Pippa's Cornish Dream

by Debbie Johnson

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “I’m going to knock the table over if you carry on like that.”

  “Helping you feel the Force,” she replied, looking at him impishly over the leather-bound menu.

  “Believe me, I can feel it,” he said, closing his eyes for a second to try and bring himself back under control. “Now stop that, so I can concentrate, and we can have a conversation, like two grown-up people out on a date.”

  “Grown up. Hah! That’ll be the day,” she said, looking around the room. “I feel like an under-age drinker in this place. Everyone else is old enough to be my dad.”

  He scanned the room and realised she was right. They were easily the youngest people there. Everyone else was senior: some in their fifties, some much older. All seemed to be in couples, locked in their own realities, their own conversations, their own worlds. Worlds they’d probably shared for decades. He thought it was very romantic, which possibly meant he’d turned into some kind of super-sap. The Pippa effect.

  They ordered their food – Pippa pronouncing everything perfectly – and he poured them both some red wine.

  “I came here with my granddad that summer,” he said, after a few sips.

  “The summer of Oak Tree Gate?” she asked.

  “The very same. It had just opened up as a restaurant, and he came to have what he called a ‘bit of a nosy’. Nobody from his generation thought it would survive. The old-school farmers, they didn’t see the potential of this kind of tourism.”

  “The kind where people assume, because they’re re-mortgaging their homes to stay here for the night, that it must be something utterly fantastic, and tell all their friends they simply must come as well?”

  “Exactly. He thought it was a load of nonsense. But now he’s gone and this place is still here.”

  Pippa laid a hand over his on the table. It was clenched into a fist and she knew that meant he was tense, that something unwanted and dark had skittered over his brain like an evil spider.

  “What happened with him?” she asked, “I know you miss him.”

  He twined his fingers into hers, met her gaze. Knew he could tell her things he had never been able to tell another human being.

  “He committed suicide,” he said. “When the banks foreclosed, he killed himself. Did it the old-fashioned farmer’s way, shotgun to the head. Couldn’t face up to life after he’d lost everything. His wife had died years before; my parents were – still are – living in Australia. Apart from the farm, I was all he had left. And I was busy, in London, living my successful and glamorous life. He was too proud to tell me what was going on and I was too busy to ask. There was work, Johanna, all the distractions that I thought back then were important. I didn’t make time for him, and then it was too late. He was gone. Didn’t want to be a burden to anyone.”

  He finally looked up. He’d been staring at the table as he spoke, as though that was the only way he’d be able to get the words out. He looked up into Pippa’s perfect face to see tears falling from her eyes. She pulled his hand towards her and kissed it, gently, putting all the love she could into that one small gesture.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “You know that, Ben Retallick. You’re too intelligent not to know it.”

  “Knowing it and feeling it are too different things, Pippa Harte. But thank you. It feels…it feels good to finally talk about it. To let some of it out.”

  He blew out a harsh, tense breath, and his slightly-too-long fringe lifted on his forehead. He squeezed her fingers, as though he was the one reassuring her, not the other way around.

  “Better stop now, though,” he said, trying for light and failing, “if I carry on sharing like this, I’ll end up on the Jerry Springer Show or something.”

  “Don’t,” she said, shaking her head so her hair shimmered around her shoulders, gold pouring over the black of her dress. “Don’t make light. This isn’t light. It’s very, very dark. It’s so painful to lose someone you love, but to live with guilt about it is even worse. And I understand why things happened the way they did now.”

  “What things?” he asked.

  “McConnell. The way you attacked him. I’ve known you for a while now and everything I’ve seen of you goes against the idea of you simply cracking, losing your temper like that. You’re not made like that, Ben. You’re too controlled. But him coming to you afterwards, laughing about that old man who killed himself – it must have brought it all back. It must have reminded you of your granddad. That’s what happened, isn’t it?”

  He nodded, gazing at her wordlessly. She was so very, very special. She got it. She understood. Johanna had known about his grandfather, but if she’d ever made the connection between the two events, it hadn’t had any bearing on her reaction to his conviction.

  For the millionth time since meeting Pippa again, he wondered how he had ever allowed himself to fall for a woman like Johanna. Had she been different once? Or had he been so very different then that he hadn’t noticed her flaws? Comparing her to Pippa was like comparing candlelight to the blazing sun; a trickling stream to the Atlantic Ocean. He’d felt attracted to Johanna in a way he thought was passionate, until Pippa. He’d enjoyed spending time with her in a way he thought was solid and companionable, until Pippa. What he felt for Johanna had been nothing compared to what this old-soul-in-a-gorgeous-young-body across the table brought out in him.

  And still, when Johanna had left him, he’d felt devastated. How would he feel if he lost Pippa? It was too terrifying to contemplate.

  “Come on,” she said, standing up so fast she tottered in her heels.

  “Come on where?” he asked, confused, anxious and pleased all at once – because right then he so didn’t want to be in a room full of over-stuffed people sitting in over-stuffed chairs.

  “We’re going out for some air. Don’t argue.”

  “As if I’d dare,” he replied, following her as she left the room. She collared a waiter on the way, told them to hold their food for them and strutted – yes, definitely strutted, he thought, as he watched her rear view – out through the French windows and onto the terrace.

  The evening was cool, but not goosebump-cold, and the night sky glittered with the vivid blanket of stars you only ever see miles away from the city. She left the door open and old-style band music wafted out towards them. The tune had a gentle swing, like the background to something black and white and glamorous with Fred and Ginger in it.

  She fell into his arms and he automatically held her there, burying his face in the yellow cloud of her hair. It smelled different, but with her constant underlying scent of lavender. The scent he would forever associate with her and these golden days in Cornwall.

  “I can’t dance at all,” she said into his chest. “But I’ve watched a lot of those dancing shows on telly, and you’re probably old enough to have had ballroom lessons as a kid.”

  He snorted with laughter, managing a smile when he thought he’d truly run out of them.

  “Of course. Accompanied by madrigals and harpsichords, naturally. Just follow my lead…”

  He lifted her hand into his, taking her into a classic waltz pose, but with way too much body contact for it to have been done in public. She glued herself to him, only her shoulders leaning back, so they could look at each other in the silvery paint of the moonlight.

  Slowly, they moved around the terrace, quiet, lost in the music, in the moonlight, and each other’s eyes. Giving comfort without words, taking solace in the silence and offering each other an unspoken sip of their souls.

  Pippa looked up at him, at the tiny creases around his eyes, the wide line of his mouth, the way his hair curled slightly onto the collar of his white shirt. Felt his hips pressed against hers, felt all the power and strength in those arms honed down to the gentle touch of his fingers wrapped around hers as they glided in time to the beat.

  She leaned up, kissed him softly and briefly, felt his body flare into immediate response.

 
“Dinner in the room?” he said, making it a question.

  “Perfect,” she replied.

  Chapter 12

  Pippa hoisted two melons up in front of her chest, one in each hand and pulled an “oo-er missus” face.

  “What do you think?” she said, wiggling them at Ben like a fruity fake cleavage.

  “I think that’s a lovely pair, but I’m more than happy with what nature gave you,” he replied, his mouth curved up into a lopsided grin.

  “Bloody good job as well,” she said, carefully placing the produce back into its place on the exotic fruit display.

  “Why?” he asked, knowing he was stepping into a carefully laid Pippa-trap and not really caring.

  “Because if you’d thought otherwise, I’d be taking you off to the prize marrow stand for a fitting…”

  “Ouch,” he said, pulling her into him for a kiss. “Hit a man where his ego is, eh? And what are melons doing at a Summer Fayre in Cornwall anyway?”

  “It’s the Eden effect. Everyone wants to show off their greenhouse skills these days. I secretly suspect they buy them from Sainsbury’s the night before, but it’s more than my life’s worth to say anything. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  As she asked, she gave his groin a little bump and grind, wiggling her skinny-jean-clad hips against him.

  “Yes,” he said, closing his eyes and enjoying the moment. “My marrow is extremely pleased with the whole situation. What about you?”

  “I’m having a wonderful time, thank you very much. I don’t want to bring you and your marrow down, but it means a lot to me that you stayed for today. It can get tough, for me, for Patrick and having you around is…well, distracting. Even if you do have to leave later.”

  Two weeks had passed since their trip to Tregowan Lodge. Two weeks since they’d woken up together for the first ever time, tangled in million-thread-count sheets, fuzzy from drinking champagne in bed, fuzzy from too much sex and, in Pippa’s case, fuzzy from all the pieces that had fallen into place the day before.

  She’d come back to consciousness a few minutes before him – her body clock was set to stupid o’clock wherever she was, thanks to Scotty. And she’d used those minutes wisely, enjoying the freedom to watch him, to study his face as he slept. To gently trace the curve of his lips, brush his hair from his eyes. To give in to all of the emotion she felt flooding through her: all of the love.

  She’d never tell him she was in love with him, she’d decided. It wasn’t fair. They’d struck a deal. They’d had The Talk. He’d made it clear that while his marrow was fond of her melons, more than that wasn’t on the cards. It was a match made in greengrocer heaven, but nothing more.

  Of course, she’d been a prize idiot to think she could ever settle so lightly for anything that casual. Years of solitude, years of coping alone, completely destroyed by one admittedly pretty fantastic man. And yet…as he slept there, the muscle of his chest rising and falling, sheets tugged askew to reveal the strong lines of his thigh, she couldn’t find it in herself to regret anything. If this was love, she’d take it. Any way she could, for as long as it lasted.

  Most people, she suspected, never experienced this in their entire lifetimes. And even if it would eventually come at a huge price – for her and for everyone around her – for the time being, she wanted to enjoy it. Savour it. Memorise it.

  She’d slipped her hand beneath the covers, traced her fingertips up the inside of his thigh, waited for him to respond in the way she knew he would. His eyes had snapped open and his lips curled into a lazily lustful smile.

  He lifted the sheets, looked down at himself and did a comedic pretend double-take.

  “Damn,” he said, pulling her down to crash against him, “where did that come from? See what you do to me? Even when I’m asleep?”

  She did know. And she intended to remind him, over and over again, as often as she could.

  Now, two weeks on, she was facing up to the fact that he was leaving – however temporarily. He’d broken the news to her a few nights before and she got the distinct impression that he should actually have gone ages ago. That she wasn’t the only one neglecting the duties of “real life”.

  His book was due to come out in less than two months’ time and instead of meeting with his publishers he’d been ravishing her in deepest, darkest Cornwall. As distracted as they both were, time had started to take on a life of its own – a life that revolved around the kids going to school, Pippa getting her chores done and the two of them grabbing as much time together as they could.

  She’d taken her fear, her insecurity and buried it in a deep dark place – not wanting to waste any of her precious time with him. As a result she’d felt liberated, wild, reckless – and Ben had a look of constant surprise on his face. He wasn’t complaining – really, even she knew, what man would? But they’d both known it couldn’t stay like that. They were burning bright, like a supernova about to implode.

  The fact that he’d been intending to leave on that particular day had made it harder – it was the annual village show and she wanted him there – for all kinds of reasons.

  “I need to be in London for a meeting on Monday morning,” he’d said, twining his fingers into her hair as they lay snuggled up together in the bedroom of Honeysuckle Cottage. Outside, she could hear Harry Potter squealing frantic oinks, and Phineas and Ferb hissing back at him. Trouble in farmyard paradise.

  “But…” he’d added, “it’ll only take a couple of days. There’s stuff I need to do, people I need to talk to. Publicity things to arrange. And then…then I’ll come back. If you want me to.”

  “Of course I do…but it’s a shame you’ll miss the show,” she’d replied, trying to staunch the panic that was spreading across her heart like cracks on an ice-coated pond. Get a grip of yourself, woman, she thought. Think about something else. Think about pigs in war paint and cammo. Think geese with rocket launchers. Think farm-a-geddon; think anything but him leaving.

  “Why?” he asked, sensing from her tone of voice that there was more to it than cream teas and pinning rosettes on prize-winning dairy cows.

  “Well, it’s the highlight of the social calendar around here…” she’d said.

  “Funnily enough, having lived here for the last few months, I do believe that,” he replied, kissing her gently on the lips, “but why else? You sound…weird.”

  “Weirder than usual?”

  “Yes, and stop stalling – what is it?”

  “Okay. Sorry to be weird. But…it’s also the day we think of as the anniversary of our parents’ death. It was on their way back from a neighbour’s house after the show that the crash happened. And every year Patrick marks the occasion by doing something joyous like stealing a tractor or punching the vicar in the cassocks. Which actually has its merits…it always keeps me distracted, anyway, and stops me feeling too sorry for myself. “

  Ben was silent, wrapping his arms tightly around her, throwing one long leg across the line of her hips until she was completely enveloped in the velvet muscle of his body. God, it felt good.

  “Well I think I’d better stay, then, at least for some of it. I’ll drive back to London in the afternoon,” he said. “I think Patrick might just behave himself this year, so you’ll need someone else to distract you instead, which happens to be one of my specialist subjects. Anyway, I’m hoping there’s a Miss Knobbly Knees contest. I’m going to sign you up for it.”

  “I do not have knobbly knees!” Pippa shrieked, trying to slap him, but finding her arms trapped at her sides.

  “You haven’t seen them from the angles I have…” he’d replied, sliding further down the bed to demonstrate.

  He’d been as good as his word and found all kinds of inventive ways to distract her over the next few days. So successfully that she was actually enjoying herself at the show for the first time in years, strolling around the stalls with him, poking gentle fun at the even gentler rhythms of country life.

  The day had dawned bliss
fully sunny and the kids were running around in shorts and jam-stained t-shirts, spending the pocket money they’d been given, occasionally darting back to them to show off the wonderful items they’d won on the tombola and the Splat the Rat stand. Scotty was especially proud of the bottle of Brut aftershave he’d scooped, insisting that Ben wear it there and then.

  “Oooh,” said Pippa, sniffing his neck, “I am finding that disturbingly sexy…what’s wrong with me?”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” he’d replied, looking smug, “you’re only flesh and blood…and now, I’m feeling so macho, I’m going to take part in the tug of war. I expect you to stand at the side and cheer for me – and possibly flash your boobs to put the other side off.”

  “Won’t that put you off as well?” she asked, smiling innocently.

  “No. I’m a man of steel when it comes to these things,” he lied.

  He’d ended up on a team with Patrick, his friend Robbie and, as was the way of these things, the head mistress of the local primary school.

  As Pippa stood and watched, Scotty, Lily and Daisy screaming themselves hoarse beside her, she realised she’d never felt so happy, even on this most unlikely of days. It was the anniversary of losing her parents, Ben was leaving later and the day after held the unparalleled joy of her quarterly Social Services review. But somehow, right then, right there, none of that mattered. Everything just felt…perfect – and if the world froze in that one moment she’d have had the best that life could throw at a human being.

  The kids were happy and healthy, Patrick was growing up and there was a man in her life who had finally shown her what love was all about. What living was all about.

  The man in question was stripped down to his jeans, the bulk of his bare chest sweating with the strain as he heaved and pulled. His skin was tanned and smooth, biceps curling and swelling as he leaned back and tugged, heels dug in and face contorted with the effort.