Page 9 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay (Sturcombe Bay Romances #3)

Memories. Alex strolled along the Esplanade, his mind drifting back . . . what, twenty-five years and more to when he was six, seven, eight years old, visiting his grandfather with his mom and dad and his older brother David.

The sand here was perfect for sandcastles. They’d built the most amazing constructions, with moats and drawbridges and battlements. And they’d swum in the sea. He’d like to do that now, but it was probably a bit too cold at this time of year.

There was something so very English about this small town, with its fish and chip shop, its noisy amusement arcade, and a shop defiantly displaying colourful baskets of plastic buckets and spades, beachballs and frisbees in spite of the dwindling number of tourists.

Next to it was a shop selling all sorts of kitsch knick-knacks: glass paperweights with tiny mermaids or pirate ships inside them, mugs with garishly painted seaside scenes, colourful tea cloths with images of the sea front and ‘A Present from Sturcombe’ printed on them.

Maybe he’d buy his brother one of those china trinket trays decorated with sea shells. It would be perfect for holding paperclips, but look suitably embarrassing on his desk in his high-powered law office.

Did people really buy this sort of thing these days? There must be a market for them he supposed. Perhaps, like him, people bought them as tongue-in-cheek gifts for family and friends.

Ah, that was more like it. There were some framed watercolours of the bay and the village which were quite good. His dad would love one of those.

Inside, the shop was like an Aladdin’s cave: postcards, a rack of plastic wallets and purses, and another of fridge magnets.

And a shelf of Christmas knick-knacks — cheery red-cheeked Santas and elves in green pointy hats, popping up out of colourful cardboard tubs like jack-in-the-boxes, and plush reindeer with bright button eyes and long curling lashes, lined up as if ready to be harnessed to a sleigh.

The elderly woman behind the counter looked a little surprised to have a customer. “Hello, my luvver. What can I do for you?”

Alex smiled. “I see you have your Christmas stock in early.”

“Oh ah — people are buying them already. Did you want one of them?”

“No. I was looking for something for my mom and dad. Something like this.”

There was a display of pretty jewellery made of sea glass. He chose a pair of earrings for his mother — blue pebbles set in coils of silver. And the trinket tray for David, of course.

“Those paintings,” he asked as he took his selection to the counter. “Are they by a local artist?”

“Oh, ah.” She chuckled with delight. “They’re by my husband. He always dabbled, but after he retired he took it up a bit more.” Another chuckle. “He’s never going to get hung in the National Gallery, but they do well enough down here for folks as want a souvenir. Which one would you like?”

“That one, I think.” He pointed to one of the bay. “Where’s that view from?”

“Ah, that’s from up the top of Cliff Road there.” She gestured to the left, where the Esplanade ended and the road climbed to the higher ground to the east of the bay. “It’s one of his favourite places.”

“Well, it’s very nice. Tell him I said so.” He passed his phone over the scanner. “Actually, it’s for my dad. He was born here in Sturcombe.”

“Oh?”

“Simon Crocombe.”

“Simon?” Her eyes widened. “You mean old Arthur’s boy?”

“That’s right.”

“Well I never!” She was deftly wrapping his purchases as she spoke. “I was at school with him! How’s he doing now?”

“Very well. He moved to Canada, you may know?”

“Really? Oh yes, I remember hearing that. Years ago, weren’t it?”

“That’s right. He’s a television producer — a quiz show. It’s very popular.”

“Goodness, he has done well for himself. Give him my best. Tell him Annie Bickle, as I was in those days. Though I don’t suppose he’ll remember.”

“I’ll tell him.” He took the paper carrier she handed over to him. “Goodbye.”

“’Bye, my luvver. Don’t forget now — Annie Bickle.”

“I won’t forget.” He smiled back over his shoulder as he stepped out into the sunshine . . . and almost collided with Shelley.

“Oh!” She gasped in shock, quickly stepping back. “I’m sorry . . .”

“No, it was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Uh . . . Ah . . .” She was blushing, embarrassed.

He smiled, trying to convey reassurance. “Actually, I was just thinking of getting a coffee. Will you join me?”

She hesitated, that wary look in her eyes.

“Please?” He laughed. “It can be a bit lonely sitting on your own.”

Another hesitation, then she conceded with a small smile. “Well . . . okay. I was just going to get one too.”

“Good. Where . . . ?”

“Not the hotel,” she insisted quickly. “Debbie’s café’s right here. It’s really nice.”

She indicated the small café next door. It was a charming place, the window frame painted ice-cream pink, with the words CupCake Café on the board above, alongside three dancing cupcakes.

“Excellent.”

Shelley’s heart was thumping so hard she was afraid he would hear it. Why had she agreed to have a coffee with him? Of course, it wasn’t so bad going into Debbie’s place. She really couldn’t have a coffee with him in the hotel.

She liked the little café — it was clean and bright, but had an old-fashioned charm, with its cool black-and-white tiled floor, Formica-topped tables and white-painted chairs. The pale-blue walls were hung with colourful framed 1950s-style posters: ‘Welcome to Sturcombe’.

The glass-fronted cabinet at the back displayed a very tempting selection of cakes and scones, all sorts of savouries, and the famous cupcakes.

“This looks nice.” Alex smiled as he glanced around. “Especially those scones.”

“They’re all homemade.”

“Great!”

Debbie’s mum Kate was serving a table, and she glanced over, smiling. “Hi, Shelley. Sit down. I’ll be with you in half a tick.”

There was an empty table by the window. Shelley sat down before Alex could hold her chair out for her and picked up a paper sachet of sugar, twisting it in her fingers, feeling it crunch as she sought for something easy to talk about.

“What have you bought?” she asked.

“A couple of presents for my folks. Earrings for my mom, and a picture of Sturcombe for my dad. The lady in the shop said it was painted by her husband.”

“Oh, yes, George Foale. He does nice pictures. But have you heard about our famous artist?”

“No?” He looked interested.

“His name was Juan-Jorge Conejelo. He was Spanish, but he lived here with Vicky’s Aunt Molly in her cottage up at the top of Church Road.

He painted a really weird portrait of her — it looked as if she was made of wood, but it sold for a fortune.

He did sketches of quite a few other people in the village too.

All women — I don’t think he drew men at all. ”

Alex laughed. “A bit of a Don Juan, was he?”

“Who?” Oh, lord. Should she know that? Would he think she was stupid?

He just smiled. “Another Spaniard — a renowned seducer of women. At least according to Lord Byron.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t think our Juan seduced women.

But the sketches were sold as well. They were bought by an art gallery in Spain.

” Phew. If he had noticed her ignorance, he had let it pass.

“One of them was of Kate’s mum,” she added as Kate came to their table to take their order.

“Wasn’t it, Kate? I was just telling Alex about Juan-Jorge. ”

“Oh, yes.” The older woman’s eyes danced. “Our gorgeous Spanish artist.”

Alex arched one dark eyebrow in amused question. “Gorgeous?”

Kate chuckled. “We found him on the internet. He really was very handsome. Lucky Molly! Anyway, what can I get you?”

“You have to have the scones,” Shelley insisted. “You can’t come to Devon and not have a proper cream tea. Oh, Kate, this is Alex Crocombe. He’s old Arthur’s grandson.”

“Really? Oh, it’s lovely to meet you. Arthur’s a real old rogue, but everybody loves him.”

“Thank you.” He rose to his feet to shake her hand.

“So how long are you staying?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet. My plans are quite flexible.”

“Well, I hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”

“I’m sure I will.”

Shelley was aware of the slight blush of pink that had risen to her cheeks as Alex slid back into the seat opposite her. She really would like him to stay.

Which was stupid. He’d said before that he might be staying a month or so, but she doubted that he’d stay much longer. He’d surely want to be at home with his family for Christmas.

But at least for this moment she could enjoy just sitting here chatting with him.

Mustn’t stare. Even though his face was so beautifully designed, with slanting cheekbones and a hard jaw, and those dark, dark eyes . . . Look at his hands instead. Beautiful hands, with strong wrists and long, sensitive fingers . . .

No, better to look out of the window.

The summer had been glorious, and though it was colder now the blue skies had lingered into October. The sun was sparkling on the sea, and far out beyond the bay a few white-sailed yachts were tacking down the English Channel.

“It’s certainly beautiful here,” Alex remarked.

“It is.”

Kate had brought a tray to their table, with a pretty teapot, milk jug and teacups, four scones, a ramekin of thick golden Devon cream and a small pot of jam. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you.” Alex surveyed the spread. “This looks good. Is it supposed to be cream first or jam first?”

Shelley laughed. “Cream first when you’re in Devon; it’s the other way round in Cornwall.”

“Ah! And they’re wrong, of course?”

“Of course! If you put the jam on first, the cream could slide off into your lap.” She picked up her knife, sliced her scone in half, and scooped a generous spoonful of cream onto it, then dabbed on a little jam. “See?”

They both laughed, and Shelley could feel herself relaxing, beginning to enjoy herself.

“Do you miss your job, flying aeroplanes?” she asked.

“Some elements of it.” He took a bite of his scone. “Flying jets is the most amazing feeling. I flew Hornets, beautiful machines. They can reach a speed of almost Mach two, and climb to fifty thousand feet.”

“What’s Mach two?” She felt safe asking that — it sounded like something technical which an ordinary person wouldn’t be expected to know.

“Twice the speed of sound. That would be fifteen hundred miles an hour. The Hornet can do around twelve hundred.”

“Phew, that’s fast!” She laughed. “Does it have guns and missiles and things?”

“Of course — it’s a fighter. It can take Sidewinders, Sparrows and Mavericks — those are missiles. And it’s got a Vulcan rotary canon with a firing rate of up to six thousand rounds per minute.”

Her eyes widened. “Did you . . . did you ever have to fire them?”

A shadow crossed his face, and she saw memories there of a darkness he wanted to forget. “A couple of times. But mostly we flew defence — securing Canada’s airspace.”

“It sounds really exciting. Why did you leave?”

He laughed dryly. “Flying those things is a young man’s game. If I’d signed on for another tour, I’d have likely been shunted into a desk job, and that’s not my thing. But enough about me.” He spread the second half of his scone. “What about you? Tell me about your life.”

A flicker of an edgy smile. “Oh, there’s not much to tell. I’ve never done anything exciting.”

“Were you born here? In Sturcombe? Or in Devon, eh?”

“No.”

“Where then?” He smiled encouragingly. “I assume you didn’t just spring up out of the ground like a daffodil.”

That dragged a laugh from her, though she could feel the familiar knots twisting in her stomach. “No . . . I was born in London.”

“But you didn’t want to stay there?”

“No. I like it here. The sea and the beach and the countryside.” She paused to pour the tea, taking the moment to find a new topic of conversation. “Is England very different to Canada?”

To her relief he accepted the change of subject without question. “Well, Canada’s a lot bigger, obviously. And there’s some fantastic scenery — a lot of it’s really wild. And there’s a lot of lakes — some figures put it at nearly two million.”

Her eyes widened. “That many?”

“Uh-huh. But England has some very pretty scenery, too, though obviously on a much smaller scale. And some things are similar — most places feel safe, the cops are friendly. Though it took me a while to get used to driving on the wrong side of the road.”

“The wrong side?” she protested, laughingly indignant.

“Well, the other side, I guess.” He picked up his teacup. “And like you Brits, we’re fond of our tea.”

“And you play ice-hockey instead of football.”

“That’s right. Well, we do play football — we call it soccer. We’re not in the top rank, though we have been in the World Cup a couple of times. And it’s not nearly so popular as it is here.”

They chatted easily as they ate their scones. So long as they kept well away from any questions about her past, Shelley felt comfortable. She liked listening to him talk — he had a deep, soft voice, with that fascinating Canadian accent. And when he laughed . . .

“Well, that was good.” At last Alex set down his teacup and smiled at her across the table. “Thank you for keeping a lonely Canadian company.”

“Oh . . .” She returned the smile. “That’s okay.”

“I was just wondering . . . If you have a day off, maybe we could take a drive up to the moors? It’s a long time since I’ve been up there. I used to love going up to see the ponies.”

“Uh . . .”

It was tempting — she really liked him. And he was a real gentleman — she hadn’t met many of those.

But it wouldn’t be wise to let her guard down, she reminded herself sharply.

It would be all too easy to let herself like him too much.

Hadn’t she learned, her whole life, that getting too close to someone only ended in disappointment?

She had to get away before she started to imagine that this could be something more than just a casual encounter, a friendly chat over a cup of tea.

“No. I’m sorry, I can’t.” She flashed him a quick smile. “Hotel policy.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, excuse me. I have to get back — I’ll be late.” She scrambled to her feet. “I . . . Um . . . It’s been nice talking to you. Goodbye.”

Outside, she turned towards the hotel and almost collided with Mike, the manager. Mumbling some sort of apology, she stepped past him and hurried away along the Esplanade.

Dammit, how stupid was she? One smile from those deep brown eyes and she had been ready to throw caution to the wind, step over the line that she had so carefully drawn for herself. Let herself dream.

Impatiently she brushed a wayward tear from the corner of her eye. From now on she would be very careful to avoid him — she was far too attracted to him, and that could be dangerous.