Chloe’s Cornish Christmas (The Blossomwood Bay #7)

Chapter One

‘ Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, Oh what fun… Hey! Look out!’

Chloe wrenched the steering wheel of her ancient Renault to her left, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a white van that was hurtling towards her at speed, its driver clearly of the opinion that he owned the road. What made his selfishness even more astonishing was the fact that the country lanes in this part of Devon were narrow, characterised by high hedges and blind corners, not to mention the fact that dusk was tickling the treetops, there were no streetlights, and rain was lashing down in biblical proportions, reducing visibility to a few metres.

She inhaled a long, slow breath to calm her racing heartbeat, then continued on her journey to that evening’s Christmas cocktail-making event, which her friend Freddie had organised for his sister’s thirtieth birthday. She was grateful for his support. She needed every booking she could get after her artisan gin distillery was destroyed in the Blossomwood Bay fire and she’d been forced to switch to offering mobile cocktail-making classes to make ends meet. However, she hadn’t realised how far it was to the family’s farmhouse – situated in a small village on the Devon/Cornwall border – which meant the cost of the fuel would probably wipe out any profit she made that night.

Chloe sighed; the state of her finances was a constant worry, especially after the recent bombshell of Dexter Hawkins’ unexpected passing. It now looked like it would take even longer for the beach huts on the boardwalk at Blossomwood Bay to be reinstated. If she was anxious before, she was in full-blown panic mode now, but she had to shelve those unsettling thoughts for later dissection; right now she needed all her powers of concentration to navigate the twists and turns of the unfamiliar roads.

The last thing she wanted to do was end up in a ditch.

She felt her phone buzz in the pocket of her jeans and a spasm of guilt shot through her veins. She knew it would be Holly sending her another text asking if she was okay and inviting her to the Fox she was caring, supportive and insightful, but she was also dealing with the trauma of losing her dog-grooming business in the fire and Chloe didn’t want to add to her, or anyone else’s, burden.

A few moments later, she arrived at a junction and waited for a large supermarket lorry to pass by, gasping in alarm when its huge wheels sent a cascade of water in her direction, testing the resolve of the car’s windscreen wipers to the extreme. She squinted at the old-fashioned signpost to her right, which informed her that the village of Farnleigh was only another two miles away.

She had just pulled onto the main highway when her phone started to ring again, and she realised that it might not be Holly who was trying to contact her. She scoured the road ahead for a place to stop and was relieved when she spotted a break in the hawthorn hedge. She indicated her intention to turn left and, to her dismay, found herself on a narrow country road only one step up from a farm track, bordered by fields on one side and dense woodland on the other, the branches of the trees undulating languidly against the darkening sky.

Thankfully – after travelling further than she would have liked – she was able to pull onto a grassy area in front of a dilapidated wooden gate, crying out in alarm when she jolted to an abrupt stop and a box of toiletries was jettisoned from its home on the back seat, hitting her on the side of her head before spilling its contents into the passenger footwell. She was about to reach down to retrieve the bottle of shampoo, tube of toothpaste and, strangely, a peppermill, when her phone burst into life again.

‘Hello?’ she answered.

‘Chloe, it’s Freddie.’

‘Oh, hi, Freddie, I’m nearly there. It’s taking me a lot longer than I—’

‘Chloe, listen. I’m really sorry, but Jade’s just called. Apparently, part of the stone bridge that leads into the village has been washed away in the storm. There’s no other access unless you take a ten-mile detour to the north, which I appreciate will probably take you another hour or so and isn’t practical in this weather. So, reluctantly, I think the best thing to do is to cancel the party. Jade’s really disappointed, but Dad’s offered to put his extensive collection of spirits and liqueurs at her disposal so it’s not all bad news. I’m so sorry, Chloe. Can we reschedule the cocktail-making class for some time in the new year instead?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Thanks for calling, Freddie.’

‘No problem. Drive carefully. It’s rotten out there tonight and the forecast is for it to continue for the next week or so, and there might even be the possibility of some snow. If I don’t see you before the big day, I hope you have a wonderful Christmas!’

‘You, too.’

Chloe slumped back against her seat as a blanket of despondency descended. She knew what had happened wasn’t Freddie’s fault, but the fee for that night’s party had been crucial. Now, not only would she not get a desperately needed injection of funds to pay for the bottles of gin and vodka she’d invested in for the cocktails, she also wouldn’t be able to recoup the cost of the fuel.

A double whammy of disasters.

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes as the storm increased its ferocity, rain hammering down on the roof of her car with unbridled enthusiasm. She felt like she was sitting in a car wash, except this one had been going on for the last hour and showed no sign of stopping. Beyond the windows, the last gasps of daylight had disappeared from the sky, and the absence of streetlights or the headlights from passing vehicles lent the landscape an eerie, almost menacing ambience.

When Chloe glanced back at her phone, she was unsurprised to see that she’d had three text messages from Holly, and she suddenly craved the sound of a friendly voice. She selected Holly’s number, smiling when her friend answered on the first ring.

‘Chloe! I’m so glad you called!’

Chloe’s heart gave a squeeze of remorse that she had actively avoided Holly’s calls for the last few weeks, and she had to swallow down hard on an upswing of emotion. ‘I got your texts. Is everything okay?’

‘I wanted to let you know that Beckie’s Aunt Kath has heard from Andrew this morning. Unfortunately, it looks like Dexter’s funeral might have to be postponed. Apparently, there’s a lot more red tape involved in flying his body back from California to the UK than Andrew expected.’

‘I can understand that.’

Chloe sighed. She was saddened at the way Dexter had died; alone, in a tent, pitched only a few feet away from the Pacific Crest Trail in the Californian wilderness. However, she knew that when he wasn’t touring the country delighting his many fans with his original brand of rock music, Dexter had spent his time hiking the world’s most epic trails, so at least he’d been doing what he loved best.

‘Do you know when the funeral might be?’

‘Probably not until early January. Andrew told Kath that Dexter wanted a simple service at St Peter’s Parish Church in Blossomwood Bay, followed by cremation. However, in order to avoid a barrage of fans descending on the village and causing mayhem, he’s in the process of organising a more elaborate memorial service to celebrate his life and his many achievements, which will take place at Exeter Cathedral so that everyone who knew Dexter and loved his music can come along and pay their respects. The will-reading will probably be after that.’

‘So we won’t know who’s inherited his estate until then?’

‘No.’

‘What about the insurance for the boardwalk and the beach huts?’

‘That was one of the questions I asked, too. As Dexter’s legally appointed executor, Andrew has already started the negotiations with the insurance company, but he says it’ll be a couple of months at least until any claim is settled. I’m so sorry, Chloe, I know how desperate you and the others are to get this sorted. Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’

But she was far from fine.

A ripple of desolation coiled its insidious tendrils around her heart, squeezing out all hope that her current situation would change any time soon. She felt as though life had dealt her one catastrophe after another over the last few months, and it seemed the director in charge of that day’s weather agreed as an angry rumble of thunder rolled through the sky, bringing her thoughts crashing back to the present.

‘Are you working tonight?’ asked Holly.

‘I was, but the party has been cancelled at the last minute.’

‘Why don’t you come over to the Fox lots of great food, delicious wine, with a few party games thrown into the mix for good measure.’

Panic ignited in Chloe’s chest. It was kind of Holly to invite her to join in with their festivities, and she wanted to, she really did. She loved Christmas, and craved that wonderful feeling of belonging, of being an integral part of one big happy family, that the occasion created. But it would mean she’d have to tell her friend the truth about her current situation, and while she knew that honesty was always the best policy, she didn’t want to spoil the joyous celebrations. So she did what she always did in awkward or challenging situations; she employed avoidance tactics.

‘Thanks, Holly. I’ll let you know once I’ve talked to my dad.’

‘Great.’

However, she already knew she wouldn’t be flying over to California to spend Christmas with her father in his minimalist apartment overlooking the Golden Gate bridge. Even though he’d issued the obligatory annual invitation, she knew he would spend a maximum of two hours with her, eating Christmas dinner – that had been lovingly prepared by an outside catering company – and then expect her to leave as soon as the last sip of Port had been consumed so he could get back to doing what he liked best – work.

Travelling all the way to America for a two-hour visit – less if her father could get away with it – wasn’t how she wanted to spend the most difficult day of the year, even if she could afford the airfare, which she couldn’t. But, of course, her father didn’t know that.

She grimaced; she still had to come up with a plausible-sounding excuse as to why she couldn’t join him and her sister Martha for Christmas this year, which would satisfy her father without eliciting suspicion. Something to do with work, she thought. He’d understand that; after all, work was everything.

‘Are you sure you’re okay, Chloe?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You always say that, Chlo, even when it’s obvious that things are not fine. It’s okay to admit you’re struggling, you know. We all struggle at times, and it helps to talk about it with friends who will listen, without judgement, and who can maybe offer solutions.’ Holly paused, clearly working her way up to ask her next question, and Chloe braced herself. ‘Did you tell your dad about the fire?’

‘No, not yet.’

Chloe gulped down on an upswing of shame. She hadn’t told her father about the fire because she hadn’t told him about her change in career from high-flying lawyer at one of the most prestigious firms in London to erstwhile owner of a gin distillery housed in a pastel-pink beach hut on the Devonshire coast.

‘But it was six months ago.’

‘Five,’ said Chloe automatically.

‘What happened wasn’t your fault, Chloe. It wasn’t anyone's fault.’

‘I know, I know.’

However, deep down Chloe knew it was her fault. But she hadn’t articulated that firmly held conviction to anyone, especially not the other beach huts owners, fearing they would agree with her, and blame her for their devastating losses, a prospect she couldn’t bear.

‘I’ll catch you later, Holly. Say hi to the others for me.’

And before Holly could say anything further, Chloe cut the call, rolling her eyes in resignation when she saw that the battery on her phone was almost dead.

Could the day get any worse?

She tossed her phone into her duffle bag, nestled between a patchwork cushion, a pink fleece blanket, and a cardboard box filled with her collection of Christmas-themed socks she just couldn’t bear to part with, and dropped her head onto the steering wheel. Her heart pounded painfully against her ribcage, and she cursed her inability to conceal her emotions, especially when talking to Holly, which was why she usually avoided her calls and her offers to stroll along the beach with her beloved dogs.

Rain continued to bounce down on the roof of her rust-blistered Renault estate, its rhythmic cadence eventually calming her turmoil. She exhaled a long, slow breath, then pushed herself upright in her seat and reached for the ignition key. There was no point staying there, parked up next to a field in the middle of nowhere. However, before she turned the key and went off to find somewhere safe to spend the night, she took a moment to send up a prayer to the gods whose remit included the internal combustion engine to give her a break; all she needed now was for her car to refuse to start, which for her wouldn’t just be inconvenient, but disastrous.

No, worse than that, catastrophic.

For once, luck was on her side and the engine started first time. She selected first gear and pulled back onto the narrow country road, then screamed out in horror as she was blinded by a set of blazing headlights bearing down on her at considerable speed.

She stamped on the brake and dragged the steering wheel as hard as she could to her left, a reaction that caused her to plough into the side of a thick hedge that culminated in a vigorous jolt and a cringe-inducing crunch. The engine stalled on impact, and for a few traumatic seconds she struggled to breathe until she realised that the airbag hadn’t inflated and that, fortunately, she was unscathed, which was more than she could say for her favourite picture frame containing a photograph of her parents on their wedding day, which lay in pieces at her feet.

Fearing the other driver hadn’t fared so well, she jumped from the driver’s seat to scour the road, completely oblivious to the fact that in honour of Jade’s aborted birthday party that night, she was wearing her favourite leather loafers instead of her usual scruffy hiking boots, which were no match for the incessant downpour.

Within moments, she was soaked to the skin and her hair clung to the sides of her cheeks. She pushed her sodden curls from her eyes in time to see a set of red taillights vanish round a corner in the distance and she was at once relieved that all was well, and indignant that the driver hadn’t been as concerned, or solicitous, as she was, and had failed to stop.

Shivering, she dashed back to the car, dragged a towel from one of the cardboard boxes on the back seat and dried her hair before pulling on a hoodie and rubbing her palms together in an attempt to warm up. After a few deep breaths to steady her rampaging emotions, she turned the key in the ignition, hoping that when she managed to extract the car’s bonnet from the embrace of the foliage, the damage would be superficial.

But the engine remained stubbornly dormant.

She tried again, then again, but nothing happened.

Chloe expelled an audible groan. After briefly contemplating the likelihood of being able to push the car out of the hedge herself, she realised that course of action was ridiculous and the only thing she could do was call her breakdown service for assistance. Praying that her cover was still valid, she grabbed her phone from its cushioned resting place in her duffle bag, swiped her finger across the screen, and to her alarm saw that the battery was completely dead.