The Return of Mrs. Jones

by Jessica Gilmore

  She had walked down to the harbour on her birthday looking for the safety and comfort of her past. She had truly expected to see the Boat House in its original incarnation—Jonas behind the bar, a little older, a little more thick-set, his mind firmly fixed on waves, on guitar chords, on fun.

  She had wanted to validate her choices. To know that even if her present was looking a little shaky at least her past choices had been right. She had been so convinced, once, that Jonas was holding her back, but what if she had been the one holding him back?

  He was obviously better off without her. Which was good, she told herself defiantly, because despite everything she was definitely better off without him.

  Or she would be once she had decided exactly what she was going to do.

  The familiar niggle of worry gnawed away at her. She had just a few weeks left of her gardening leave—just a few weeks to get a job so much better than her old one that to the outsider it would look like a planned move. Just a few weeks to show Hugo and the senior partners that she was better than their firm. Just a few weeks to get her plan back on track.

  They had reached the front of the hotel again and she turned to face Jonas, her features deliberately smooth, matching his. ‘This has been fascinating, Jonas, and I can’t wait to get started. If you show me where I am to work I’ll get set up.’

  And then Jonas smiled. A slow, intimate, knowing smile. A smile that said he knew exactly what she was doing. A smile that saw right through her mask. It crinkled the corners of his eyes, drew her gaze to firm lips, to the faint shadow on the sculpted jawline.

  It was the kind of smile that offered comfort, acceptance. The kind of smile that invited a girl to lean in, to allow those broad shoulders to take the strain.

  It was almost irresistible.

  But Lawrie Bennett was made of sterner stuff. Just.

  She straightened her shoulders, met his eyes with a challenge. ‘After all, you must have a lot to be getting on with.’

  The smile deepened. ‘Good to see work is still your priority, Lawrie.’

  It was. And it evidently was a priority for him as well. So why did he sound so amused?

  ‘The staff entrance is round the back, but you can use the front doors. Just this once.’

  Once again Lawrie was following Jonas, moving behind the stylish reception desk and through a door that led to the offices, kitchens and staff bedrooms.

  ‘I have an office here, of course,’ he said. ‘But I do prefer to work at the Boat House—whether it’s because I designed the office there, or because it’s where this all began I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘A business psychologist would probably have a field-day, trying to work it all out, but I’m not sure I need to know as long as it works and the business keeps growing.’

  ‘You don’t live in your parents’ apartment?’

  He looked surprised at the question. ‘Oh, heavens, no. This place needs a whole team of managers and some of them live in. The general manager and his family have the apartment. I bought a place on the seafront a few years ago. One of the old fishermen’s cottages by the harbour. You’d like it.’

  She nodded, maintaining her cool, interested air even as a stab of pain shot through her. It had always been her ambition to own one of the stone-built cottages clustered around the harbour. On moonlit nights she and Jonas had strolled along, hands entwined, as she’d pointed out her favourites, and they had laughingly argued over decorating plans, colour schemes, furniture.

  Now he lived in one of those cottages, without her.

  It was ridiculous to feel wounded. To feel anything. After all she had spent the last five years living in a beautiful flat with another man; very soon she fully intended to be in an apartment of her own somewhere completely new. Yet the thought of Jonas living in the dream house of their youth filled her with a wistfulness so intense she could barely catch her breath.

  He had opened a door to an empty office and held it open, motioning her to move inside. Swallowing back the unexpected emotion as she went through, she saw the office was a large room, distinguished by two big sash windows, each with a cushioned window seat, and furnished with a large desk, a small meeting table and a sofa.

  ‘This is supposed to be my office,’ he explained. ‘I never use it, though, so you may as well have it while you’re here. As I said, it’ll be useful for you to be based on site. I’m sure it’s all in your notes, but the hotel itself usually hosts the bands, VIPs and essential staff, and most festival-goers camp in the grounds—although quite a lot book out the local B&Bs and caravan parks too.’

  She nodded. Of course she had read all this yesterday, but it was still hard for her to comprehend.

  Jonas had started this festival during her first year at Oxford, getting local rock and folk bands to play on the beach for free, raising money for a surfing charity that campaigned against marine and beach pollution. The first ever festival had been a one-night affair and the festival-goers had slept on the beach...if they’d slept at all. Food had, of course, been provided by the Boat House. Lawrie was supposed to have returned to Cornwall for it, but at the last minute had decided to stay in London, where she’d been interning for the summer.

  Her refusal to promise that she would attend the third festival had led to the final argument in their increasingly volatile relationship. She had packed her bags on the eve of her twenty-first birthday and gone to London for another summer of interning. At the end of that summer she had returned to Oxford for her fourth and final year. She had never returned to Cornwall.

  Not until a week ago.

  And now that little beach festival had grown—just like the Boat House, just like Jonas’s business. Everything was so much bigger, so different from the small, comforting life she remembered. Three nights, thirty-six bands, family activities, thousands of festival-goers, raising substantial funds for charity—yet still local, still focussed on the best of Cornish music, food, literature. It was daunting.

  Not that she was going to confess that to the imposing man standing before her.

  Lawrie had never admitted that she needed help before. She wasn’t going to start now.

  ‘This is great, Jonas,’ she said. ‘I can take it from here.’

  His mouth quirked. ‘I have complete faith in you,’ he assured her. ‘You know where I am if you need me.’

  She nodded, but her mind was completely made up. She did not, would not need Jonas Jones. She was going to do this alone. Just as she always did.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JONAS LOVED THIS drive. The winding lanes, the glimpses of sea through the dense green hedgerows. If he put the top down he could smell the intoxicating scent of sweet grass and gorse, feel the sea breeze ruffling his hair.

  And he loved the destination. The hotel he owned. The hotel he had bought. The hotel where his ex-wife was right this moment sitting at his desk, taking care of his festival.

  It had been an unexpected couple of days. Of course the village gossips were having a field-day. Again. What would they do without him? He should start charging a licence fee for the resurrection of their favourite soap opera. He would always be that no-good boy who’d broken his parents’ hearts, and she would always be the no-better-than-she-should-be teen bride, flighty daughter of a flighty mother. Their roles had been set in stone long before no matter how they tried to redefine them.

  Well, the viewers were doomed to disappointment. Reunion episodes were always a let-down. He had no intention of allowing this one to be any different.

  Pulling into the gates of the hotel, he felt the usual spark of pride, of ownership, zing through him. Who would have thought the prodigal son would return in such style?

  It would be nice, though—just once—to drive through the gates and not be assailed by memories. By the disapproving voices of his parents and their disappointed expectations.

  When he’d failed his exams at sixteen his parents had wanted to send him away to boarding school—ostensibly to do retakes, in r
eality to get him away from his friends. It showed a lack of character, they’d thought, that rather than befriend the other boys from the private school they’d sent him to he preferred to hang around with the village kids.

  His hands tightened on the steering wheel. Yes, he probably should have studied rather than sneaking out to swim and surf. Taken some interest in his exams. But his achievements—his interest in food, his surfing skill, his hard-won A* in Design and Technology—had meant nothing. His father couldn’t, or wouldn’t, boast about his son’s perfect dovetailed joints on the golf course.

  His parents hadn’t ever lost their tempers with him. Cold silence had been their weapon of choice. There had been weeks, growing up, when he could swear they hadn’t addressed one word to him. But they’d come close to exploding when Jonas had refused to go to the carefully selected crammer they had found.

  Some parents would have been proud, Jonas thought with the same, tired old stab of pain, proud that their child wanted to follow in their footsteps. He had thought his plan was a winner—that he would finally see some approval in their uninterested faces.

  He’d been so keyed up when he’d told them his idea to run a café-bar on the hotel’s small beach. One that was aimed at locals as well as tourists.

  He had even offered to do a few retakes at the local college before studying Hospitality and Tourism.

  It hadn’t been enough. Nothing he did ever was.

  In the end they had reached a grudging compromise. They’d given him the old boat house they hadn’t used, preferring to keep their guests—and their guests’ wallets—on the hotel grounds, and they’d cut him loose. Set him free.

  They’d expected him to fail. To come back, cap in hand, begging for their forgiveness.

  Instead, twelve years later, he’d bought them out.

  And it had been every bit as satisfying as he had thought it would be. It still was.

  And, truth be told, Jonas thought as he swung his car into the staff car park, it was quite satisfying having Lawrie here as well. Working for him once again. Seeing just how much he had accomplished. Just how little he needed her.

  Whereas she definitely needed him. She was doing her best to hide it, but he could tell. Her very appearance in Trengarth. Her acceptance of the job. None of it was planned.

  And Lawrie Bennett didn’t do spontaneous.

  There were just too many ghosts, and Jonas felt uncharacteristically grim as he walked through the foyer—although he did his best to hide it, playing the jovial host, the approachable boss. If growing up in a hotel, then running a café at sixteen, had taught him anything it was how to put on a mask. Nobody cared about the guy pouring the coffee—about his day or his feelings. They just wanted a drink, a smile and some easy chat. Funny how he had always accused Lawrie of hiding her feelings. In some ways they were exactly the same.

  Walking along the carpeted corridor that led to his office—now Lawrie’s—he felt a sense of déjà vu overwhelm him. Once this had been his father’s domain. He had never been welcome here—summoned only to be scolded. Even stripping out the heavy mahogany furniture and redecorating it hadn’t changed the oppressive feeling. No wonder he preferred to base himself at the harbour.

  He paused at the shut door. He didn’t usually knock at his employees’ doors, but then again they weren’t usually shut. And this was his office, after all. Jonas felt his jaw clench tight. Nothing was simple when Lawrie was involved—not even going through his own damn door in his own damn hotel.

  He twisted the heavy brass door and swung it open with more force than necessary, striding into the room.

  Then he stopped. Blinked in surprise.

  ‘You’ve certainly made yourself at home.’

  There was a small overnight bag open on the floor. Clothes were strewn on the table, chairs and across the sofa—far more clothes than could ever possibly fit into such a small case. Jeans, tops, dresses, skirts—all a far cry from the exquisitely tailored suits and accessories that in just two days Lawrie was already famous for wearing to work.

  If Jonas had to hear one more awed conversation discussing whether she wore couture, high-end High Street or had a personal tailor, then he would make all his staff—no matter what their job—adopt the waiting staff’s uniform of bright blue Boat House logo tee and black trousers.

  Lawrie was on the floor, pulling clothes out of the bag with a harassed expression on her face.

  ‘Have you moved in?’ he asked as politely as he could manage, whilst making no attempt to keep the smirk from his face.

  Lawrie looked up, her face harassed, her hair falling out of what had once, knowing Lawrie, been a neat bun. She pushed a tendril of the dark silky stuff back behind an ear and glared at him. ‘Don’t you knock?’

  ‘Not usually. Are you going somewhere?’

  ‘Road trip,’ she said tersely. ‘And I have nothing to wear.’

  Jonas raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at the sofa. And at the table. Finally, slowly, he allowed his gaze to linger on the floor. A pair of silky lilac knickers caught his eye and held it for one overlong second before he pulled his gaze reluctantly away.

  ‘Half this stuff is mine. Only it’s about fifteen years old—whatever I still had at Gran’s. The rest is Fliss’s, and as we aren’t the same height or size it’s not really much use. The truth is I don’t really know how to dress down. Where I live it’s all skinny jeans and caramel knee-length boots, with cashmere for shopping and lunch or yoga pants at home. None of that is very suitable at all,’ she finished, with a kind of wail.

  ‘Suitable for what?’ Jonas decided not to ask why she was packing here and not at home. He wasn’t sure she even knew.

  ‘The road trip,’ she said.

  He cocked an enquiring eyebrow and she rocked back on her heels and sighed. Irritably.

  ‘You know! Suzy always gets a couple of local bands to come and play Wave Fest. They send in their CDs, or links to their downloads or whatever, and she whittles them down to a shortlist and then goes to see them play live. At a gig,’ she said, pronouncing the word ‘gig’ with an odd mixture of disdain and excitement. ‘I haven’t been to a gig in years,’ she added.

  ‘Not much call for yoga pants at Cornish gigs.’

  ‘Or cashmere,’ Lawrie agreed, missing his sarcasm completely, or just ignoring it. ‘Three of the shortlisted bands are playing over the next three nights so I’m going to see them all. Two of them are in the county, but tomorrow’s gig is in Devon, so it made sense to plan a whole trip and do some mystery shopping at some of the caterers and cafés we’ve got tendering as well. We’re behind in letting them know. Only that means a three-day trip and I don’t have anything to wear. Why do you have to be so inclusive and get other people to provide the food?’ she ended bitterly.

  ‘Because we couldn’t possibly feed thousands of people, and it’s good publicity to make the festival a celebration of local food as well,’ Jonas said, his mouth twitching at Lawrie’s woebegone expression.

  She looked like somebody being dragged to a three-day conference on dental drills—not like someone heading out for a long weekend of music and food, all on expenses.

  He took pity on her.

  ‘Right, unfortunately packing light may not be an option,’ Jonas said, gesturing to the small bag. ‘Three gigs in three nights? You’ll need to be prepared for beer-spills,’ he clarified at her enquiring expression.

  Lawrie pulled a face. ‘I’m not planning to mosh.’

  ‘You did once.’

  Lightly said but the words evoked a torrent of memories. Lawrie, so small and slight. Vulnerable. Hurling herself into the mass of bodies right at the front of the stage. It had taken him a long time to make his way through the tightly packed, sweaty mass to find her, jumping ecstatically to the beat of the music, eyes half closed. He’d liked staying near her, to protect her from the crush as the crowd moved to the music.

  Lawrie’s eyebrow furrowed. ‘What did I wear?’


  He looked at her incredulously. ‘How am I supposed to remember? Probably jeans...’ A memory hit him, of thin straps falling off tanned shoulders, a glimpse of skin at the small of her back. ‘And a top?’ he added. ‘Was there a green one?’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘Hang on!’ She jumped up and ran over to the table, where she sifted through a pile of brightly coloured tops. ‘Do you remember this?’ She held up a light green floaty top.

  Jonas wouldn’t have said he was a particularly observant man, especially when it came to clothes. His last girlfriend had claimed that he said, ‘You look nice...’ on autopilot. And it was true that he generally didn’t notice haircuts or new outfits. He knew better than to admit it, but he preferred his women laid-back and practical. Jeans, trainers, a top. Even a fleece if they were out walking. There was nothing less sexy than a woman stumbling along the clifftops in unsuitable shoes and shivering because her most flattering jacket proved useless against a chill sea breeze.

  But the sight of that green top took his breath away, evoking the beat of a drum, the smell of mingled beer, sweat and cigarettes in the air. Not the most pleasant of smells, yet in the back room of a pub, a club or a town hall, as guitars wailed and people danced, it fitted. Dark, dirty, hot. The feel of Lawrie pressed against him in the fast-moving, mesmerised crowd.

  He swallowed. ‘I think so,’ he managed to say, as normally as he could.

  Lawrie regarded it doubtfully. ‘I guess it will fit. I’m the same size, and luckily Gran had them all laundered.’ Now it was her turn to swallow, with a glint in her eye.

  Had she grieved properly for her gran? For the woman who’d brought her up? The woman who had provided him with a sanctuary, a sympathetic shoulder and a lot of sound advice?

  Had helped him become the man he was today.

  ‘There you go, then,’ he said. ‘Three tops like that, some jeans for the gigs, something similar for the day, and pyjamas. Easy.’ He tried not to look at the lilac silk knickers. ‘Plus essentials. Where are you staying?’