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

Chapter Twenty Two

When Chloe woke the following day, she experienced something she hadn’t experienced for a long, long time. A feeling of belonging; not just there in Cornwall, or in Perrinsby, or under the roof of Ruth’s luxury countryside retreat, but amongst the community, and more especially, with Nick.

She jumped out of bed and headed for the shower, pausing to glance out of the window at the view, and was relieved to see that the torrential rain that had continued well into the night – joined at one point by a spate of thunder and lightning – had moved off to batter those who lived further east. As she rinsed the shampoo from her eyes, butterflies were having a party in her stomach when she thought about the long, lingering kisses she and Nick had shared when he'd walked her back to the barn the previous evening.

The fact that Nick had shared his story with her meant so much, and she experienced a surge of excitement that she had the good fortunate to be spending Christmas with him, in this wonderful place. She realised with a jolt that the big day was now only six days away, and so she decided that she would go pick up her car to head to the nearest town to stock up on the groceries they would need for Christmas dinner, as well as buy a small gift to put in Nick’s stocking as a token of her gratitude for his kindness.

However, she needed no reciprocal gift from him; bringing her to Perrinsby was the best Christmas present she could have wished for. She had never dared to believe she would end up in a place where she felt so welcome, so completely at home, and so much a part of the community. Perrinsby felt like a place she could stay forever, watching the apples ripen year after year.

She dressed in jeans and a hoodie for her trip to the supermarket, and was sitting at the breakfast bar making a list of what she thought they might need, when her phone buzzed. When she saw the caller ID, she smiled, settling back on the barstool to listen to Hannah tell her about how her night had ended.

‘Hi, Hannah.’

‘Oh, Chloe, I’m so glad you picked up.’

Chloe couldn’t help noticing the hint of panic in Hannah’s voice, and a zip of concern flashed through her chest.

‘Why? What’s wrong?’ She heard a cross between a gulp and a sob and her concern ballooned into full-blown anxiety. ‘Hannah? What’s happened?’

‘It’s Jake. Oh, I feel awful, so awful, and just when everything was going really well, too.’

‘Hannah!’

‘Jake’s sick. He’s been up all night vomiting. He thinks it’s food poisoning, and apparently the only thing he ate yesterday were the fairywand biscuits I gave him with his coffee. Oh, Chloe, I’ve ruined everything. It was a stupid thing to do, and now I’ve made him ill, and when he finds out what I did, he’ll hate me forever.’

‘Oh, Hannah, I’m so sorry.’

A somersault of remorse rolled through Chloe’s stomach for the part she had played in the episode. She realised how irresponsible it was to add an ingredient she’d never heard of to a batch of biscuits and then offer them to a stranger to sample. What if Jake – and Audrey and Joe who had also taste-tested the cookies, despite her objections – were allergic to the herb? What was she thinking? Oh god, she could have killed someone!

‘Is Jake okay?’

‘I’m going over there now to see him and to tell him what I’ve done.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘No, I have to do this on my own. I gave the biscuits to him.’

‘Why not take Fran? She knows how you feel; she’ll support you.’

Chloe could hear Hannah crying now.

‘Oh, Chloe, this is the worst Christmas ever. Apparently, he feels so rotten he’s not even sure he’ll be able to perform in the pantomime. When Liz finds out that it’s my fault that she’s an oak tree down, she’ll hate me too.’

‘She won’t hate you, and neither will Jake, if you tell him why you did it .’

‘I’m not sure I can tell him that, not now.’

‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned since arriving in Perrinsby, it’s that being open and honest about our feelings is always the best way of dealing with any issue, no matter how insignificant or monumental it is.’

‘Thanks, Chloe, you’re a good friend.’

Chloe wasn’t sure she deserved that accolade, and after wishing Hannah good luck with her mission, she sat for several minutes staring at the blank screen of her phone, ruing her decision to interfere with the rollercoaster ride of romance – especially someone else’s.

However, when she’d had time to think about it, while she didn’t doubt that Jake was sick, she wasn’t sure about his contention that all he’d eaten the previous day was a few of Hannah’s biscuits. In fact, she’d personally seen him and his friend Theo, who was playing Oak Tree No. 2 , devour several huge bags of crisps washed down with the bottles of Sunny Smile cider he’d asked to sample. She also knew that Nick had eaten a couple of the biscuits before she’d put them in the Tupperware box, some twelve hours before Jake had consumed them, and he’d been okay when she’d left him the previous night.

She collected her shopping list and was about to head over to Joe’s garage, when her phone buzzed again, her heart quickening at the thought that it could be Hannah, texting to tell her that Jake was on his way to hospital.

That disturbing image meant that when she saw her sister’s name pop up on the screen, she heaved a sigh of relief, until she read her text. She didn’t blame Martha for her rather to-the-point missive. It was understandable that she was disappointed to have found out Chloe wasn’t going to San Francisco from her father rather than from Chloe herself.

She was about to text Martha back with a message of contrition, but she decided that having a conversation would be the more conciliatory course of action. She knew she should have called her, but she also knew that if she had, there was a likelihood that her sister would have persuaded her to go to California, and she hadn’t wanted to deal with what that would entail. She selected Martha’s number and was about to swipe her finger across the screen when there was a loud knock on the door.

Keen to see Nick, she skipped down the stairs. She had just crouched down to collect an envelope with her name scrawled on the front when there was another, more insistent knock, and when she opened the door, she was surprised to see that it wasn’t Nick, but Liz.

‘Oh, thank goodness. Is Nick with you?’

‘No, he’s not. He’ll be at the farmhouse.’

‘I’ve tried there, there’s no answer, and I see his car’s missing, too.’

Chloe glanced across the courtyard to where the silver Range Rover was still parked where Nick had left it last night underneath the canopy. She was just about to point that fact out to Liz when she noticed there were tears in her eyes.

‘Liz, what’s the matter?’

‘It’s the village hall. Oh, sorry.’ Liz reached into the pocket of her navy-blue padded jacket and removed a bunch of tissues to dab the tears from her cheeks. ‘I tried to call Nick first thing this morning to ask him if he’d come over and help us, but his phone is switched off, so I came over here to talk to him instead. We need as many hands on deck as possible.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘A couple of roof tiles were dislodged during the storm last night, and rain got in through the hole in the roof, flooding part of the backstage area. It’s not too bad, an hour or so with mops and buckets will sort it out, but the scenery boards were directly underneath the rupture and there’s no paint left on any of them. All Ryan’s hard work has been completely destroyed. It’s heartbreaking, and we’ll need to decide whether or not to cancel the shows. I mean, how can we put on a pantomime with no background scenery? I also haven’t been able to get hold of Ryan to ask him if he can at least re-do one of the scenes for us, maybe the dining room scene where Goldilocks breaks Baby Bear’s chair and eats his porridge.’

‘I’m so sorry, Liz. Ryan told me yesterday that he was flying out to Florida first thing this morning to spend Christmas with family.’

‘And Nick? Do you know where he is?’

‘I don’t.’

Chloe glanced at the envelope in her hand, then at Liz. She ran her finger under the flap and pulled out a piece of rose-bedecked writing paper that obviously belonged to Ruth and scanned the contents, which she was pleased to see ended with a hand-drawn sketch of a snowman.

‘He says he’s had to dash back up to Guildford for an emergency business meeting and that he’ll be back late tomorrow night or Friday morning at the latest. But Liz, I’m happy to help. I’m a dab hand with a mop and bucket, just point me in the right direction.’

‘Thanks, Chloe.’

‘I’ll go grab my coat.’

She ran back up the stairs to the loft, collected her coat and bag, then paused to send Nick a quick text, saying she hoped that all was well and asking him to give her a call when he arrived in Guildford. A small part of her wished he’d woken her before he left so that maybe she could have gone with him, or at least offered to look after Mitzy for him, but she didn’t know what time that was, so she tried not to dwell on it.

Ten minutes later, she and Liz were walking through the door of the village hall to be met by Liz’s husband Gordon, Fran and her husband Derek, and a man with a bushy brown beard and a ruby earring who was clutching the handle of a mop as though his life depended on it. However, there was no sign of anyone else, which Chloe thought was strange. She’d assumed the whole village would have turned out to help return the hall to its former warm, cosy and dry glory.

‘Where is everyone?’

‘We’ve only called the caretaker,’ said Liz. ‘We didn’t want to upset anyone until we’d had the chance to assess the damage and made a decision about what we’re going to do.’

‘Well, if you want my opinion,’ said the caretaker, ‘it’s cancel.’

‘Thank you for your input, Mr Griffiths, but if the show can go on, it will go on.’

With an audible sniff of disdain, Fran strode past him and headed to the backstage area, coming to a halt where there were over a dozen orange buckets filled to the brim with water, above which was a small hole in the roof around six inches square.

‘Derek’s already spoken to a roofer friend of ours who’s offered to fix the tiles and replaster the ceiling in return for a couple of pints of Guinness. Harvey is already on his way, and he’s promised to have it done by lunchtime. If the six of us work together, we can mop up the water, clear away the debris, and then use the fan heaters to dry everything out.’

‘But what about the scenery, Fran?’ said Liz, distress written clearly across her face. ‘We can’t put on a pantomime without background scenery. It’ll look slapdash and amateurish, and you know how hard I strive to put on a professional production!’

Now that Chloe was standing backstage, she could see for herself the damage the rainwater had caused to the scenery boards, which no longer in any way resembled the interior of the Three Bears’ house, although the tri-folding canvases featuring the woodland did have a certain Monet-esque beauty about them.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll sort something out, Liz,’ said Fran, linking her arm through her friend’s. ‘But first we need to tidy this mess up. Come on, let’s get busy.’

Under the choreographed direction of Fran, they all grabbed either a mop, a cloth, or a sponge and began the arduous task of soaking up as much of the water as they could. Then, Derek, Gordon and Chloe got down on their hands and knees and dried the floor with paper towels.

‘Okay, time for a break, I think,’ said Fran, heading into the kitchen.

As Chloe waited for Fran to make the drinks – and set out a selection of her signature mince pies on a large silver platter – she checked her phone for messages and was surprised to see she had two, neither of which were from Nick as she had hoped.

The first was an email from The Cornish Cider Symposium to say that they regretted to inform them that their posthumous entry of Pendragon cider on behalf of Martyn Marston had been disqualified as the rules of the competition clearly stated that entries should be from commercial enterprises only. Barry Hartfield, the author of the disappointing missive, then, helpfully, went on to provide a list of contests that were open for entries by “hobbyists”.

Chloe read through the email again, just to make doubly sure that there was no mention of the cider they had submitted in her name – the Sunny Smile cider – despite them recording the address where the cider had been created as Fairholme Farm. She assumed it must have been an oversight, and couldn’t help being disappointed about the symposium’s decision, not for herself, but for Martyn and Ruth.

She selected the second message and saw it was from her sister, with a row of exclamation marks in the subject line. She sighed and decided to grab her drink before finding a seat and opening the email.

It wasn’t unusual for her to receive an email from her sister. She was so busy with work that this had become her preferred way of communicating and Chloe had grown used to it, even preferring it herself as it meant that when her sister asked an awkward question – because she always asked awkward questions – unlike in a telephone conversation, she had plenty of time to compose a reasoned, and if necessary, suitably vague, reply.

She inhaled a breath and was about to open the email when the name of the writer herself flashed up on the screen and she knew she was in trouble.

‘Hi, Chloe, how are things with you?’

‘Hi, Martha, all’s well here. You?’

‘Like I said in my text, I had a call from Dad. To be honest, I was so shocked, I thought it must be bad news, and I was right, it was. Why didn’t you tell me you’re not going over to San Francisco for Christmas?’

‘I’m sorry, I was going to call you but—’

‘So when you spoke to him, did you tell him you’re not living in London anymore?’

‘No, I didn’t, but I—’

‘Oh, Chloe, you need to tell him, you really do. I don’t understand what you’re afraid of. It’s cruel hiding the truth from him, and the longer you leave it, the harder it’ll be. How do you think he’ll feel when you tell him that for the last nine months his youngest daughter has been living a completely different life to the one he envisages you’re living?’

‘I’m actually planning to—’

‘Look, Chlo, Dad’s made himself a new life, too. He loves it in San Francisco. He’s got a job he enjoys, and a great apartment overlooking the Bay. He still misses Mum, we all do, but he doesn’t need you to protect him from life’s ups and downs. You’re his daughter, he loves you, and you need to let him in, let him know what’s going on in your world so he can protect you – in as much as he can do that. It’s what he’ll want to do.’ Martha paused, and Chloe knew her sister was grappling with her emotions, which made her feel terrible. ‘Please, please, please, call him, Chlo. Tell him you’ve left London, and that you’re living in Devon, now. You don’t have to tell him about the fire, you can just tell him about the fabulous new mobile cocktail-making business you’ve launched, that you have a cute little flat with a view of the sea, and that you’re happy. That’s all he cares about.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ said Chloe before she could help herself.

Chloe cringed. While Martha knew about her break-up with Harry, that she’d moved from London to Devon, and about the fire and her loss of the gin distillery, she hadn’t confided in her about her homelessness because she knew that was a step too far for even her beloved sister to understand. If she knew she’d been living in her car – even for one night – she’d be completely horrified and would have swooped in and bundled her off to live with her and Marcus in Brighton, and she didn’t want that. She wanted to live her own life, but that didn’t stop her from being embarrassed that she hadn’t made a success of doing that so far.

‘Of course I’m sure. Dad doesn’t deserve to be kept in the dark, Chlo. Please tell him. If you don’t tell him before I see him on Christmas Eve, then I’ll feel honour-bound to tell him myself, but it should really come from you, don’t you think?’

Chloe was about to inform her sister that as there was a possibility she was moving back to the capital in the new year, there was no need to upset their father unnecessarily, but she wasn’t sure whether anything would come of her email to Jonathan. Even if it did, she was genuinely thinking about staying on in Cornwall, and, if she was lucky, maintaining her flourishing relationship with Nick.

‘Okay, Martha, I’ll call him, but can we do it after Christmas? It’s only five days away, and I don’t want to spoil his time away from the office by causing him any distress.’

‘Okay, I’ll keep schtum. I’m really sorry Marcus and I won’t get to see you, Chlo. Shall we meet up for a few drinks in Blossomwood Bay when we get back to celebrate the new year? You know how much of a fan I am of your wonderful gin cocktails!’

‘Sounds fabulous. But I’ll come over to Brighton – there’s way better parties over there.’

‘Great. Love you, Sis.’

‘Love you, too, and send my love to Dad, too.’

‘Will do.’

Chloe remained in her seat for a few minutes, contemplating their conversation. She adored her sister, and she knew she only had her best interests at heart, but now she’d added another layer of worry to her list of how she was going to explain her regrettable actions to her father without him feeling she’d cut him out of a big part of her life.

‘Chloe? Is everything okay? You look troubled.’

‘I’m fine,’ she replied automatically. ‘Thanks, Liz.’

‘I wish I could say the same.’

‘What’s wrong?’

Liz sighed. ‘I have reservations about continuing with the pantomime. I’ve always taken great pride in making sure every detail is perfect, or as perfect as it can be, and I hope I’ve achieved that. If I agree to continue when I know that the show will be second-rate, then I’m not only letting myself down, I’ll be letting the community down too.’

‘It’ll be worse if you cancel, though, won’t it?’

‘Yes, yes it will.’ Liz nodded her head, then smiled. ‘Listen. Can you hear raised voices? That’s Fran in full flow, having… a few strong words with Mr Griffiths, who is adamant in his view that the best course of action is to call off the pantomime. Fran is not having any of it.’

Chloe tucked her phone into the pocket of her jeans and stood up. ‘So, if we want to go ahead with the show, we need to join in and give her our support.’

She and Liz headed backstage to where Fran, Derek, Gordon and the caretaker were standing in front of the ruined scenery.

‘If we cancel, Mr Griffiths,’ said Fran, small red dots appearing in her cheeks. ‘So many people will be disappointed, especially the children. They’ve been looking forward to the pantomime for weeks, if not months, and we’ve prepared over a hundred goody bags for them, too. It would be a complete travesty to cancel because of a little dribble of water and the absence of a colourful backdrop.’

‘We could hold a Christmas party at the pub,’ offered Gordon, after checking with Liz and receiving a nod. ‘Maybe put on a Christmas film in the snug, then play a few party games with balloons and prizes.’

‘It’s hardly the same,’ Fran argued.

‘No, you’re right it’s not,’ said Liz.

‘I still think we can go ahead without the background scenery,’ said Fran, her eyes filled with determination. ‘We’ll just tell the audience that we’re experimenting with a pared-back, modernist twist on the ubiquitous, in-your-face exuberantly colourful backdrop, making the show all about the characters and the script instead.’

‘But it’s a pantomime, Fran,’ said Liz, shaking her head. ‘It’s all about the fun, and the laughter, and the comedy and the big, bold, vibrantly colourful background scenery ! If we do what you’re suggesting it’ll be the most dull and boring subpar pantomime in the whole of Cornwall!’

‘What if we put a call out for another artist to come over and redesign the scenery? I have a few photographs of what the interior looked like when Ryan finished it that we could show to them.’

‘Who’ll have time to drop everything and do that? It’s Christmas! We’d need someone to come first thing tomorrow morning – the day before opening night – and we can hardly expect them to do it for free, because I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that there’s nothing left in the budget.’

Chloe saw tears glistening in Liz’s eyes and Gordon slid his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, then he slid his other arm around Fran, while Derek did the same. Standing there, seeing their desolation, Chloe’s heart gave a sharp pang of sadness, and she wished she could think of something to alleviate their misery.

And then she did.

‘I might have an idea,’ she blurted.

‘You’ve already done enough, Chloe. I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t landed in our little village when you did.’

‘Thanks, Liz. No, I mean I could help with the scenery.’ She paused, wondering if she should really be thinking about raising their hopes, only to disappoint them with what was probably a crazy suggestion. ‘I wanted to be an artist when I left school, but… well, it didn’t work out, and I followed another path. But my art teacher thought I had talent, and my preference was to paint large canvases like these scenery boards. I’ve seen what Ryan created, and with your photos, Fran, I could try to replicate them.’

The four friends stared at her for a beat, then Liz burst into tears and rushed forward to fling her arms around her neck.

‘Really, are you sure?’

‘I can’t promise it’ll be exactly the same, but…’

‘Oh, Chloe, that would be wonderful!’

Fran joined them, followed by Gordon and Derek, and Chloe found herself engulfed in a group hug that made her feel warm and fuzzy inside. Now she was even more determined than ever to find a way of staying on in Perrinsby after Christmas, with these wonderful people who had offered her a safe port in a tumultuous storm.