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

Chapter Five

When Chloe woke the next morning, it took her a few moments to remember where she was, and when she did, she couldn’t help smiling. It was the best night’s sleep she’d had, not just over the last couple of months, but since she’d moved to Blossomwood Bay. The studio flat she had rented in the town was located above an open-all-hours newsagents from which noise constantly emanated, not to mention the fact that the tenant in the neighbouring apartment had a penchant for playing rock music so loudly that the walls vibrated.

She kicked back the duvet and jumped out of bed, padding into the cylindrical bathroom, which she was delighted to see was home to a vigorous power shower and plenty of her favourite brand of toiletries, a treat that made her heart sing.

After spending as long as she dared under the torrent of wonderfully hot water, she wrapped herself in a fluffy white towel, grabbed her now-fully-charged phone from the bedside table, and headed to the triangular-shaped window in the living room, eager to take a few snaps of the snowy panorama to send to her sister when she emailed her to tell her that she wouldn’t be joining her for Christmas in San Francisco.

‘What the—’

She couldn’t believe it!

Not a single flake of snow remained!

Nevertheless, stretched out in front of her was a beautifully scenic vista; a patchwork of gently rolling hills stitched together by undulating stone walls, embroidered with a scattering of leafy woodland, and bathed in crisp, sharp, winter sunshine. Over to her left, the village of Perrinsby nestled comfortably in a dip in the landscape, its church spire reaching out to puncture the pale blue sky overhead. It was a sight that caused her spirits to rise.

Who couldn’t be happy in a place like this?

Like her mum, Chloe had always preferred the countryside to the city, and along with her sister she’d enjoyed a care-free childhood living in a small village in Oxfordshire. Her father, however, was a frustrated urbanite, having been born and raised in Pimlico, so when their idyllic life was snatched away in a moment of heartbreaking tragedy, he switched his job in academia for one in the private sector and moved his family back to London, a place Chloe had never truly felt comfortable, or happy.

She dressed quickly and – in case Nick had changed his mind about letting her stay for a few days – was in the process of collecting her belongings together when there was a knock on the door, followed by a volley of excited yapping. She skipped down the stairs, grinning when she saw Nick standing on the doorstep holding two mugs of steaming coffee.

‘Morning. Did you sleep well?’

‘I did, thanks. Better than I have in a long time.’

She bent down to make a fuss of Mitzy who was clearly overjoyed to renew their acquaintance, which caused her mood to escalate even further. She straightened up and was about to take one of the mugs from Nick when she performed a double-take, her lips stretching into a smile when she saw that he was wearing a well-loved wax jacket, a red-and-yellow checked shirt, and a pair of black corduroy trousers that were ever-so-slightly too big for him.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, you look… different, that’s all.’

‘Ah, yes. Unfortunately, I snagged my trousers while doing battle with the hedge last night and there’s a hole in a rather… inconvenient place. It also seems that my packing skills aren’t up to scratch either, as it turns out that I’ve failed to pack my jeans, leaving me with no alternative but to raid my uncle’s wardrobe in the interests of decency.’

‘Well, the outfit suits you. You look like you belong here.’

‘I don’t know how to take that.’

‘It’s a compliment.’

‘Thanks.’

As far as she was concerned, he looked much more attractive in the casual clothes than the corporate attire he’d favoured the previous day. With his dark blonde hair still damp from the shower and the hint of stubble on his jawline, it was as though his sharp edges had been buffed away, leaving a more relaxed version of the man who’d rescued her the previous afternoon.

‘Shall we drink our coffee upstairs?’ said Chloe.

‘Good idea. The snow might have melted, but it’s still cold out here.’

She spun on her heels and led him up the stairs to the loft, taking a seat on one of the two black leather Chesterfields while Nick chose the other, and Mitzy headed for a spot on a hand-knotted Persian rug next to the window. She took a sip of the delicious coffee and met Nick’s eyes, once again shocked when an unexpected curl of desire wove its way through her abdomen.

What was going on?

In an effort to cover her confusion, she blurted out the first question that came into her head.

‘Have you heard anything from Joe yet?’

‘Yes, he called me ten minutes ago. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but he couldn’t get your car started so he’s had to tow it back to his workshop in the village. He’s busy working on a friend’s 1963 Jaguar MK2 at the moment; apparently they need it for a wedding on Saturday. I promised we’d call in later this morning to see if he can give you a preliminary diagnosis.’

Chloe’s heart sank. ‘Oh, I—’

‘However, on a more positive note, I’ve also spoken to my aunt; she’s currently on a layover in Dubai before embarking on the second leg of her journey to Sydney. I explained what happened last night and about your run-in with the hedge, and she has no problem whatsoever with you staying in the barn for as long as you want.’

‘Really? Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Then I’d love to stay.’ Chloe grinned before swiftly adding, ‘Just until the Renault is fixed and back on the road. Thank you, that’s really kind of your aunt, and you, of course.’

‘Great,’ said Nick, draining his coffee and jumping up from his seat, causing Mitzy to abandon her snooze to skitter to his side. She clearly didn’t want to be left behind if there was an adventure on the cards. ‘Okay, now that’s settled, are you ready for your tour of the farm and my uncle’s… what did you call it last night?’

‘Cidery. And yes, I’d love a tour!’

‘Then follow me!’

Chloe experienced a sharp uptick of excitement at the prospect of viewing the cider-making enterprise. She quickly swallowed the last gulp of her coffee and followed Nick back down the stairs, zipping up her padded jacket as she went, and smiling in anticipation as they walked towards a low wooden gate on the other side of the courtyard, next to the “more authentic” barn. The barn’s door was slightly ajar, and when Chloe peeked inside, she was surprised to see that instead of the farm machinery and equipment she’d expected, it was home to a brand-new Porsche, its shiny scarlet paintwork so at odds with the more rustic surroundings.

‘Who does the Porsche belong to?’

‘Oh, that was my uncle’s. I don’t think my aunt can bear to part with it,’ said Nick, pulling the door closed before continuing on to the wooden gate where he paused, his arms dangling over the top. ‘Okay, so this is the orchard; it’s mainly apples, but there are also a few pear, plum and cherry trees, and I think my aunt said she’d experimented with growing a few quince trees last year to make jam. Obviously, you’re not seeing the place at its best; in spring it’s a riot of pink and white blossoms.’

Chloe gazed at the neat rows of fruit trees set amidst carefully trimmed grassland and enclosed by thick, well-managed hedgerows, beyond which lay fields and pastures as far as the eye could see. Jutting above the trees to her left was a white-timbered dovecote with a fluted roof and crowned with a weathervane featuring the silhouette of a dove. In a sheltered spot around its base was a collection of hand-painted ceramic pots in which a variety of herbs still flourished, and a handsome hedgehog house with a sign over the door that said Daisy’s Den .

A steady procession of birds dipped and dived through the air, searching for a tasty tidbit to take back to their nests, and she imagined a whole host of other animals and wildlife trundled through the undergrowth, busy with their daily tasks, oblivious to the fact that they had an audience.

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Come on, let’s head inside. Mitzy? Mitzy!’

They waited for Mitzy to abandon her excavations at the base of a particularly gnarled apple tree that looked to Chloe like it must be decades, if not centuries old, then headed to the renovated barn where Nick produced a shiny silver key and unlocked the door in the middle of the glass atrium.

If she’d been surprised when she first set eyes on the room in the loft, she was absolutely gobsmacked when she stepped into the main part of the barn and found herself standing in what could have been an upmarket, and very glamorous, weekend retreat, except for one thing. Instead of expensive, maybe hand-crafted furniture, the place was home to a cornucopia of silver apparatus that she immediately recognised as cider-making equipment.

‘Wow. I mean… just wow!’

Chloe’s jaw loosened and she was lost for words.

This wasn’t a hobby; this was a highly professional, carefully curated enterprise that dwarfed what had been her beach hut distillery in Blossomwood Bay. When her shock subsided, excitement began to swirl, and she realised she could learn a lot from the way the operation had been set up for when she was finally able to take her gin-making business to the next level.

The place was pristine; the floor was created from polished concrete, the walls from highly varnished wood, and the lighting from galvanised steel as a nod to the barn’s agricultural heritage. When she inhaled a breath, she fancied she could detect the faint hint of tangy apple juice, along with a deliciously spicy top note from Nick’s cologne – a heady mix.

She could have spent hours scrutinising every switch, tube, pipe and valve, but Nick was already striding towards a varnished wooden door at the back of the barn, on which there was a brass plaque informing the visitor they’d arrived at the cidery’s office.

‘Come in.’

This time Chloe was prepared, and therefore she wasn’t in the least bit surprised to find herself in a room that wouldn’t have disappointed the CEO of a multinational conglomerate. In pride of place was a large aluminium desk that looked like it had been created from the wing of an old-fashioned aircraft, in front of which were two well-worn brown leather bucket chairs. A side table, in the same style as the aeroplane desk, sported an industrial lamp, there was a bookcase containing a variety of tomes on the subject of apples and cider-making, and in the corner behind the desk was a pyramid of roughly hewn wooden crates.

‘Are you ready for the best part of any tour?’

‘What’s that?’

‘The tasting part, of course!’

Nick opened a beautifully distressed metal cabinet, removed two crystal tumblers and placed them on the desk. He then selected a bottle of cider from one of the crates, flicked off the lid, and poured a couple of inches of the delicately sparkling golden liquid into each of the glasses, handing one to Chloe with an expectant smile. Before she tasted it, she picked up the bottle so she could inspect the label, her lips twitching when she read the words and saw a rather childish drawing of a pig with a cartoon-large nose.

She giggled. ‘Pig’s Snout?’

‘It’s a variety of apple.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, there are some great names; Cat’s Head, Foxwelp, Yellow Willy, Snell’s Glass, Cornish Gillyflower, Spiced Pippin, Gascoyne’s Scarlet, Hocking’s Green, and Pendragon, which is said to date from the 1200s. For the last twenty years, my aunt and uncle made it their mission to seek out the ancient varieties that are at risk of disappearing forever and rescuing them. So far, they’ve saved three from extinction. So, what do you think?’

Chloe took a sip, relishing the appley flavour that fizzed across her tongue and tickled her tastebuds. It was crisp, tangy, with a slight aftertaste of straw, and she couldn’t wait to take another mouthful.

‘Delicious.’

‘That’s high praise coming from someone who knows what they’re talking about.’

Chloe laughed. ‘I don’t know anything about cider!’

Nick drained his glass, running the tip of his tongue slowly along the length of his lower lip to collect any lingering drop. The gesture caused a flash of electricity to zip through Chloe’s veins as her body reacted before she could engage her brain. Heat flushed into her cheeks, but she was relieved to see that Nick had turned away and was busy rummaging around in another crate. With a cry of delight, he pulled out a second bottle – its label consisting of a purple fire-breathing dragon which, like the pig, she suspected his uncle had sketched himself – flicked off the lid and proceeded to pour two more glasses for tasting.

‘Mm, this one is different, more delicate yet richly textured.’

‘This is a single varietal made from one of the apples I told you about, the Pendragon. It’s actually one of my favourite apples. Not only does it have a deep red skin, its flesh is an unusual shade of dark pink. As far as taste is concerned, it’s less acidic than other varieties, and I think you’ll agree it works perfectly in fine cider.’

‘Fine cider?’

‘Yes, like “fine dining”. It means this particular cider has been made from one hundred percent apple juice, all of which was produced here on the farm, unlike the blended, mass-produced variety that usually contains around thirty-five percent apple juice. It’s the Champagne of ciders, but of course, English cider pre-dates Champagne by many hundreds of years.’

‘It sounds like you know a lot more about the business than you realise, especially the orchard side of things. I know you said you have a busy life in Guildford, but are you sure there’s not a small part of you that wouldn’t love to swap the city for the bucolic attractions of the countryside? A place where, by your own admission, you spent many happy summers making cherished memories with your brother, running free, driving tractors, learning the rhythms of nature?’

She saw Nick scrunch up his nose and she smiled.

‘What? You don’t like the countryside? Everyone knows that being close to nature improves our emotional wellbeing, and who wouldn’t want to wake up to the sound of birdsong instead of tooting horns and screeching traffic?’

‘Actually, I don’t mind the sound of traffic. To me, the constant hum is soporific, not jarring. Some people might call the capital an urban jungle, but when I was there I loved being part of the menagerie that calls it their home. I also prefer the privacy a place like London, or Guildford, offers, too.’

Chloe detected a tightness in his tone as Nick said the last sentence, and she wondered what had happened to cause it. However, before she could ask, he was speaking again, his voice softer, more measured.

‘Anyway, it’s not as simple as heading down here and stepping into my uncle’s shoes. Over the last year, the economic situation in the farming sector has been challenging to say the least; the wholesale price of apples has fallen, while the cost of things like fertiliser, transport, energy and labour have spiralled, which means margins are squeezed so much that it’s almost impossible to break even, never mind make a profit.’

‘That must be worrying for your aunt.’

‘It is. Cash flow is a huge problem. Before he died, my uncle had started to take on a few freelance projects for friends and former clients of his architects’ practice, and they were able to balance the books, but only just. One of the things they couldn’t do anything about, though, is the weather; climate change is real, especially down here in Cornwall. One minute it’s week-long heatwaves, the next it’s torrential rain and floods, both of which affect yield. Then there’s the paperwork, and the myriad rules and regulations that are constantly changing, which is hugely stressful, especially when there are other things in life to consider.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, my uncle isn’t around anymore, for one thing, which not only impacts the businesses finances, but as you can probably imagine, has also had a devastating effect on my aunt’s mental and emotional wellbeing. His unexpected loss at the age of only sixty-five, coupled with a health scare Aunt Ruth had last year, has made her reevaluate where she’s at in her own life. She decided that she wants to see a bit of the world while she still can, which is why she booked her trip to see her cousin in Australia for Christmas. But it’s a one-off.’

‘Why?’

‘Because for most of the year, she can’t just head off into the sunset and leave the farm to fend for itself. It’s like having a nursery of spoilt children who demand constant attention from their caregiver otherwise they’ll wither and die, and my aunt couldn’t allow that to happen. The trees mean too much to her. That’s why I’m here, but it’s a temporary solution.’

‘What if she hires a manager to look after the orchard while she’s away?’

‘Unfortunately, without my uncle’s freelance income, the business can’t afford it.’

‘What if she diversifies?’

‘Into what?’

Suddenly, Chloe wanted to help if she could. Nick’s aunt had been beyond generous to offer a place to stay to someone she hadn’t met, and she wanted to repay her kindness. She took another sip of her cider while she scoured her brain for ideas, and the obvious answer popped straight into her head.

‘Cider!’ Chloe indicated the empty bottles on the desk and the tower of crates in the corner of the office. ‘I know you said your uncle used to sell some of it to the Dog & Whistle for local cider connoisseurs, but what if your aunt increases output next year and expands distribution to other pubs in the area, marketing it as locally produced from apple to glass, with minimal miles and maximum taste?’

Nick smiled. ‘It’s an interesting idea, but I’m not sure my aunt is as enthusiastic about cider-making as my uncle was. Also, selling a few extra bottles to pubs, shops and restaurants in the area probably won’t put much of a dent in the overdraft, I’m afraid.’

‘Okay, then what about running cider-tasting sessions? Like gin-tasting, but with all these different ciders? Held here in the cidery? Surrounded by all the equipment used to actually create the beverage? How authentic is that? Your aunt could give a short talk on the history of Cornish apples, her mission to save the old varieties from extinction, the cultivation and harvesting practices and their evolution over the years, before finally allowing her guests to taste the product itself.’

‘Chloe, I really don’t think—’

‘Oh, and what about cider- making classes?’

‘Chloe—’

But Chloe was on a roll, and her brain was whirling with ideas she couldn’t wait to share. Like the ideas she’d had when she was planning her own gin distillery and dreaming of it becoming a runaway success, a place where visitors to Blossomwood Bay would queue along the length of the boardwalk to sample her products, where the local and national press would abandon their screens to travel to her beach hut to interview her, and where upmarket retailers would come knocking, desperate to secure a few precious bottles of her famous artisan gin.

She still harboured those dreams, but they were less ambitious than they had been in those heady days after the launch of her business. She wished she’d had the courage to share her excitement with her family – her hopes to expand into bigger premises, to invest in more up-to-date equipment, to experiment with new and quirky flavours, and to diversify into offering gin-making classes – just as she was doing with Nick now. She barely knew him, and yet she was spilling out her ideas with enthusiasm, despite the fact that he was staring at her as though she had completely lost the plot.

What was it about Fairholme Farm?

Why did she feel like she’d left reality behind and stumbled into a place where she could say anything and everything that was on her mind when she was usually so reticent about sharing her innermost thoughts and feelings with those around her?

Or was it less to do with the place and more to do with the person she was with?