Page 15 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay (Sturcombe Bay Romances #3)

Kate studied her reflection in the mirror. It wasn’t something she did very often, except for a quick check that she looked tidy, her soft brown hair brushed, her shirt buttoned straight.

But this evening she was going out. It wasn’t a date — it was just an evening with an old friend, enjoying a favourite hobby. She had always loved dancing. They all used to go together when her Terry was alive, the two of them with Mike and Sarah.

After Terry died she hadn’t had the heart for it any more. But she hadn’t forgotten the steps. Debbie had always laughed at her when she had waltzed or tangoed around the sitting room when Strictly was on the television.

And now she was going dancing again, after all these years. It had been difficult to decide what to wear. She didn’t really have a ‘going out’ wardrobe any more.

Would the dress she had bought for Debbie’s wedding be suitable? It was pale blue, quite a simple style without the embroidered jacket that went with it. Maybe she could pair it with a dark-blue cardigan and give it a twist with her purple paisley-patterned silk scarf, and a nice pair of earrings.

At least shoes wouldn’t be a problem. She had several pairs of plain black court shoes with low kitten heels which she wore when she was working in the café, so she knew they were comfortable as well as smart.

A glance at her watch told her that it was almost seven o’clock, so she picked up her bag and her jacket and went downstairs to watch for Mike’s car. She didn’t want to keep him waiting.

At exactly two minutes past seven the car pulled up to the kerb. Kate smiled to herself as she went to open the door. Mike had always been punctual. But as soon as he stepped out of the car she knew that there was something wrong.

“Mike? What is it? What’s happened?”

His shoulders were slumped and he looked utterly defeated. “They’re closing the hotel.”

“They . . . what?” She stared at him, startled. “Who is?”

“This new investment fund that’s bought it. They sent a representative down to have a look around, and he decided that we’re not making enough profit for them, so they’re putting it up for auction next month. And if it doesn’t sell, they’re just going to close it.”

“Oh no! Look, come on inside and tell me all about it.” Without thinking, she took his hand and drew him into the café, urging him to sit at one of the tables. “I’ll get us some coffee.”

The barista machine was turned off, but she had some instant for emergencies. In a few moments, she brought two mugs over to the table and sat down opposite him.

“I don’t get it.” She shook her head, frowning. “Why did they buy the place if they don’t want to keep it open?”

“They didn’t particularly want to buy it.

It just came as part of the package when they took over the Nordicote Group.

Nordicote had bought it as part of another group four years ago, and there was another group that owned it before that.

None of them have taken much interest in it, they haven’t wanted to invest in it.

They’ve just let it get more and more run down, until we’re where we are now.

” His voice was laced with a bitterness she had never heard from him before. “Not worth keeping open.”

“But it’s not that run down,” Kate protested, indignant on his behalf. “Yes, it needs a bit of work — the paintwork could be freshened up, a few new carpets — but people come back year after year because they love it.”

He sighed heavily. “Our old faithfuls. The trouble is that there’s not enough of them, and they’re all elderly.

In a few more years there won’t be many of them left.

We have the golfers through the summer, and the Turkey-and-Tinsel people around Christmas, but .

. . Do you know, the swimming pool’s been empty for five years?

It was hardly used, and we couldn’t afford to heat it. ”

“Oh, Mike . . .” She reached across the table and took both his hands in hers. “But if they’re putting it up for auction, someone might buy it.”

“But not to keep it open. They’ll demolish it for . . . I don’t know, another caravan site or something. At least that would be better than just leaving it derelict.”

“And what about you?” she asked gently. “What will you do?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I’m fifty-seven years old — too young to get my pension, too old for anyone to employ me. Except for stacking shelves in a supermarket, maybe. Collecting trolleys.”

She felt her heart crease. “Don’t fret about it, Mike. Something will turn up.”

“Maybe.” He managed a smile, squaring his shoulders. “But worrying about it won’t butter the parsnips, as my mother used to say. Come on, let’s go dancing.”

* * *

The dance school was on the upper floor above a row of shops. Kate was a little hesitant as they climbed the stairs, not sure what to expect. It was so long since she’d been dancing.

There was a small lobby where patrons could leave their coats, and a hatch into a kitchenette where teas and coffees could be prepared.

The ballroom was a good size, with a gleaming hardwood floor and wooden chairs round the walls, and soft lighting from amber LED bulbs set in the ceiling.

There were about two dozen people there, the women outnumbering the men by almost two to one. Kate could see why a man on his own, especially a good dancer like Mike, would be very much in demand.

And not only for his dancing. In his mid-fifties, he was still a good-looking man. His hair and his beard were both neatly trimmed, though touched with grey. His eyes were grey and gentle, with a faint tracery of smile lines around them.

He was tall — close to six feet — and lean without being skinny. And very smart in a navy-blue suit, with a crisp white shirt and maroon tie. Her presence was going to cause a lot of disappointment.

She slanted a quick glance up at him, and he smiled reassuringly. “Come over and say hello to Theresa, our teacher.”

The teacher was an elegant woman with neat auburn hair, wearing a pale-blue skirt with a white blouse, her make-up immaculate. She extended a perfectly manicured hand when Mike introduced her to Kate.

“Ah, yes. Welcome. Have you danced before?”

“Well, a long time ago.”

“We’ve danced at a couple of weddings recently,” Mike put in. “She’s really good.”

“Oh . . . well, I wouldn’t say that,” Kate protested.

Theresa smiled. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine with Mike. Let’s just see how you get along.” She turned towards the hall and clapped her hands. “Okay, people. Are we ready to begin?”

Kate felt a flutter of nerves in the pit of her stomach as the music started and Mike put his hand on her back, turning her towards the dance floor.

It was one thing dancing with him at Debbie’s and Vicky’s weddings, but here, with all these experienced dancers watching her, probably wondering who she was and what she was doing with Mike, she was desperately aware of being an absolute beginner.

For the first time she understood what they meant by that expression ‘two left feet’. She felt as if hers were three times their normal size, and they were refusing to do what her brain was telling them.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered as her knee knocked against his, forcing him to stop and restart.

“Don’t worry.” He smiled down at her. “Just relax and listen to the music — it’ll tell you what to do.”

She nodded and closed her eyes, letting the simple melody with its underlying three-beat rhythm seep into her brain.

And somehow the old memories came back to her, as if her body knew what to do without her having to think about it.

It seemed to lift her inches above the polished floor as Mike led her into a swirling turn around the room.

For a fleeting moment she was dancing with her Terry, but then, with one of his cocky grins, he faded away and she was dancing with Mike. And it felt . . . right.

* * *

They danced a waltz and a slow foxtrot, but the Viennese Waltz was Mike’s favourite.

He loved the swoop and flow of it, the simplicity of the steps, the music.

Whether they were dancing to Strauss or Shostakovich, or something modern, it had a grace and elegance unmatched, in his opinion, by any other dance.

And Kate was a delight to dance with — light on her feet and following his lead as if they had been dancing together for years. Why hadn’t he thought of asking her before?

Because . . . it had felt a little awkward. She’d been his wife’s best friend. He had so many memories of them together: coming home from a shopping trip laden with bags, laughing in the kitchen as they cooked up a lasagne or a Thai curry.

Kate sitting with Sarah as she had slowly slipped away from them.

He had valued the comfort of her friendship since then as someone who had known and loved Sarah as he had. They had often spoken of her: ‘Sarah would have laughed at that’. And he knew the flowers that often appeared on Sarah’s grave were from Kate.

Then he had danced with her at Vicky and Tom’s wedding . . . and something seemed to have slipped a little sideways. He wasn’t just thinking of her as Sarah’s friend any more. He was thinking of her as a woman. An attractive woman.

Oh lord, she’d be so embarrassed if she ever guessed.