And if she did put her fear aside and they started something, what would happen to Meadowsweet, and the looming possibility of Penelope having to sell Swallowtail House to pay for it? She had taken her eye off the ball for a single morning, and her boss had noticed. Could she really allow herself to give in to Jack? Because her feelings for him weren’t fleeting or dismissible, they had become all consuming, and that was something Abby didn’t know how to deal with, let alone have time for.
‘Now, Jack,’ Octavia said at the door, picking invisible fluff off his shirt. ‘You haven’t forgotten what you promised, have you?’
Jack sighed. ‘What was that, Octavia?’
‘That you will grace my humble library with your presence. I’ll be in touch with a selection of dates. So lovely to finally meet you properly. Come on, my love.’ She took Abby’s hand and pulled her gently down the path.
Abby let go and rushed back to Jack. He was standing on the doorstep, the light of the hallway behind him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, wrapping her arms round his waist, ignoring the shiver that went through her as she felt his solid torso against her. She didn’t give him time to reciprocate, instead kissed him on the cheek and stepped back. ‘Thank you for dinner.’
His smile was resigned. ‘My pleasure. Hopefully we can try again soon, perhaps without the support party in tow?’
‘I’d like that,’ she said, despite all the reasoning she’d just done with herself. ‘Goodnight Jack – and Happy Birthday.’
‘Goodnight, Abby.’
She turned and ran back to where Octavia, Jonny and Rosa were waiting, sensing, rather than seeing Jack close the door of Peacock Cottage. When she glanced behind her, the outside light was still on. It seemed important somehow, as if it symbolized his hope that she would return.
Abby thought of all the things she had to deal with. There was the reserve, Penelope’s new warning and her own conviction, now she’d been inside the house of birds and butterflies, that she didn’t want it to end up in the hands of some faceless stranger; Jack’s growing presence in her life, her attraction getting stronger all the time, and the fact that she was unable to stay away from him, accepting every invite or chance to meet like an eager, hopeful puppy; the knowledge that he felt something for her too, that if it hadn’t been for Octavia and the others, the evening would have taken a different turn; their conflicting pasts, the way her parents had shaped hers and the fact that Jack now knew this, and could use it as a way to punish himself all over again; the realization that Octavia would corral her into helping with the library event, making use of her expertise and finding another reason for the two of them to spend time together.
Nothing was simple, or straightforward, or easy.
But spring was coming, the daffodils were creeping up through the hardened soil, and soon the woods would be awash with bluebells. Birdsong would fill the air, the robins and ducks, finches and harriers would start searching for mates, and as long as Abby did her job well, visitors would flock to see it all, to lift their faces up to the sun, smell the spring flowers and let life’s troubles drift away.
She had to do her job and forget about Jack; that was the bottom line. A few months ago, Abby wouldn’t have let anything get in the way of her event plans, risk assessments and craft activity ideas – there had been nothing more important to her than Meadowsweet’s survival. But now, even the simple joys of spring, new shoots and mating birds and fresh, burgeoning life led her thoughts back to Jack.
As Octavia took her arm and they followed the brightness of the torch’s beam through the woods, Abby thought that perhaps it was time for her to step out of the darkness and have her own chance at regrowth. But was Jack Westcoat the right person to do it with? Could a man like that, charming and sexy and warm as he increasingly was, be good for her? Her heart told her yes, but Abby knew from experience that trusting her heart didn’t always end well. And her head told her that he was solitary, scowling, so often lost in a fictional world of misery and gruesome deaths, with a troubled past and an uncertain future – one which, she was sure, had Peacock House only as a temporary solution.
No, Jack Westcoat wasn’t the easy option. He wasn’t simple or straightforward but, Abby wondered, knowing she was betraying her logical side even as she thought it, did any of that matter? Because, when it came down to it, even in the face of a failing nature reserve that threatened the jobs of her friends, the livelihood and estate of her boss, he was all she could think about.
About the Author
Cressy was born in South East London surrounded by books and with a cat named after Lawrence of Arabia. She studied English at the University of East Anglia and now lives in Norwich with her husband David. When she isn’t writing, Cressy spends her spare time reading, returning to London or exploring the beautiful Norfolk coastline.
If you’d like to find out more about Cressy, visit her on Twitter and on Facebook. She’d love to hear from you!
/CressidaMcLaughlinAuthor
@CressMcLaughlin
https://cressidamclaughlin.com
Read on for an extract of Cressy’s heart-warming novel, The Once in a Blue Moon Guesthouse…
Chapter 1
Even with its cloak of December grey, Campion Bay was beautiful. Robin Brennan tucked her gloved hand through her mother’s arm and slowed her pace. The sand was compact beneath their feet, and Robin wanted to take her boots off and feel it against her bare soles, despite the blistering cold.
She had been back here for three months; back in her childhood town, with its quaint teashops and Skull Island crazy golf course and the sea stretching out alongside them, never the same, today a dark, gunmetal grey with barely a hint of blue. It was the last day of the year, a time to think about starting afresh and promised resolutions, but Robin felt in some respects like she’d gone backwards.
‘It’s encouraging that we’ve got a full house for the New Year,’ she said to her mum. ‘We can celebrate properly tonight.’
‘Yes, darling.’ Sylvie Brennan patted her arm. She was trying to inject enthusiasm into her voice, but Robin could tell her mind was elsewhere. ‘No empty rooms for the first time in … well, months.’ She gave Robin a quick, unconvincing smile.
‘Maybe things will improve now.’ Robin bent to pick up a pebble polished smooth by the sea, the thin sliver of quartz running through it glinting in the weak sun. ‘I know there are going to be fireworks later, but it’s not exactly an extravaganza. Most people like to spend New Year’s Eve in big cities or at house parties, not the Dorset seaside, so the fact that people have booked to spend it here means that … that they want to come here.’ It was a pathetically obvious statement, but Robin was finding positivity as hard to come by as her mum was.
The Campion Bay Guesthouse, Sylvie and Ian Brennan’s pride and joy since the family had moved to the area when Robin was four, was in trouble. Robin had returned from London because of her own problems, feeling like she had nowhere else to turn, and had discovered that she wasn’t the only one who was suffering. She’d thrown herself into helping out, managing the changeovers, baking fresh bread for the breakfasts, setting up Twitter, Instagram and Facebook accounts. She’d used her experience to try and give the guesthouse a boost, and it had taken her mind off her own struggles for a time, but then her parents’ worries about the business – the worries they had obviously been trying to keep from her – had become her own. Now it was New Year’s Eve, they were hosting a party for their guests and for a few friends in the bay, and if her mum and dad were feeling anything like she was, it would be hard to muster up enough celebratory spirit to pop a single champagne cork.
Sylvie steered her daughter left, angling them towards the water, and the icy December wind met them head on. Robin felt her dark, shoulder-length curls tugging out behind her, her cheeks burning from the cold. She squinted against the assault, wondering why her mum had brought her out for an impromptu walk when the weather was so hostile, and whether
she could encourage her back home, or perhaps to the Campion Bay Teashop. It was a few doors down from the guesthouse along Goldcrest Road, the seafront street of houses with an unimpeded view of the English Channel.
The seafront was colourful despite the December gloom. Most of the three- and four-storey buildings had, over the years, been converted to guesthouses, or businesses on the ground floor and accommodation above. As well as the Campion Bay Guesthouse and the teashop there was an Italian taverna, its façade in sunny greens and yellows, the candyfloss-pink door of Molly’s beauty parlour, and the cornflower trim and net-curtained windows of the Seaview Hotel, run by Coral Harris.
A couple of the buildings had remained single dwellings, and Robin could just make out the gleam of blue glaze on the clay plaque next to number four’s front door. Tabitha Thomas had lived there, observing everything that had happened on Goldcrest Road with a quiet watchfulness, until her death earlier that year. Robin felt the familiar twinge of regret when she thought of Tabitha, who she’d known so well growing up, but who had become a distant memory after Robin’s move to London.
‘Robin,’ Sylvie said, raising her voice to compete with the whistle of the wind, ‘I wanted to have a chat with you about something.’
‘Righto,’ Robin said warily, her shoulders tensing. ‘Fire away.’ Her mother was the more serious of her parents, but this tone was especially solemn, and Robin felt that whatever was coming was the reason Sylvie had brought her out here. It wasn’t likely to be about the fireworks. She tried to interpret the expression on Sylvie’s face but found that it was unreadable, her features scrunched up against the wind. Her mum was a couple of inches shorter than she was, her frame more fragile. She’d always said that Robin was lucky to have been gifted her delicate features and her dad’s long, lithe limbs in equal measure.
‘Your dad and I have had a talk,’ she said now. ‘To be honest, we’ve had thousands, on a daily basis, and long before you came back to Campion Bay in September.’
‘You are married,’ Robin said. ‘It would be strange if you didn’t.’ She smiled, but the joke remained unanswered. Robin bit her lip, dreading what was coming next.
‘We can’t run the guesthouse any more,’ Sylvie said bluntly. ‘Bookings are down too much, with no sign – despite your optimism about tonight – of picking up. Our advanced bookings for the spring are paltry, and by now we’d usually have a few full weeks in May and June. We’re both getting on and the truth is, darling,’ she turned towards Robin, grasping her hands and looking her square in the face, ‘we’ve made an offer on a house in Montpellier, and it’s been accepted.’
Robin stared at her mum, trying to let the words sink in as the winter gusts squeezed tears out of the corners of her eyes.
‘What?’ It came out as a hoarse whisper. ‘I knew you’d been looking, thinking about retiring, but … but you’re actually going? When? What will happen to – I mean, what about the guesthouse?’ She released a hand and flung her arm in the direction of Goldcrest Road.
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Obviously we don’t want to leave you here without …’ She sighed, the sentence trailing off.
‘Anything to do?’ Robin gave her mum a quick, humourless smile, realizing how pathetic it was to depend on her parents to give her purpose.
‘You can’t spend the rest of your life helping us run our guesthouse,’ Sylvie said, her tone softening. ‘You’re destined for greater things. I know this was – is – a stepping stone, that you needed to come back here after what happened in London, but you were always going to have to think about your future.’
‘I know that,’ Robin murmured, turning towards the water. She hadn’t even started to think about what she wanted to do after London; she’d come back to Campion Bay to regroup and hadn’t realized she was working to a deadline.
‘We’re buying the house in France with the money your gran left me,’ Sylvie said, ‘so it’s not dependent on us selling the guesthouse. There’s no rush for you to move out, though I imagine you won’t want to stay in such a big place.’ She resisted adding ‘alone’, but Robin heard the inference.
‘But what about the business?’ she asked, choosing to focus on less complicated things than her emotions or her own future. ‘You can’t just close it. It’s been running for almost thirty years, it’s nearly reached its pearl anniversary.’
Sylvie smiled at Robin’s attempt to lighten the mood, but her tone was grim. ‘Yes, but it’s failing. It’s had some wonderful years, we’ve been very successful, but it’s not what people want any more. Sometimes you have to count your losses.’
‘Everyone wants to come to the seaside,’ Robin protested, flinging her arms wide. ‘The seaside never goes out of fashion.’
‘What we’re offering is behind the times, then. It happens. Your dad and I are past trying to keep up with newer, more fashionable hotels.’
‘Mrs Harris is still going,’ Robin said, as they turned away from the sea and began walking back. ‘She doesn’t show any signs of closing down, and she doesn’t even advertise it as a Bleak House hotel.’
‘Robin,’ her mother chided. ‘She caters for a different market; she has a steady, loyal clientele who return each year – often more than once. The Campion Bay Guesthouse is slipping through the gaps. We’re not traditional, but we’re by no means trendy any more.’
‘So renovate then,’ Robin said, whirling to face her as the sand gave way to shingle. ‘Give it a makeover. Don’t let it go so easily. When I was running Once in a Blue Moon Days I saw hundreds of amazing hotels – boutique and modern and classic and themed and, sometimes, downright bizarre. I’ve got some ideas, we could work on it together.’ The rug was about to be pulled out from under her feet, and she couldn’t get her head around the thought of having to start all over again quite so soon.
‘Robin, darling. If the guesthouse ran solely on your enthusiasm, then we wouldn’t be struggling at all. Things have been so hard for you over the last year, and you haven’t given up.’
‘I gave up on Once in a Blue Moon Days,’ Robin whispered, looking down at the pebbles.
‘No.’ Sylvie shook her head. ‘You kept working at it until the bitter end, until there was nothing you could do. A luxury event company like that can’t survive on one person’s energy and determination to keep it going. You’re a fighter, Robin, and we’re so proud of you. But your dad and I, we don’t have the energy, or the fight, left in us. We’ve spent a long time talking it over – we’re not taking this decision lightly – but this is right. I know it’s a shock, but we didn’t want to tell you until it was definite.’
Robin’s legs felt heavy as they made their way past Skull Island Crazy Golf, closed down for the winter, and back to the Campion Bay Guesthouse.
Robin had returned to Campion Bay after her London life had fallen apart because it was safe, because she knew what to expect and she could slip back into a familiar, almost mindless, routine. But now that, too, was coming to an end. As the shock started to dissipate, Robin discovered that what was underneath was panic. What would she do if she had no guesthouse to help out with? How would she cope without her parents’ gentle, unobtrusive comfort? She hadn’t felt like partying before their walk, but now the thought of putting on a dress and eyeliner and spending the evening socializing seemed impossible.
She understood why her parents had made their decision. She knew, as soon as her mum had told her, that it was the right time for them to retire. But that still didn’t answer the question thrumming through Robin’s head as she took her coat and gloves off and went to put the kettle on: what would she be left with?
‘Just open it,’ Molly said, thrusting two glasses underneath Robin’s nose and waggling them, her charm bracelet tinkling delicately in the quiet. They were standing in the Campion Bay Guesthouse’s huge living-room-cum-dining-room, the French doors at the back leading out to a small patio garden, the windows at the front looking out on to the sea. It was close to
six o’clock and it was dark outside, the lighting low, the textured, teal-green wallpaper making it seem slightly gloomy.
‘The guests won’t be coming down for at least half an hour,’ Robin protested, trying to sidestep Molly and put the bottle of prosecco on the table.
‘But you’ve organized this party,’ Molly said, ‘we’re both here now, and you’ve had a shock. We’ve just got time to sink the bottle before anyone else turns up, and nobody’ll be any the wiser.’ She flashed Robin a grin, her teeth pearly white behind her bold pink lipstick.
Robin tried again, and was again blocked by her friend. She rolled her eyes and began to open the bottle.
‘At least you didn’t discover a secret talent for willpower while you were in London,’ Molly said. ‘That’s a relief.’
Robin laughed and then, realizing she couldn’t remember the last time she’d used those particular facial muscles, grinned at her friend.
She’d known Molly since she was eleven. The petite blonde had been two years above her in secondary school, but once they’d said hello in the short-lived school orchestra – Molly admitting she’d only started to learn the flute as a way to stay inside during the windswept winter lunchtimes – they’d become solid friends. When Robin had accepted a place at university in London, Molly’s daughter Paige was two years old and she’d committed to settling in Campion Bay, but their friendship had lasted the distance. While Robin had been seeking the unconditional love of her parents when she’d decided to come back to Campion Bay, she’d also known Molly would be here. If she hadn’t, the decision wouldn’t have been so straightforward.
‘I can be stubborn when I want to be,’ Robin protested, filling the glasses with bubbling liquid. ‘I just agree with your assessment of the situation.’
‘Assessment of the situation?’ Molly clinked her glass against Robin’s. ‘You mean I’m right, as usual. Let’s make a toast – to new years and new beginnings.’
The Lovebirds Page 11