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

Chapter Eight

‘Okay, lunch now? Or a chat with Joe about the car?’

‘A chat with Joe about the car, please. I’d really like to know how long he thinks it’ll take to get the Renault back on the road in case I have to cancel one of my cocktail-making classes next week. I’m sure that won’t be necessary, but the more notice I can give Lucinda and Carl, the better.’

‘No problem.’

They meandered in companionable silence towards Joe’s cottage on the other side of the green, each lost in their respective thoughts after their trip to the bookshop. Chloe could barely believe that she had been in the village for less than twenty-four hours and had already agreed to organise a fund-raising event in support of the local pantomime. Far from being irritated at what others might view as an imposition, she found she was looking forward to helping the community in its efforts, as well as the opportunity to meet a few more of its residents.

‘This has to be the prettiest car repair workshop in the whole of England.’

‘I agree,’ said Nick as they made their way along the driveway towards Joe’s garage, pausing briefly to admire the cream-coloured wedding car, its newly polished chrome bumpers glinting in the midday sunlight. Ivory ribbons had been tied to the bonnet and flouncy rosettes adorned the wing mirrors ready for its supporting role in that weekend’s nuptials.

‘Hello. Can I help you?’

‘Hi, I’m Nick Harper. Ruth Marston’s nephew? We spoke on the phone last night?’

‘Ah, yes, yes, it’s good to meet you in person at last.’

‘You, too, and this is my friend Chloe Campbell, the owner of the Renault.’

‘Hello, Chloe.’

Joe smiled as he wiped his hands on a piece of yellow cloth before stepping forward to offer Chloe and then Nick his palm, giving them each an enthusiastic shake. In his early sixties, he had sharp, intelligent eyes, and the laughter lines around his mouth told Chloe that he was one of the good guys, not to mention the fact that he was wearing a Hello Kitty watch she’d coveted for months. Dressed in spotlessly clean overalls – there was even a crease down the front of the trousers – his salt-and-pepper hair was neatly barbered, and the stubble across his jawline leant him the air of a Hollywood action-adventure hero rather than a village car mechanic.

‘Thank you so much for rescuing my car from the hedge,’ said Chloe, her heart giving a nip of distress when she saw the scratches across the paintwork on the front of the bonnet for the first time. She knew it was “just a car”, but because of her circumstances over the last few months, it had become more like a faithful friend that had conveyed her to her cocktail-making engagements as well as protected her from the elements.

‘It’s no problem at all. I’m happy to help,’ said Joe, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Come inside. I was about to make a fresh pot of Cornish tea.’

‘Cornish tea?’

‘Yes, they grow tea down in Tregothnan.’

‘Wow, really? I’d love to try that.’

Chloe followed Joe into the tidiest garage she had ever seen. In fact, it was so pristine – with a place for everything and everything in its place – that the presence of her scruffy, in-desperate-need-of-a-wash Renault lowered the tone of the place by several degrees. If she were so inclined, she could have happily eaten her dinner from any of the surfaces, and the air even held a fresh, citrusy aroma not dissimilar to the room fragrance Freya had used at her aromatherapy beach hut.

There were two other cars there; one raised high on a ramp – an elegant sports car with bright red paintwork – and one concealed beneath an immaculate green tarpaulin, which she assumed was one of the classic cars Joe was so passionate about restoring. She didn’t know much about cars, let alone what passed for a “classic” car; all she was bothered about was whether her chosen mode of transport would get her from A to B with the minimum of fuss and maximum efficiency.

When she had lived in London, she hadn’t owned a car, despite her boss Jonathan offering her one as part of her remuneration package. Instead she had asked for a season ticket for the Underground, which Jonathan was more than happy to purchase as an alternative. She remembered that her decision had caused a disagreement with Harry who loved anything with an internal combustion engine – even though he had no idea how it worked – and especially if it had an Italian or German carmakers’ badge on the front.

As they waited for Joe’s highly polished silver kettle to boil, she watched Joe assemble a set of china mugs and arrange a selection of Duchy of Cornwall biscuits on a plate the shape of a Christmas tree. A tinkle of music emanated from an old-style transistor radio, and when she recognised the tune as one of her favourite Chris Rea tracks, she couldn’t help sending Nick an amused smile, which he studiously ignored.

‘How was your stay at the Dog to collect everything and transport it back to the barn until Chloe’s friend gets a final completion date, that way you’ll have unfettered access to all areas without having to worry about being hit on the nose by a falling toaster.’

‘That’s a very generous gesture, Chloe.’

Joe smiled at Chloe, his eyes filled with approval for her selfless act of charity, and all Chloe could do was nod. She wasn’t sure whether Joe believed the explanation Nick had given him, but she was grateful for his circumspection. She didn’t think Joe was a member of the village’s gossip grapevine, but as it looked like she was going to be staying there for a while, she preferred to keep her housing situation to herself, if she could, and clearly Nick realised that.

‘So, is this your first time in Perrinsby?’

‘Actually, it’s my first time in Cornwall.’

‘Well, you’re very welcome. It’s a great community to be part of; everyone supports each other. If someone needs help, we rally round and do what we can.’

‘Thanks, Joe. Everyone has been so kind.’

‘Yes,’ said Nick. ‘Really kind! So far we’ve been roped into attending the local book club night and organising a promotional cocktail-making event, not to mention being tasked by Hannah and Fran with persuading my aunt to reveal her grandmother’s secret—’

‘Her grandmother’s secret Christmas cookie recipe,’ Chloe interjected, certain that Fran wouldn’t have shared the story of Ruth’s romance recipe with Joe.

Joe laughed, a rich, bellow of a guffaw. ‘Please call her, Nick. Have you tried Fran’s mince pies?’

‘No, but we’ve sampled her cookies.’

‘And?’

‘They were… interesting.’

‘That’s a diplomatic description. Just a heads up – they’re made with turkey mince flavoured with sage and onion and a dollop of cranberry sauce. Delicious if you’re expecting something savoury; bonkers if you’re expecting to enjoy a traditional Christmas mince pie with your cappuccino or spiced latte. Did she mention the pantomime?’

‘Yes, that’s what the cocktail-making event is for.’

‘Well, you got off lightly.’

‘What do you mean?’

Chloe was about to reach for one of the posh shortbread biscuits on the Christmas tree plate but the thought of sending a cascade of crumbs onto the floor of the Joe’s super-clean garage caused her to change her mind and she took another sip of her Cornish-grown tea instead.

‘Just stay off the topic in front of Liz. She’s the Pantomime’s director, but she’s also in charge of casting and recruiting backstage helpers. I know for a fact that she’s on the lookout for someone to play “ Oak Tree No. 3 ”.’

‘ Oak Tree No. 3 ? I thought it was Goldilocks and the Three Bears ?’

Joe’s lips twitched. ‘It is, but for some reason, each bear has an accompanying tree. Apparently, it enhances the stage aesthetics, or something like that; I didn’t want to enquire in case she asked me to double-up on my roles.’

‘What role are you playing?’

‘I’m Daddy Bear, but for my sins I’m also in charge of creating, formatting and printing the promotional flyers, as well as ensuring the production is mentioned in the village newsletter as often as possible.’

‘Yes, Hannah said you were the editor of the Perrinsby Post .’

‘It’s more of a mailshot than The New York Times !’ Joe laughed. ‘And I’m not just the editor, I’m also the intrepid investigative reporter, the feature writer, the photographer, the typesetter, the printer, the promotor… You name it, I do it. I’m always on the lookout for fun and interesting stories, though, so if you happen to stumble upon any while you’re here, let me know, won’t you?’

‘Well, now that you mention it, I might have a—’

‘We will,’ said Chloe, reaching out to give Nick’s hand a warning squeeze in case he was about to blurt out his aunt’s secret. She knew that if that particular story got out, the village would be inundated with people desperate for the recipe, although it would mean that they’d probably sell every one of the tickets for the pantomime… ‘So, how long before you can let me know how much the repairs are likely to cost?’

‘I’ll have a quote to you by the end of the day.’

‘Thanks, Joe.’

Chloe made a concerted effort to ignore the sinking feeling she was experiencing as she wondered again how she would pay Joe’s bill as well as make a contribution towards the rental of Ruth’s weekend retreat. For a fleeting moment, she wished she could turn back the clock and snap a photograph of the number plate of the driver who had forced her to swerve from the road, the cause of her nosedive into the ditch. If they hadn’t been travelling so fast, maybe she would have had time to avoid the collision.

However, that would also mean that she wouldn’t have met Nick, or Mitzy, and wouldn’t have enjoyed the most comfortable night’s sleep she’d had in weeks. She also wouldn’t have spent time in one of the prettiest villages in Cornwall, or met its kind-hearted residents or, to her surprise and delight, been welcomed into their community without reservation.

She would love to live in a place like Perrinsby, even temporarily.

She had been searching for a place to belong for a long time. It was a feeling she had craved since her father had packed up their lives in Oxfordshire and moved them lock, stock and barrel to central London without consultation or consideration of their wishes. For years she had felt like she’d been cast adrift from everything that offered stability and familiarity, bobbing around aimlessly on a stormy sea as she searched for a safe port to drop anchor, but never actually finding one no matter how hard she tried.

She had hoped things would change when she relocated to Blossomwood Bay, and while she had made firm friendships with the other business owners on the boardwalk, everyone had been so focussed on making a success of their respective enterprises that there was little time to socialise or take part in the activities of the wider community.

‘Okay, would you like a hand?’ said Joe.

‘A hand?’

‘To transfer your friend’s possessions?’

‘Oh, yes, please.’

Even with the three of them working flat out – and a volley of helpful suggestions from Mitzy – it took a long time to transport her “friend’s” belongings from the Renault and pile them into the back of Nick’s Range Rover. On several occasions, Chloe had to stop herself from exclaiming with delight when she was reunited with an item she hadn’t seen for weeks because it was buried under a pile of tea towels or stuffed between two cardboard boxes.

She was particularly pleased to discover her stash of Christmas jumpers, her collection of festive socks, and her woolly hat in the shape of a Christmas pudding – with a spring of holly on the top instead of a pompom – which she knew Hannah would approve of.

By the time they had finished the task, it was after two o’clock – well past lunchtime – so Nick suggested they took a raincheck on their visit to the Dog & Whistle and headed back to the farmhouse to avail themselves of one of the home-made lasagnes his aunt had put in the fridge for just this eventuality.

Chloe took no persuading. Whilst she didn’t think Perrinsby was a hotbed of vehicle theft, she didn’t want to leave everything she owned on public display in the back of Nick’s car. After thanking Joe again for his help, she climbed into the passenger seat, fastened her seatbelt and turned on the radio, grinning when the car was flooded with the dulcet tones of George Micheal’s Last Christmas .

‘Thanks for not telling Joe about… about my housing issues.’

‘No problem,’ said Nick, starting the engine and slipping the vehicle into gear. ‘Come on, Mitzy, let’s head home and help Chloe unpack her things.’

There was that word again.

Home.

It was a simple word, and yet it was one which held such resonance, such power to whip up a cauldron of emotions, and it was one which she had avoided using for the last ten years because the thought of it caused so much pain.