Winter Storms

by Oliver, Lucy

  Winter Storms

  Lucy Oliver

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2013 by Lucy Oliver

  Previously published by F+W Media

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonEncore are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781503967762

  This title was previously published by F+W Media; this version has been reproduced from F+W Media archive files.

  To my husband, sons and family, with love.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Edie and the CEO

  CHAPTER ONE

  Clutching her walking cane, Carly Roberts limped to the large front window of her shop with its display of sugar mice, local chutneys, and cheeses all set below a small pine tree draped with handmade ornaments and tiny white lights. Cinnamon sticks scented the air, mingling with orange fragranced candles flickering in glass bowls. In the window, she caught sight of her reflection, a pale face with pulled back hair, usually brown but today dyed bright red. Dark shadows made her green eyes look tired and she rubbed them — then looked down at the mascara smeared over her fingers.

  Carly glanced at the clock, which had a piece of green mistletoe stuck above it. Was 4:30 too early to close? It was unlikely she’d get anyone else in; Cornwall in winter was an empty place. Then the door opened, sending a gust of wind into the shop to rattle the shelves, and a thick-set figure marched in, water streaming from his waterproofs and gleaming on the faded blue tattoo stretched across his cheek.

  She smiled. “Hello, Mick, didn’t expect to see you in here.”

  The tattooed coxswain of the town lifeboat grinned and put his wallet down. “I’m not after your scented candle things, or the twinkly lights, just a gift for my wife. Something she’ll love.”

  “Don’t you want to choose it yourself?”

  He shook his head. “She wants you to find something, seems she didn’t appreciate the wellies I bought her last year.”

  “I did warn you. How much are you spending?”

  “A fair amount, she deserves it.”

  Carly glanced along the shelves; oil burners, hand-blown glass vases, face creams in expensive pots — none of it right for Mick’s wife. Then she frowned and took a lavender cashmere sweater from a rack. Practical, but warm and luxurious.

  “Lovely and soft, nice colour,” he said. “Is that her size?”

  “It is, yes. Would you like a matching bracelet?”

  “You’re a born saleswoman, and no, I think the jumper will be enough. I imagine it’s a fair price.”

  She deftly folded the top and placed it in a cardboard box. “Are you coming to the fundraising meeting this week?” she said.

  “No, love. Can’t cope with all the arguing. Sorry to leave you to it, but that Duncan chap does my head in. I’d like to take him out on a lifeboat rescue in our aged boat and see if he carries on complaining about the expense.”

  “He’s not a sailor; he can’t understand that when a ship capsizes there isn’t time to get help from Padstow, we must have a lifeboat station here.”

  Mick grunted. “I think he watches too many of those helicopter rescue programmes, thinks they travel faster than they do. Anyway, I’m confident you’ll persuade him.”

  “He’s telling everyone I’m only raising the money because Liam’s got a job on the fishing trawlers after Christmas.”

  “Ignore him, and well done to your brother. It’s difficult work, but you can’t be too choosey in winter.”

  She shook her head, ringing up the price of the jumper on her till and handing the gift over. Mick passed her a handful of cash and took the box.

  “Don’t leave it too late to get home,” he said, “the harbour’s awash and there’s been reports of flooding on the coastal road.”

  “Are you on call?” she said.

  “Not today, going to finish my shopping and head for a pint in the sailing club. Good luck tomorrow, all the lads are supporting you — we want that new lifeboat.”

  “Goodnight, Mick.” After he went, she returned to the window, peering through the frost-covered glass at the flakes of snow drifting down, glittering under coloured Christmas lights. From the harbour beyond the cobbled street came a flash of white foam as wind lashed the sea, driving a powerful green breaker across the wall. It swept over the pavement and even from inside the shop, she heard its roar. In the distance an orange glow shone, far out to sea, and she stared at it — someone was in trouble, the lifeboat was out. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself, nausea rising from her stomach.

  It wouldn’t be an inexperienced tourist this time, they didn’t arrive until summer to excitedly hire dinghies and surf boards. Wandering into the shop, they talked to her about their trips around the harbour, how thrilling it had been, how the boat rocked, how they nearly fell in. They didn’t know the gentle swelling waves could turn into monstrous currents and they talked in nautical terms, assuming she knew nothing of sailing. She never told them the truth; it was none of their business.

  A second wave swept across the pavement, dissolving on the cobbles. It was time to go, before the short walk to her car became dangerous. Shuffling back to the shop counter, she glanced in the till. It wasn’t worth cashing up, there was only twenty pounds. Switching off the backroom lights and coffee machine, she picked up her handbag and keys. Holding her cane, she glanced at its grey hospital paint and resolved to colour it a brighter hue.

  Outside, sleet rasped her cheeks and she yanked her hood up, looking at the clear, shiny ice covering the pavement. Taking a step, her foot slipped and grabbing a wall for support, she glanced around quickly. Had anyone seen her? Thankfully, the street remained empty and struggling the remaining few yards to her car, she unlocked the door and slumped inside. Switching on the engine, the tiny automatic bumped across the rutted car park, wipers scraping snow from her windscreen. Once home, she’d have a hot bath, followed by a fish and chip supper.

  Slowing at the car park exit overlooking the harbour, Carly narrowed her eyes. Was that a dinghy making its way across the sea? The dark shape rose again on the peak of a green wave and she drew a sharp breath as it swooped across the water, canvas straining under the force of the wind. Magnificent sailing, a true professional at the tiller, anyone else would have capsized long ago. Could it make the safety of the jetty? Mouth open, she remembered the exhilaration of riding the waves, the taste of salt water on her lips and the thrill of winning a race.

  Then ramming her foot on the accelerator, she shot the car out onto the coastal road. It was a foolish time to sail anyway, dangerous in this weather. Surely no local would be that stupid? A name floated into her head, along with an image of dark grey eyes, but she shook her head. No, not him, he
left two years ago, vowing never to return.

  • • •

  The powerful sea wind hit Daniel Edwards with the force of a gybing boom. Hissing between his teeth, he yanked the wet dinghy painter and cursed as it scraped red burns across his hands. It was tempting to toss the rope away and watch the hated boat bob off into the ocean, but his teammates would never forgive him; the Olympic racing craft was worth a fortune. He never should have brought it out in this weather. Seeing the lifeboat bobbing beside a fishing trawler, waves exploding over the deck, made him realise how stupid and how lucky he’d been.

  The mast had snapped when he reached the jetty, another expense he’d have to pay for. Not that he cared very much, when his sponsors discovered he’d risked the boat in a storm, they’d cancel his contract anyway. They already had what they wanted — double Olympic gold medals — now he was superfluous to requirements.

  Hauling on the rope, Daniel tied it fast and straightened. Pulling down his waterproof hood, he stared across the harbour at the cluster of shops glowing with Christmas lights; it hadn’t changed much in two years. Turning to look at the black cliffs standing like gateposts on either side of the harbour entrance, he recalled her scream and shuddered. Should he have come back?

  But Haven Bay was where he grew up and he couldn’t stay away forever, paying expensive hotel bills for his family to visit him. And after the Olympics, his urge to visit had grown stronger, pictures flashing through his mind like an old-fashioned projector, images of places and people, of a girl he had known.

  Imogen, his ex-fiancée, said she’d suspected for months that something wasn’t right. Standing in the hallway of their luxury flat, suitcases at her feet, she looked at him, not in anger, but with something akin to pity.

  “There’s a part of you I can’t reach,” she said.

  Daniel opened his mouth to protest, but she held her left hand up, showing a white ring of pale skin around her suntanned finger.

  “I hoped our relationship would improve after you got the Olympic golds, but it’s worse, I never know what’s going through your mind. I keep expecting to come home to find the wardrobe half-empty and a note on the table telling me you’ve gone.” Putting hands on her hips, she stared at him. “I’m not the person you’re looking for.”

  Daniel gazed now at the lights of Haven Bay. Had Imogen been right? A face, pushed for years into the back of his mind, was emerging, growing stronger and less blurry each day.

  Two years ago, Carly had broken off their relationship with five hard words.

  “I do not love you,” she said.

  And, refusing to beg, he left town on the next train. Only later did he wish he’d demanded an explanation, but it was too late by then, his pride wouldn’t let him return. So what if Carly didn’t want to know him? Many other girls did. Until Imogen showed him the truth: that he couldn’t love anyone else.

  Slinging a rucksack over his shoulder, he stepped across the floating jetty to the sea wall. A rank odour of dead fish, salt water, and rust hit him, scents he remembered from his childhood. Boats creaked at their moorings and faint music drifted over from a pub. Brick steps led up the harbour wall, slippery with rubbery, rotting seaweed and when he reached the top, he froze, waiting for the bright flash of a camera.

  It never came and he smiled, of course, in winter the harbour lay deserted. It was during the summer months that scores of flip-flops struck across the warm cobbled streets, sticky with dropped Cornish ice cream. But he always preferred winter when the pavements were empty and waves hit the harbour walls in powerful green swells.

  He strode across the cobbles. A new shop had been set up in his absence, a neat, modern place with a window display lit up by bright fairy lights and filled with sugar mice. Tomorrow he’d come back to buy Christmas presents, since he brought none with him, but now it was time to go home, time to surprise his family, to explain about Imogen and the cancelled wedding.

  He stepped back into the full force of the wind, striding along the harbour to the main town. Here the buildings caught the worst of the gusts and he moved faster. A few shops were still open, filling the air with the scent of fresh bread and spicy mince pies, making his stomach rumble. A large fir tree dotted with white lights stood in the central town square surrounded by a band who clutched brass instruments and rattled collection buckets, sleet beading on their blue uniforms. Two younger members grinned at him and he smiled back, dropping a few coins into their pot.

  “I know you,” a teenager said. “Your photo’s on the hall of the sailing club, you’re Daniel Edwards.”

  Daniel smiled politely, used to being recognised. At first, caught up in the excitement of TV interviews and magazine requests, he enjoyed it, accepting it as his due. The new talent in sailing, the man who broke a world record and beat his competitors so soundly there were rumours of foul play. He knew the protestors would find nothing. He’d won clean and fair, sailing fast and reckless, but tightly within the rules. Desperation had taken hold of him, that if he could just get a gold medal, then the events of two years ago were justified, that there was a reason for the terrible accident that destroyed Carly Roberts’ own sailing career.

  After the award ceremony, he’d checked his mobile continually for a text from her or a mention from a mutual friend that she sent her congratulations. Of course, there had been nothing. At the time he’d been angry — everyone else thought he was marvellous, so why didn’t she? Then he realised that he’d achieved their mutual dream alone. Carly would never stand on the podium beside him as they had wanted. Carly was permanently disabled.

  Glancing at the boy, he noticed the young eyes, gleaming with life and excitement and envied him the bright expression. When he looked in the mirror, he saw a grim face, older than its years.

  “Are you here for the lifeboat appeal?” the lad said.

  Daniel looked at the bucket, it had a picture of a bright orange boat racing through high waves, and swallowing, he swayed slightly on his feet, even after this length of time, the sight brought a cold sweat to his forehead. He moistened his lips, wincing as the cold wind chapped them.

  “I didn’t know about the appeal,” he said.

  “There’s a Winter Gala to be held in the harbour, our old boat won’t last ‘til spring and we need millions for a new one.”

  “Millions?” He stared at the few coins in the bottom of the bucket. Haven Bay was a small town, it was unlikely they could raise so much. “I’d better give you a bit more then.” Taking out his wallet, he dropped five twenty pound notes in and the boy’s mouth dropped open.

  “Thank you, sir!”

  Daniel nodded, tucking his wallet back into his coat; the donation hadn’t made him feel good, it had been too much like paying blood money. Restless now, he strode faster through the streets. He was almost home and once there, surrounded by his family, he would feel better.

  Further up the road, a girl was struggling to lift two shopping bags from a car boot, snowflakes drifting in the breeze around her. He paused; in Haven Bay you didn’t walk past a neighbour in need.

  “Can I take those out for you?” he said.

  She looked up and he stared into a pair of familiar green eyes.

  “Daniel? What are you doing here?” she said.

  His mouth fell open, but he couldn’t speak. Carly looked different, her chestnut brown hair was now a bright, artificial red that glowed under the yellow light.

  “I came back for Christmas,” he said, aware that he gawped at her like a sightseer.

  “Was it your boat I saw coming into the harbour?”

  “I expect so.” He reached for her carrier bags, but she swung them away as if his touch would contaminate them.

  “Then you’re a fool. A fool who never learns.”

  Daniel dropped his hand and set his shoulders straight. “Carly,” he said.
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  “No, stay away from me.” She reached for a cane and his stomach clenched; in his dreams she still ran.

  “At least let me carry those, you can’t manage alone.”

  “How do you think I’ve managed for the last two years? Go away, Daniel, I never want to see you again.”

  Clutching the bags in one hand, she limped away, heading toward a block of flats. Was that where she lived now? He knew nothing about her life anymore. His family never mentioned her, they didn’t want to upset him, send him back into the depression that had crippled him.

  Sighing, he thrust his hands into his pockets. Maybe he shouldn’t have come back, but Christmas was a sad time to be alone. The last two he’d spent with Imogen, watching her hang up expensive silver balls and organise parties while they spoke politely and kindly to each other, as if fearing that the unleashing of their emotions would result in harder questions needing to be answered.

  Staring at Carly’s car in front of him, he stepped forward to touch the warm metalwork, then stooped to peer in the window. Who cared if anyone saw him? The desire to learn about her life, about the person she had become, was too strong. The gear stick inside the vehicle belonged to an automatic — with her leg she probably couldn’t drive a manual — and the dashboard was as tidy as her dinghy used to be. A handful of spare coins, a mobile phone charger, and a packet of prescription painkillers stood beside a bottle of water. How often did she need those tablets?

  In his mind, her scream echoed, and he saw again the great gaping wound on her leg, pouring blood. He hadn’t thought she would survive the journey in the lifeboat to the shore, and from the worried expression of the crew, he knew they doubted it too. Why had he insisted they sail that day?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Daniel knocked at the front door, before reaching for his key. It was always awkward returning home as an adult; did you walk straight in, or wait to be invited? Stepping into the hall, he breathed in the scent of cooking mince pies and smiled. Neither he nor Imogen cooked much and certainly neither of them ever baked; the rich, sweet smell of pastry immediately took him back to his childhood.