Page 15 of Christmas at the Little Cornish Bakery

Dear Diary

Everything is so different here but in a way that I love.

I feel like I could stretch my arms out and gather it all in.

The sun, the sea air, the calmness fill me in a way I didn’t think anything could.

I think Ida and Joan are a little bored now they’ve been for a swim, looked at everything in the shop and sampled the local cider in the pub.

They’re talking about taking the bus to St Ives or Penzance but I’m perfectly content to stay here.

At home it’s such a struggle to get up when my alarm goes off, but not here, it’s almost as if the sun creeping over the horizon is teasing me awake.

This morning I threw on whatever clothes came to hand and, after grabbing an apple, I went down to the beach again to see the fishermen.

I’d waded into the sea, almost in up to my knees before I heard a commotion behind me.

I watched as the men came out, pushing their boat towards the sea.

There were six of them, all sorts of ages, some wizened by the sun and sea, others young, not yet tainted by their work.

My gaze was fixed on the one at the back, the same tall one from yesterday with the strong muscular forearms. When he looked at me I swear my heart skipped a beat.

We kept looking at each other as he went out to sea.

I wonder who he is. I’m determined to find out.

Lola reclined in post-work bliss. It had been a successful day what with her invitation for Christmas dinner having been gladly received and the lobster pot tree standing proud on the seafront waiting for the big switch on at the weekend.

The added bonus had been that the Polcarrow residents had picked up gingerbread lattes on their way to inspect the tree.

Having indulged in a long soak in the bath, topped off with all her favourite lotions and potions, Lola was ensconced in her living room, the television flickering a nature programme in the background, sound turned down, a glass of Baileys on hand, whilst she concentrated on her next project: knitting Alf and Scruff’s Christmas jumpers.

Knitting was another skill Ruby had taught her.

Lola smiled to recall how wonky her first attempts at a scarf had been, a deep red one she’d knitted in secret for Ruby for Christmas – red being her favourite colour because it matched her namesake.

It had been misshapen, there had been dropped stitches and even a couple of tiny holes.

Lola smiled as she remembered Ruby wearing it proudly, telling everyone on the bus how talented her granddaughter was.

Reaching for her phone, Lola texted Tristan the latest update in the Ruby saga:

Ruby’s 100% got her eyes on a fisherman! She’s swooning in her diary.

The sunshine-filled pages had been a balm after the freezing day they’d spent on the harbour side

His reply was almost instant:

Are you sure it’s not Alf? Imagine if it was?!

I don’t think so. Says he’s tall. Alf isn’t that tall. I think it’s another one of the lads.

Argh! Just read it and put us both out of our misery!

Smiling to herself, Lola quickly tapped back:

Don’t they say patience is a virtue?

The door being unlocked and slammed back into place by the wind made Lola jump, her phone skittering onto the floor. She listened. One set of footsteps. As much as she adored Angelo, it had been a long time since she and Freya had had the chance for a catch-up.

‘Lola?’ Freya called.

‘In the front room. No Angelo?’

Freya pushed open the door and headed straight to the fire to warm her hands.

‘It’s turned really chilly out there. No, he’s downed the wallpaper scraper and has retreated into the shed, which I reckon is a health hazard with its rotten roof, muttering something about angels and mermaids.

’ Freya shrugged. ‘I think that means he might be working on something for the tree.’

‘Ooh, that would be wonderful, but I hope we didn’t put too much pressure on him.’ Angelo had a slightly tetchy relationship with his artistic side.

‘No, it’ll do him good. He was a bit distracted when I turned up which means he’s on to something. Now I can get up early and get on with my next painting.’

‘How’s it going?’

Freya made a face. ‘I hate it. But I think all artists need to go through a hating their work stage. I found it exciting displaying my work in the St Ives gallery but now I think I’d prefer to paint smaller pictures again.

Sell them online. I’m not sure I like them taking all that commission .

. .’ She trailed off as if wrestling with the dilemma.

‘I’d be happy to display them in the café again.

Especially next summer,’ Lola suggested, quickly warming to the idea, ‘bill it as a sort of artist in residence. I know the gallery has been a fantastic opportunity but you’re not beholden to them, you can sell your work wherever you like and I’m happy for you to use the café. ’

Freya was silent for a while as she took this in.

‘Thanks, Lola. Angelo said the same. There’s been so much pressure to get the painting done and it’s been stressing me out.

I think we should get Christmas out of the way and then I can make some decisions in the New Year.

So much has happened this year what with coming here, meeting Angelo, him buying Bayview.

I’d like to have some time to just digest it all.

Also, Mum said yes to coming to Christmas.

She’s already booked into the pub B. & B. , so, no going back now!’

‘As if I would! I don’t know why everyone is so worried about me hosting Christmas dinner. I volunteered, after all. If people want to muck in and peel potatoes then they can.’

Freya reached for the bottle of Baileys and poured a glass. She took a sip and studied the creamy liquid. ‘I never know why I don’t drink this other than just at Christmas. What are you making?’ she asked as she settled back on the sofa.

‘A Christmas jumper for Alf.’ Lola held up her knitting. ‘I’m going to make a matching one for Scruff.’

Freya laughed. ‘That is too adorable! I’ve ordered one online for Angelo and I’m going to surprise him with it on Christmas Day.’ She fixed Lola with a mischievous look. ‘Come on, Lola, it’s not just Christmas that’s coming up is it?’

Lola laughed. ‘No, it isn’t!’

‘What do you want to do? It’s not every year you turn forty,’ Freya pointed out.

Lola continued to knit and gave a little shrug. ‘I’ve not really thought about it.’

‘Liar!’ Freya exclaimed. ‘You love a party, so I don’t believe that for one second.’

Putting her knitting aside, Lola sat forwards.

‘OK, OK, of course I’ve thought about it!

But it’s a funny time of year to have a birthday.

There’s always so much going on.’ Lola sighed and admitted, ‘A party would be nice, lots of fizz and balloons and a disco. No Christmas tunes,’ she stipulated.

‘And cake, a nice sponge cake to offset all that rich fruit cake.’

‘So, no, you’ve not thought about it at all.’

Lola couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I thought about having it at the pub but I’ve not had a chance to catch Steve to ask him about hosting.’

Freya topped up their glasses. ‘No, Lola, I’ll ask him. I’ll plan it for you.’

Lola froze. She was the planner, the one who had everything under control. ‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘But I want to.’ Freya shrugged. ‘Anyway, what more do I need to do than get Steve to agree, get some balloons and bake a cake.’ Freya paused and revised this, ‘Or buy a cake as we know my baking skills are no match for yours. Or I might rope Mum into helping. I’m digging a hole here, aren’t I?’

‘Yes, and honestly, I can make the cake.’

‘No! You cannot make your own birthday cake. You spend all your time baking. I’ll sort it, trust me.’

The urge to fight Freya over the baking was strong, but the stern stare her friend was giving her made Lola back down. ‘All right then, I relinquish control of the cake into your mum’s capable hands. I’m sure by then I’ll be up to my eyeballs with Christmas cakes anyway.’

‘So what’s going on with Tristan?’ Freya wiggled her eyebrows.

‘Tristan? What do you mean?’ Lola feigned innocence and picked up her knitting again.

‘Come on, Lola, are you sure nothing is going on with you two? You were making heart-shaped eyes at each other as you untangled those lights earlier. He clearly adores you. You might not see it, but he cannot take his eyes off you.’

Resisting the urge to ask more about how he looked at her, Lola simply said, ‘Nothing, nothing’s going on.

I didn’t come here for romance, Freya. I came here to concentrate on making a life for me, man free and uncomplicated.

Tristan and I are friends. He’s been a great support to me, but that’s it.

’ She wondered who she was trying to convince.

‘I don’t get the issue,’ Freya said as she sat down. ‘Tristan is probably the world’s least complicated man. And any relationship would be pretty rubbish if you weren’t friends as well so that card doesn’t play well.’

‘I don’t want to ruin what we have. It’s that simple. For the first time in my life, I feel settled and content. I’m happy with the way things are, Freya, honestly,’ Lola said, knowing it was true. ‘I have more than I ever expected to have here. I don’t need to add any complications.’

For a moment it looked as if Freya was going to argue the point but instead she just shrugged and peeled herself up off the sofa. ‘Fair enough, if you say so. But I think you’d be so much happier with him. Don’t deny yourself love, Lola. Right, shall we get the cottage decorated for Christmas?’

‘Ooh yes, let me just finish this bit off,’ Lola said, turning her attention back to her knitting, flustered that Freya had used a leaf out of her own book to push her point about Tristan.

Holding the jumper out at arm’s length to check how the pattern was going, Lola tried to ignore the feeling that was unfurling inside her.

She couldn’t ignore the fact that she kept thinking about the golden sunshine of Tristan’s smile, and thoughts of more than simple friendship.

Shaking the idea away, Lola got up and took the Baileys glasses into the kitchen.

Switching on the kettle, she reminded herself that after how much of a scoundrel Jared had been, it was Tristan’s kind, uncomplicated nature that she liked.

Simple friendship. The most important thing to have.

Why would anyone want to risk ruining that?