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

Chapter Eighteen

The guilt Chloe had harboured since that fateful night at the end of June intensified, and for a moment she struggled to breath as her brain was bombarded with so many conflicting emotions she felt disorientated. By the time she had regained her faculties, she regretted her decision to divulge such a momentous admission without first making sure she had her subsequent explanation straight in her head.

‘The fire was your fault?’ Nick stared at her, his eyes wide, confusion – and a distinct hint of concern – written across his handsome face. ‘I… I don’t understand.’

‘Oh, no, I don’t mean… no, the fire was caused by an electrical fault in an old fairground carousel that Dexter Hawkins had hired for the Blossomwood Bay midsummer fayre.’

‘Ah, okay, so how was it your fault?’

‘Because… because my beach hut was the nearest to the carousel, which meant that it was the first one to catch fire, and… well… there was a lot of highly flammable alcohol stored there, which acted as an accelerant to spread the fire swiftly to the other seven huts on the boardwalk, destroying the hopes, the dreams, and the livelihoods of my friends and fellow business owners before anyone could do anything to stop it.’

Tears slid down Chloe’s cheeks and, unable to look Nick in the eye after her heartbreaking confession, she began scrabbling in her pocket for a tissue to give herself time to compose herself . To her surprise, and gratitude, instead of gaping at her in abject horror at the terrible tragedy she had hastened, Nick reached out and laced his fingers through hers, giving her hand a supportive squeeze.

‘Chloe, you are not responsible for what happened.’

‘I’m—’

‘Were you there when it happened?’

‘No, the fire started in the middle of the night.’

‘So how do you know that it was your gin that accelerated the fire?’

‘I think that’s—’

‘I assume the cause was formally investigated?’

‘Yes, it was. That’s how we know it was the carousel’s electrics.’

‘And did the report mention your distillery as a potential contributor?’

‘No, it didn’t, but—’

‘Were the beach huts made of wood?’

‘Yes, they were.’

‘Which is also a highly flammable material.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘So, you think that if there had been no alcohol stored in your hut, the fire wouldn’t have spread, and your friends’ businesses would have been spared? What other trades were practiced in the beach huts?’

‘Well, there was Tilly’s photographic studio and gallery.’

‘Did she use chemicals in her darkroom?’

‘I suppose she might—’

‘What else?’

‘There was Suzie’s artisan jewellery studio.’

‘Did she use soldering equipment? A blow torch for instance?’

‘Yes, I think she—’

‘What else?’

‘There was Freya’s aromatherapy studio.’

‘Did she sell any products to her clients?’

‘Yes, soaps, bath bombs, candles…’

‘Candles? So she more than likely had paraffin on her premises?’

‘I’m not sure—’

‘What I’m trying to say, Chloe, is that you can’t blame yourself for what happened. You didn’t start the fire, no one did. It was an accident. No one is to blame, including you.’

Chloe finally met Nick’s eyes, and she saw only sympathy there. She glanced down at her lap where their hands remained entwined, and to her amazement, she found she wanted to continue to unburden herself, to delve into the deepest, darkest crevices of her soul and shine a light on a few more painful issues she had avoided dealing with for too long. It was as though now that she had released the brake, the confession juggernaut was careering down the hill and there was nothing she could do to stop it, even if she wanted to.

‘There’s something else.’

Nick didn’t reply, but she felt him give her hand an encouraging squeeze of support.

‘I haven’t been able to tell my dad about my current living arrangements, because I haven’t told him about the fire. And… I can’t tell him about the fire, because I haven’t told him about relocating to Devon. I know this sounds awful, and it is, but… well, he thinks I’m still living in London, in the flat I used to share with Harry, and that I’m still working as a lawyer at one of the foremost legal practices in the capital.’

‘Why haven’t you said anything?’

‘I’ve already told you how important being successful is to my dad; he worked hard, really hard, to climb the career ladder, scoring promotion after promotion, until he finally landed his dream job at a global pharmaceutical company. He wanted my sister Martha and I to fulfil our potential, too, so that we can live a financially secure, and therefore stable, life. As we’d already experienced enough pain to last us all a lifetime, I just did what I thought would make my dad happy, and whenever things didn’t quite go according to plan, I’d fix a smile on my face and tell him that everything was fine. Unfortunately, it grew into a habit I couldn’t break.’

Chloe stalled. She was astonished she was talking about issues that hitherto she had been at pains to avoid, and revealing parts of her soul that she hadn’t even shared with Harry. She was amazed at how natural it felt to be sitting here, in Ruth’s cosy library, surrounded by all these wonderful books – whose authors had no doubt left a piece of their own souls within the yellowing pages – sharing confidences with Nick.

It felt good to be open and honest, to show her vulnerability and know that she wasn’t letting anyone down or causing them unnecessary pain. But could she continue? Could she disclose the reason behind her father’s workaholic tendencies, and eliminate the toxic fiends who had infiltrated so much of her life over the last twelve years once and for all?

If she didn’t do it now, when would she do it?

‘It’s not my dad’s fault he ended up focussing so much on his work. He did it because it was the only way he could function after… after…’ Tears trickled down Chloe’s cheeks, but she let them flow as she gathered every ounce of her courage to say what to her were the most agonising words in the English language. ‘After my mum passed away.’

‘Oh, Chloe, I’m so very sorry.’

Now that she had started, she wanted Nick to know the whole story, so she wiped her tears away with the cuff of her hoodie, took a confidence-boosting sip of her wine, and inhaled a steadying breath.

‘I was fifteen. I knew Mum was ill, but she always had such a positive outlook on life, refusing to be miserable or to dwell on her predicament, that when she passed away it was a tremendous shock. My dad… well, I think he just went to pieces. Within weeks he’d sold our happy home in the Oxfordshire countryside and moved us to Pimlico where he’d grown up, securing a position as a lecturer at UCL, and he just threw himself into work.

‘He worked every hour he could, which left him with very little time for anything else, including me and Martha. We both learned very quickly that talking about what had happened didn’t help, in fact it made things worse, so we fashioned ourselves a hard outer shell – sort of like an invisible suit of armour – with which to protect ourselves, pretending that all was well in our lives to make Dad’s life as easy as possible, so that our family could continue to function as best it could.

‘That’s why Martha applied to study chemistry – like Dad did – and I chose to study law. When we got the grades we needed to go to university, he told us how proud he was of us and what we’d achieved, and how he hoped we would go on to have stellar careers, just as he had. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I really wanted to be an artist, or that the only time I was able to throw off the constant shroud of grief was when I was splashing paint on big, bold canvases.’

She paused, thinking about those rare moments of pleasure in the school’s art department when she could lose herself in creating her vibrant artwork. Those sessions – and the compassion of her art teacher, Mrs Dobson – had been an essential safety valve that had served to reduce the pressure that had built from failing to acknowledge the effect that losing her beloved mum had had on her, and not taking the time to grieve properly for fear of upsetting her father.

Chloe sighed. The only movement in the room was the swaying pendulum of the grandfather clock behind the piano and the flickering flame of the candle on the mantlepiece that cast the scent of Christmas spices into the air. Mitzy had long since disappeared into the kitchen when she realised there were no more treats on offer and was probably curled up in her basket dreaming of chasing rabbits through the apple orchard on a warm summer’s day.

‘I’m sorry, Chloe, you must miss your mum so much.’

All she could do was nod in acknowledgement.

A few seconds later, Nick pushed himself out of his chair and pulled Chloe up to join him. Without uttering another word, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her into a hug, holding her tight as she waited for the turmoil that raged through her body to slow, and for the calmness that Ruth’s library – and the rest of the farmhouse – instilled in its unsuspecting occupants to return.

As she stood there, safe in Nick’s embrace, she experienced an all-encompassing sense of peace, as though she had smoothed out the jumble of trauma that had taken up residence in her head. While she still harboured a residual feeling of loss that she knew would take years to fade, her overriding emotion in that moment was one of relief, and a little twist of elation, that she had finally been able to speak to someone about what had happened and the world hadn’t imploded.

‘Thanks, Nick,’ she murmured, her voice muffled by his sweater.

When she eventually extricated herself from his arms, she chanced a glance upwards at his face and what she saw there caused her heart to skip a beat. She smiled at him, expecting him to release her now that her emotions had settled, but he continued to hold her gaze, a question in his soft brown eyes.

Time seemed to stand still.

A waft of Nick’s cologne lingered in the air between them, causing a sizzle of attraction to zip through Chloe’s veins and sending her senses into overdrive. Her breath quickened, her heartrate increased, and all she could think about was Nick’s fingertips resting on her forearm, the wisp of his warm breath on her cheek, and how much she really, really wanted him to kiss her.

After what seemed like an eternity, she took a tentative step forward and immediately she was in his arms, the contours of her body moulding perfectly with his. And then, at last, his lips were on hers; soft, gentle, a mere whisper of a touch, sending delicious spasms of electricity spiralling out to every extremity.

Nick pulled away briefly to check on her reaction, and when she smiled at him, he kissed her again, this time with increasing passion, his palm snaking around to the nape of her neck to draw her ever closer so he could kiss her more deeply, more thoroughly, while his thumb caressed the delicate area along her hairline, causing her to tremble with delight.

She kissed him back, again, and again, and again, savouring the feel of his mouth on hers, relishing the ripples of burgeoning desire that rolled through her chest and down into her abdomen, vividly aware of the amplified beating of her heart against her ribcage, which told her everything she needed to know about how she felt about him.

She wished their embrace could go on for ever, but that wasn’t to be. However, when they finally drew apart, her body tingled from head to toe. Her long-dormant passion had been reignited by the intense pleasure created by the strength of Nick’s kisses and the fragrance of his spicy cologne, which now lingered on her skin.

‘Come on, let’s get a nightcap.’

Nick slipped his hand into hers and guided her from the library into the kitchen, where he fixed them both a brandy. As she sat at the scarred wooden table, she felt as though she was floating on air, that what had happened since the end of the film was a mere dream from which she would wake any minute.

Later, when she lay in bed staring at the ceiling in the loft, examining the diversity of the emotions she had experienced that evening, she realised that while she had shared a great deal of herself with Nick, he still hadn’t revealed what was in his heart to her . She knew there was something else going on, beyond the breakdown of his relationship with Louise, from the way his eyes became wary, fearful even, whenever she spoke of her own issues.

She realised that he, too, had erected barriers to protect himself from the scrutiny of others, and whatever it was that he was hiding was the reason she had felt a connection, an affinity with him from the moment they’d met. Then it hit her like a thunderbolt; the reason he saw her, the reason he understood her, was because he had experienced a similar trauma, and she chastised herself for not digging deeper.

However, she had tried to raise the subject of his past, several times in fact, including that very night when she had asked him what about his life in Guildford, but it seemed he was more skilful, or perhaps more practiced, than she was at keeping his private life, well, private . She couldn’t criticise him for that; she had been concealing the truth about her circumstances from anyone and everyone for months, if not years.

Nevertheless, she had bared her soul to him, told him things she had not told even her closest friends, spoken about the loss of her beloved mum, too, which she didn’t do lightly, and he still hadn’t felt able to reciprocate by sharing his own innermost thoughts with her. Not even after they’d exchanged kisses and were sitting having a nightcap in the farmhouse kitchen – a place for confidences if ever there was one.

Why was that?

As she finally succumbed to the inexorable lure of the sleep fairies, she made a promise that, before she left Perrinsby, she would find a way to offer Nick the same listening ear as he had offered to her, and maybe he, too, would find a modicum of peace in sharing what he’d been through, just as she had.