain and the sky bruised purple with the threat of more storms to come? If there were going to be dark days ahead wouldn’t she feel it? And wouldn’t the world echo this? How could the unthinkable happen when a satsuma sun was burning the mist away and bathing the world in pink and orange?
She shivered and pulled the duvet closer. Was somebody stepping on her grave? Was this a premonition?
Cross with herself because this was no way to be thinking on her wedding day, Mo told herself sternly that she was just chilly, that was all. The shivering was nothing more sinister. Seaspray was a big house, with draughty sash windows and bare wooden floors that made it feel cold even in the height of the summer. She was just being superstitious and paranoid.
In fairness, though, it was hard not to be paranoid when you were having to make every moment count – and harder still when your fiancé’s consultant was constantly on the phone.
Mo gnawed at her cuticle. It was all very well for Ashley to tell her to dismiss this, and for him to declare that Mr Oliver was nothing but a worrier, but Mo wasn’t fooled. She knew how serious things really were. It was the silent spectre that stalked her happiness, casting its long shadows across the sunny days they spent together. Its icy fingers of fear caused her to jolt awake in the dead of night, clammy with terror and with her heart racing, and to reach out with a shaking hand to check that Ashley was still asleep beside her. Only when her trembling fingertips had brushed against his warm skin and she’d curled herself around him, pr
essing her face into the nape of his neck and drinking in the heady rush of relief that he was still there, would her heart rate slow enough to allow Mo to drift back into her dreams. No way would she allow her night terrors to creep into the daylight – and especially not on her wedding day.
Her wedding day! How crazy did that sound? She was getting married and it had all happened with such dizzying speed that Mo didn’t blame her family one bit for being taken aback. She could hardly believe it herself. Having never been the kind of girl to spend hours dreaming about her ideal wedding or imagining her perfect dress, nobody had been more surprised than Mo when she’d found herself caught up with colour schemes and flowers. Usually her idea of buying clothes was shopping for new wellies in Mole Valley Farmers, and the only flowers she gave a hoot about were the clumps of bright yellow ragwort she yanked up from the paddocks. Who was this girl who was picking out plump creamy roses and matching the decorations of the marquee to the exact jade green of her bridesmaids’ dresses? And as for manicures, pedicures and face packs? What had happened there? Mo shook her head in wonder because the closest she usually came to these was applying poultices to injuries and watching the farrier tend to the horses’ hooves. She had never in a million light years imagined that she would want to plan a wedding.
But then again, Mo had never imagined that she could love anyone as totally and as utterly as she loved Ashley. He was wrapped around her heart; he always had been and she knew that no matter what the future held he always would be.
“When did you know you wanted to marry me?” she’d asked him the evening before, as they’d kissed goodnight outside Seaspray.
Ashley had smiled as he’d smoothed Mo’s curls away from her face. “If I’m honest? The day I met you. It sounds mad, doesn’t it, but I think I knew then. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
“I felt the same way,” Mo had admitted, “although you drove me crazy, obviously.”
He’d gazed down at her. In the darkness his eyes had been inky black.
“I hope I’ll always drive you crazy,” he’d said, pulling her close. “I love you, Morwenna Tremaine. I always have and I always will.”
They’d kissed again and the world had spun away on its axis, the bright stars above and the fat full moon blurring. The crashing of the waves below them had been little more than a whisper.
“I guess it’s time I let you get some rest, Red. I heard a rumour that tomorrow’s going to be a big day,” Ashley had said eventually.
He hadn’t been kidding. Mo’s head had been bursting from everything they’d crammed into the day. The flowers were done, Summer and Susie had spent several hours working on her dress until Mo had felt like a living pin cushion, and the clanging of poles as the marquee was erected on the village green had only stopped an hour or so previously. Then Mo had been flat out sorting the patio heaters and making sure that the tables and chairs had arrived. When Ashley had finally dragged Mo away, Zak had still been there, dishevelled and red-eyed after flying back from New York. He’d been simultaneously doing a sound check and trying his best to sweet-talk Sheila Keverne, who was complaining about the noise. Mo had left him to it. If anyone could charm someone as sour as Sheila then it would be her little brother, with his sleepy blue eyes and fallen-angel looks.
“Can’t I just come back with you? This tradition thing is ridiculous,” she’d grumbled, rolling her eyes.
Ashley had kissed the tip of her nose. “It’s only for a few hours, sweetheart, and it makes Alice happy. Let her have this one night with you at home. There will be plenty more for us.”
“Will there? You promise?”
“You can’t get rid of me quite so easily, Red. Now get inside, will you? I need my beauty sleep!”
The next time I’ll see him will be at the altar, Mo thought now as the sun finally defeated the last wisps of mist and Polwenna Bay was flooded with brightness. This time tomorrow she would be Mrs Ashley Carstairs. It was such a strange idea that she laughed out loud.
From the hall downstairs the old grandfather clock struck seven. Uncurling herself and stretching, Mo left the window seat and padded across the floorboards to the wardrobe where, swathed in layers of tissue paper, Alice’s vintage dress was hanging in anticipation of the day ahead. She heard the kitchen door click open and footsteps patter up the stairs. Moments later there was a murmuring of voices and chinking of teacups, followed by a knock at her own door.
Her heart skipped a beat. This was it. She was getting married.
The bride stood in the church porch, with her hand tucked into the crook of her father’s arm and her heart slamming itself against her ribcage. Her long red hair, tumbling to her shoulders in a riot of curls, was loosely pinned to the crown of her head and threaded with white roses and green ribbons, and in her hand she held a matching bouquet. Her dress was a shimmering column of ivory silk that fell like a waterfall to the tips of her satin slippers. Over her bare shoulders and arms she wore a surcoat of eighteenth-century lace, the something old that Alice said had been in their family for generations. Around her neck was a pearl choker, borrowed from Summer, while on her left hand sparkled the simple square-cut diamond that Ashley had placed there so tenderly a few days ago.
“You look beautiful, Mo.” Jimmy Tremaine’s bottom lip wobbled a bit and his blue eyes were bright as he smiled mistily at her. “Out of all of my children you’re the most like her, you know.”
Mo squeezed his arm in answer. Penny Tremaine, just a hazy memory now of warm arms and a flowery scent, had been small and slight with a wild mane of red curls. Suddenly Mo’s throat was tight with that old and familiar sense of loss, every bit as scalpel-sharp today as it had been two decades earlier. For all his faults and failings as a parent, she knew that Jimmy was feeling that loss just as much as she did and, like her, wishing that things could have been different.
“Are you ready?” This gentle prompt was from Jules, who was waiting for Mo and Jimmy to give the word. She had one hand on the door and her prayer book clutched in the other, with the vows that Mo and Ashley had written tucked inside. She was wearing her best robes and had even had her hair done for the occasion, Mo noticed now; it was a beautiful glossy brown rather than the familiar but alarming purple shade. Kursa had obviously been given her marching orders!
“I’ll be at the altar waiting for the bridal party,” Jules reassured her. Turning to Issie, who was in capacity today as chief bridesmaid, she added, “When you’re all ready to begin walking down the aisle, just give Sheila a sign and she’ll start to play the organ.”
Issie looked excited. “Cool. How about a V-sign? Will that work?”
Jules’s lips twitched but she did her best to look serious. “I think a nod will work best on this occasion.”
Mo laughed. “Maybe a V-sign when it’s your turn, Issie?”
“No thanks,” said her sister, her small nose wrinkling. “I’m never tying myself down, thanks! I’m going to be seeing stars, remember? Marriage isn’t for me.”
“Careful,” Mo warned. “I thought that once and look what happened.”
Issie looked sceptical. “I know you’re love’s young dream but I think I’ll just stick to having fun.”
Jules kissed Mo on the cheek. It was time to begin. When Jules had left him at the altar Ashley had been looking extremely pale. Hopefully it was just wedding-day nerves rather than anything more sinister, but she didn’t want him under more strain than was necessary.
“I’ll see you inside in just a moment,” she said. “I’m so happy for you, Mo. I think it’s wonderful that you and Ashley have met and fallen in love. I can’t wait to marry you.”
“I think we’re ready!” Summer smoothed Mo’s dress and straightened her train, then smiled. Mo, yanked back from her thoughts, realised that her mouth was suddenly drier than the brand new and immaculately raked gravel path. Everyone was looking at her.
“Don’t pay any attention to them,” Summer whispered, inclining her head in the
direction of the constant clicking of cameras and the bright flashes that had been dazzling the wedding party from the very moment they’d left Seaspray. “Just focus on you and Ashley. Take it from me, nothing else matters.”
Mo gulped back the sudden surge of terror and nodded. The UK’s press were certainly out in force. They were crammed alongside the narrow path, held back only by the barriers erected by the burly security team Ashley had hired. “Summer! Summer!” they kept calling, stretching lenses over the barriers and practically into their quarry’s face. “Over here, love! Is it true about Justin? Are you really taking him to court? Is he suing you?”
Summer hadn’t turned a hair. Even now, as they taunted her and asked intensely personal questions that made Mo want to leap the barrier and batter them all to death with her bouquet, she didn’t flinch.
“You get used to it after a while,” she explained, catching the look of horror on Mo’s face. “Don’t look so worried, Mo. It’s the price of fame and we want them here, remember? It’s great publicity for St Wenn’s and Polwenna Bay.”
Issie, tossing her braids and ribbons about like a My Little Pony who’d eaten too many oats, was posing happily and loving every minute. Uncertain as to who the pretty blonde was, and not wanting to miss out on a shot of a stray TOWIE or Big Brother contestant, the paps were only too willing to snap away at her. They were having a great day – for not only had Summer Penhalligan reappeared with that angel face and those glorious curves that were always guaranteed to sell papers, but they’d also spotted the dishevelled and sexy musician who was rumoured to be the next and even hotter Harry Styles. Right now, Cornwall was certainly the place to be.
But so far as Mo was concerned, the press, her sister, the fate of St Wenn’s and Zak’s growing fame were all completely irrelevant. All that mattered now was the man who was waiting at the altar, his gaze trained on the door and his dark eyes filled with love. With her hand on her father’s arm, Mo stepped forward into the cool hush of the church and the rest of her life.
A Time for Living: Polwenna Bay 2 Page 24