Page 10 of Christmas at the Little Cornish Bakery

Dear Diary,

I’m writing this while I’m on the train.

We left Paddington first thing and I feel like we’ve been travelling forever.

We’ve played four rounds of rummy, eaten our sandwiches and now Ida is telling us all about how she wants her wedding dress to look.

Jack hasn’t even proposed yet, although, I’m sure it doesn’t hurt for a girl to be prepared.

Joan is asking all the right questions, she’s much more interested in settling down than I am, although she’s not sweet on any of the men trying to court her.

I’m keeping my cards close to my chest where Ernest is concerned, even though they keep asking.

He’s nice and all that, the dependable sort, but I want more than nice and dependable.

I daren’t say it out loud to anyone in case they think I have foolish notions, but I want love, grand sweeping fairy-tale love, the sort that knocks your socks off.

And he must be dashing. Now that does sound silly.

Later .?.?.

Cornwall is magnificent! Very much worth sitting on the train all day for!

Oh my! It’s like nowhere I could ever have imagined.

Everything is so clear and bright, the sky is cloudless and blue and the sea, I had no idea the sea could be so clear!

It sparkles! The air is sweet, I keep taking big deep breaths of it like it’s going to clean the London smog from my lungs.

The house is gorgeous, like a palace, although Ida and I downplayed our excitement because Joan didn’t seem all that wild about the house.

Then again she came here as a child. But it’s huge!

There’s a chequerboard floor, a sweeping staircase and we each have our own room.

There’s a housekeeper, not that we’ve seen her, but someone had left us some provisions.

Joan has the master bedroom at the front of the house even though both Ida and I would’ve liked it.

We’re at the back. If I push the window open I can hear the sea.

The village is called Polcarrow. It’s built on a very steep hill, we’re right at the top as if we’re presiding over everyone else like lords of the manor.

Lola gasped. There it was, written in blue ink in Ruby’s own handwriting, the confirmation that Ruby had been here in Polcarrow, that her link to the village was more than just a name beside a recipe or a holiday destination visited briefly.

Lola hugged the book to her chest and exhaled, a sense of connection travelling from the pages to Lola’s heart.

Excitement bubbling in her veins, Lola lifted the book and finished the entry.

I wonder what the locals think of Joan’s uncle building this big house at the top of the hill so he can keep watch.

I’m not sure I’d like it if I was one of them.

It’s tranquil, picturesque, though. I wish I could capture the colour of the sea so that I could show everyone back home what it’s like because I don’t think they’ll believe me.

Hmm . . . a house on a steep hill? No way?

Could it be Bayview? Lola couldn’t help but laugh at the coincidence.

There was only one house she knew of that had a sweeping staircase and a chequerboard floor.

The coincidences were scary but delightful.

Snapping the book shut and slipping it back into her handbag, Lola gave the café its end-of-the-day clean, put the remaining cakes away and locked the door.

Retreating into the kitchen, Lola swapped her floral apron for a special Christmas print one she’d bought for the sole purpose of making Christmas cakes.

With December approaching like an out of control snowball, she knew she had to get on with the first batch.

Flicking the radio on, she danced around the kitchen, pulling various bowls and chopping boards out of the cupboards, when a sharp knock at the kitchen door made her jump out of her skin.

After turning the radio down, Lola cautiously approached the door where a tall shadow loomed through the glass.

Slowly Lola opened the door, half wondering if she should have kept hold of one of her kitchen knives just in case it was an intruder.

Relief washed through her when she saw Tristan, black coat zipped up against the cold November air.

She hadn’t seen him since the previous afternoon when they’d studied the photo together.

Lola brushed away the thought that she’d missed him.

‘What a relief!’ Lola sighed. ‘I thought you might be a burglar or something.’

Alarm flashed across Tristan’s face. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, but the front door was locked and . . .’

Lola couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Don’t worry, but I usually find teenage girls hanging around the back door wanting their palms read, rather than vicars on secret missions. I’m assuming this is a secret mission, what with the black clothes and the sneaking about?’

Tristan laughed. ‘I guess it is, yes. Do you really read palms at the back door?’ he said, glancing down at his own palm, looking at the lines there, amazed that they might mean something.

‘Sometimes. Come inside, you’re letting all the warmth out, and I’ll show you.’ Lola stepped back to let Tristan in.

‘Ah, the inner sanctum,’ he said reverently as he looked around the kitchen.

Lola watched him as he took everything in with the sort of awe people usually only used when admiring grand works of art.

The shelves were all neatly stacked with bags of ingredients and boxes of eggs from the local farm.

Spare teapots and crockery sat on the top shelves.

His eyes took it all in until they fell back on Lola as if she was the most amazing thing in the room.

‘Take your coat off if you’re staying,’ Lola said, holding her hand out for it.

Once Tristan had unzipped it and extracted himself from his scarf, he passed them to Lola, who hung them on a peg by the door.

‘Now, sit on that stool.’ She signalled towards a slightly rickety stool, which she had painted red with white dots especially for this venture.

Tristan sat down and held out his hands expectantly. Lola’s heart melted a bit more to see how adorably out of his comfort zone he was. She pulled a second stool over to him and sat down, knee to knee. ‘Which hand do you write with?’ For a second she felt as if she should know this.

‘This one.’ Tristan waggled his right.

Reaching out, Lola took his hand in both of hers and gently began to trace the lines, smiling to herself as the contact sent a jolt through Tristan.

‘Sorry, I’ll be gentle,’ she said, her mind going momentarily blank as she thought of where holding hands like this could lead.

‘Erm .?.?. here is your, erm, lifeline. Congratulations, you’re going to live to a ripe old age, you might even give Alf a run for his money.

I can’t see any major health issues, maybe back pain as you get older, and you need to be careful with your knees if you want to keep running,’ she forewarned with a smile, catching his eye.

‘Your faith shows up as strong, which shouldn’t be a surprise given your job! ’

Tristan laughed. ‘What a relief! Imagine if it said I was meant to be a footballer or an accountant or something.’

‘Well, I can see you were good at sports as a child and had a well-supported childhood and were given a lot of freedom to pursue your own path in life. Did you lose someone when you were about ten?’

‘My grandfather when I was nine. Does that show up?’ Tristan asked with amazement.

Lola nodded. ‘Yes, this little cross here, it shows trauma, but I’m glad to report you don’t have many of those. Things seem to have been quite plain sailing, which is nice. I’m happy for you about that. Some people have had awful tragedies.’

‘What do you do if you see something bad predicted? Do you tell them?’

Lola paused. ‘It depends. I mean, I might hint at hardship, but really, does anyone come to have their palm read to hear about the bad things? No. They want to know if they’ll find true love or their fortune.’

‘What about my true love or fortune?’ Tristan asked, leaning in, his voice curling around her.

Glancing up, Lola met his eyes, which sparkled flirtatiously.

‘Ah, the question everyone wants the answer to.’ She winked before turning back to his palm, slowly tracing her finger along his heart line, enjoying the way she sensed him holding his breath.

Its path was so intricately entwined with her own.

Could she tell him? She flicked a glance at him, meeting his blue eyes, which crackled with a fire that set her soul alight.

She resisted the overwhelming temptation to bring his palm to her lips and kiss it.

‘Lola?’ He leaned forward a fraction more and all her senses were scrambled as she breathed in the scent of him, earthy but gentle, everything about him deliciously subtle.

Foreheads almost touching, Lola leaned into the magnetic pull of him.

There was a pause, a fraction where everything was held in one frozen moment.

The desire to kiss him buzzed through her but terrified by what might happen if she stepped over the friendship boundary, Lola pulled back, breaking the spell.

‘Yes, there’s love, there’s always love,’ she whispered. ‘Not very far away now. In fact, it might be why you’ve, erm, come here,’ she laughed nervously. ‘Anything else will ruin the surprise,’ she said, passing his hand back to him, as if his touch was burning her.