One Summer in Cornwall

by Karen King

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Escape to Cornwall this summer...

A heart-warming, feel-good romance, returning to the beautiful Cornish town of Karen's Kindle bestseller THE CORNISH HOTEL BY THE SEA.

When Hattie is made redundant and evicted from her flat in one horrible week, she needs time to rethink. Her Uncle Albert left her and her father each half of Fisherman's Rest, his home in the Cornish town of Port Medden, so this seems the perfect place to escape to until she can figure things out.

As Hattie stays in the cottage, clearing it out, tidying it up and getting it ready to sell, she starts to find her feet in Port Medden and making a new home here begins to feel right. If only her dad didn't need a quick sale and things weren't complicated by her unwelcoming neighbour Marcus . . .

(P) 2022 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: April 1, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

‘Bloody hell! Who is it?’

Hattie Rowland froze at the voice, her finger poised on the light switch that she had been about to flick on. Someone was already in the cottage! Who could it be? A squatter? A burglar? For a moment she panicked, her breathing quick and shallow as she backed against the wall, wondering whether to run out again. Then she pulled herself together. She had every right to be here – whoever it was, they were trespassing, and she wasn’t going to be intimidated by them. She took a deep, steadying breath and grabbed hold of her motorbike helmet, which she had tucked under her arm, ready to use as a weapon if necessary. The intruder would soon realise that she didn’t scare easily. She pressed down the switch, gripping the helmet tightly, ready to spring into action. As the room lit up, there was a loud screech.

‘Turn it off! Turn it off!’

Buddy! Hattie burst out laughing as she spotted the green parrot, perched on a thick branch running across a huge cage tucked into the corner of the living area, just before the open archway into the kitchen. The parrot’s head was turned towards the door, his beady eyes fixed on her as he squawked crossly. Uncle Albert’s beloved parrot. She hadn’t even realised that Buddy was still alive. As the big bird glared at her from his perch, his green feathers ruffled, the yellow ring around his neck clearly visible, she was transported back to her childhood. Hattie remembered stepping into the cottage with her parents to be greeted by Buddy screeching, ‘Bloody hell! Who is it?’ and her mother immediately trying to cover her ears. Uncle Albert, a fisherman, was her father’s much-older brother. He had never married and Buddy was his sole companion. Albert had worshipped the bird – and loved his little cottage by the sea. When he died a couple of months ago, Hattie had been surprised and touched to hear that he had left Fisherman’s Rest jointly to Hattie’s father, Owen, and Hattie. She had fond memories of summer holidays spent here in Port Medden with Uncle Albert when she was younger, and her parents were still together.

‘Hello, Buddy. It’s only me, Hattie. You probably don’t remember me. It’s been years since I last came down here,’ she said softly. She felt guilty about that, but her parents had finally divorced, after years of acrimony, when she was twelve, and then she had barely seen her dad, who had immediately moved to France with his new girlfriend, now wife, Raina and remained there. Obviously, her mum, who now lived in Portugal with her partner Howard, hadn’t wanted to spend summers with her ex-husband’s brother in Cornwall, so Hattie had lost touch with Uncle Albert.

She dropped her saddlebags down onto the old brown sofa; she was sure it was the same one that had been there when she’d last visited – was it sixteen or seventeen years ago? In fact, nothing seemed to have changed, she thought, as she looked around, her mind going back to her childhood holidays. The thick grey curtains were the same, as was the now-threadbare brown patterned carpet on the floor. The TV was a more recent model than she remembered, and the fireplace was now boarded up with a gas fire in front of it. Not that she’d ever seen the fireplace in use when they’d come down in the summer, but there had always been a basketful of logs beside it, ready for the colder evenings. The old wooden rocking chair was still in the corner by the fire, but there was now a thick cushion on the seat. The dark wooden dresser, full of ornaments and decorative plates, still stood against the wall by the window. Over the fireplace was a stunning painting of fishermen tending their boats in the harbour. She didn’t remember that, but the rest of the downstairs of the cottage was almost exactly as she remembered, except it no longer looked exciting and welcoming but dusty, faded, old.

Her eyes flitted back to the rocking chair where Uncle Albert had often sat, smoking his pipe and telling them stories of his fishing escapades. He’d been a broad, larger-than-life man, who had always made them welcome, cooking them hearty breakfasts, taking them out on his boat, joining them for a drink at the local pub where everyone had seemed to know him. And now he was gone. And he’d only been in his late seventies, no age nowadays. She felt sad that she had lost touch with him over the years. She wondered if her dad had kept in contact.

She walked over to the cage, which sat on a wooden wheeled trolley. Buddy immediately ruffled his feathers and eyed her warily from his perch. ‘Bugger off!’ he screeched.

‘Charming!’ Hattie thought with a smile. Had the parrot been here on his own ever since Uncle Albert was taken to hospital, over two months ago? she wondered. Uncle Albert had died within a couple of days of being admitted. Surely Buddy hadn’t been here alone all that time?

The cage was clean, the water seemed fresh and was half full. Buddy appeared cared for, if irritable. There were several things to keep him amused: a thick rope, a mirror, ladders, even a swing. Someone was obviously looking after him. Who? Maybe one of the neighbours had a key.

‘Bugger off! Go to bed!’ Buddy shouted, obviously wanting his sleep, too.

She grinned. From what she remembered of Buddy, he was cantankerous and prone to cursing! There had been no mention of any arrangements for the parrot in her uncle’s will, but she was happy to look after him. She owed Uncle Albert that much. It had been so generous of him to leave her half of his cottage, especially now when she desperately needed a haven. Not that this was a permanent move: Hattie and her father had agreed to sell the cottage and split the money, but at least it was a roof over her head until they found a buyer, giving her breathing space to decide what to do next.

‘I think I will. Goodnight, Buddy,’ she said.

She took her toiletry bag out of one of the saddlebags – she’d unpack the rest in the morning – then walked through the arch into the galley kitchen and put it on the table while she searched the dark wooden cupboards for a glass. Letting the tap run for a while to clear out the pipes, she poured herself a drink of water and leant back against the sink, surveying the kitchen as she drank the cool liquid. It didn’t seem to have changed much in here, either: the same wooden table with a red, checked, plastic tablecloth over it, the same old cooker – how could it still be working? A washing machine – surely that had been replaced – and, amazingly, a silver microwave. And even an electric kettle!

She yawned. She was weary after the motorbike ride down from Bristol. It had been a long day and was now almost midnight. She really needed her bed. She’d wheeled her bike into the front garden – which was nothing more than a small, tiled patio – and parked it against the wall, taking off the top box containing her necessary clothes and possessions and leaving it in the hallway until morning. Hattie toyed with the idea of wheeling her bike into the more secure back yard but it seemed too much effort.

She’d packed the rest of her belongings and left them with her best friend Mali, who’d promised to bring them with her when she drove down next week, with her six-year-old daughter Lou, for the end of May half-term holiday. Mali was a teacher, and luckily her holidays coincided with her daughter’s so they could get away together. Hattie had planned to travel down next week too. She, Mali and Lou had been going to spend a few days at the cottage, tidying it up a bit, but then Hattie had been made redundant and homeless within a couple of days, so had decided to come down earlier.

She finished her water, picked up her toiletry bag, flicked off the light and headed off for the stairs at the end of the hall. She’d forgotten how narrow and steep the staircase was, and held tightly to the wooden rail as she climbed up, the dim bulb above not helping much to light the way. How had Uncle Albert managed? He was twenty years older than her dad, which was one of the reasons they hadn’t been particularly close. Uncle Albert’s dad had died when he was a young boy, and his mother had remarried again years later then Owen, Hattie’s father, had been born, so Uncle Albert was actually his half-brother.

After stopping off at the dated bathroom to go to the loo and clean her teeth, Hattie continued up the other flight of equally steep stairs to the attic bedroom where she and her parents had always used to sleep – it didn’t feel right to sleep in what had been Uncle Albert’s bedroom. She pushed open the creaky door and groaned in dismay when she saw that both the double bed, and the single bed by the window that used to be hers, had only a mattress on them. Of course they wouldn’t be made up! She cursed her impetuousness in coming down tonight. Why hadn’t she waited until the morning when it would be light? She could have stayed with Mali.

There hadn’t seemed much point in waiting, though. There was nothing left for her in Bristol. Once the keys had been handed over to her landlord, who had decided he was going to let his recently separated daughter live in the flat that had been Hattie’s home for the last three years, she had set off. Originally, Hattie had intended to sit out her month’s notice and look for another flat, but when she lost her job, too, she decided that getting away from it all and going to Cornwall while she sorted out her life was the best thing to do. The flat had been furnished, so she hadn’t had much stuff to pack up, and Mali had been happy to take the few boxes of items Hattie couldn’t fit on her bike and then bring them down to her. The landlord had been so grateful – his daughter and baby were temporarily staying with him and his wife – he’d returned her deposit immediately and let her off with that month’s rent. So, here she was. Jobless, homeless – well, once Uncle Albert’s cottage was sold – and boyfriend-less, since her lying, no good ex, Adam, had cheated on her a few months ago and she’d told him where to go.

It can only get better, she thought, determined to remain positive. Now, where did Uncle Albert keep the bedding? She was so tired, she felt as though she could fall asleep on the spot. She glanced around, then spotted the huge dark-wood wardrobe across the far wall. She vaguely remembered her mother getting bedclothes from there. She walked over to check inside, but the doors wouldn’t budge. There was no sign of a lock, so she tugged hard. Still they wouldn’t budge. She held the handle with both hands and tugged again. The door sprang open with such force she fell back onto the wooden floor. Ouch! Scrambling back up and rubbing her tender – and probably bruised – bum, she checked out the wardrobe, and to her relief, folded on the bottom, was some bedding. Thank goodness! She pulled a clean pillowcase onto the feather pillow, threw a sheet over the bed, and a bedspread over that – nothing as modern as a duvet for Uncle Albert! – then pulled off her motorbike leathers, draping them over a chair, and got into bed naked: she hated wearing pyjamas, they always seemed to tangle around her in the night. She was so exhausted, her eyes closed as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Sunlight streaming through her window woke Hattie up the next morning. And it sounded as though the seagulls were having a party on the roof. She sat up for a moment, hugging her knees, thinking how drastically her life had changed in the past few days. On Monday, she’d had a home and a job, now, five days later, she had neither. She shook her head. She wasn’t thinking about that now – this was a chance for her to sort out her life, and she was going to grab it with both hands.

Throwing back the sheet she ran over to the window and looked out, just as she used to do when she was a child on holiday here, eager to see the shimmering ribbon of sea over the rooftops. The cottage was just a few minutes’ walk from the picturesque harbour, and when she was younger she had often opened the window and inhaled the sea air, with her mother anxiously warning her not to lean out. She wasn’t going to do that now, not until she was dressed, anyway, so contented herself with kneeling down, so only her head was visible, and peering at the sparkling turquoise ocean just a stone’s throw away. She couldn’t wait to walk along the beach and have a paddle. She almost felt as though she was on holiday! I’m going to take a few days to relax and have a good look around, she decided, then I’ll start tidying up the house. She and her father had agreed to put the cottage on the market as soon as they could, so she would probably only be here for the summer, but at least it gave her some time to sort out the shambles that her life had become.

First, though, she needed a cup of milky coffee to wake her up. She’d put a box of three-in-one sachets in her right saddlebag, in case there were no supplies in the house. Carefully negotiating the first set of narrow stairs to stop off at the bathroom to go to the loo and splash some water on her face, she cautiously descended the other staircase to the kitchen.

‘Who is it? Who is it?’ Buddy screeched as she walked in.

‘Morning, Buddy. It’s me, Hattie!’ she called. She filled up the electric kettle, glad that the old stove kettle she remembered, with the high-pitched whistle that let you know when the water had boiled, had been replaced. The almost-new silver kettle and matching microwave looked a bit out of place in the dated kitchen, but she was grateful for them. She took a clean mug out of the cupboard, then froze as she heard the back door open and someone stride in, whistling cheerfully. Horrified, she spun around and stared at the sun-tanned stranger, dressed in low slung grey surfer shorts that skimmed his hips, his long fair hair tied back in a ponytail revealing a tiny silver cross earring dangling from his right ear, a large tattoo on each upper arm, his body taut and toned. Then his hazel eyes widened as they flitted to her naked body. Shit! She’d forgot she was starkers! They both stared at each other, dumbstruck for a second, then Buddy’s screech of ‘Bloody Hell!’ brought Hattie to her senses.

Two quick steps and she’d whisked the checked tablecloth off the table and quickly wrapped it around herself. She glared at the man. ‘Who the hell are you? And how dare you walk in like this!’

‘More to the point, who are you?’ the man demanded. ‘I’m Marcus, from next door. I’m here to feed Buddy. I’ve been looking after him.’

Damn! She remembered thinking yesterday that Buddy looked well fed and cared for, so a neighbour must be popping in to feed him. Why the hell hadn’t she pulled her dressing gown on this morning? Because it was still in her saddlebag and she was half asleep and hadn’t expected someone to walk into her kitchen this early in the morning, that’s why. It was barely eight o’clock!

‘I’m Hattie, Albert’s niece. He left this cottage to me and my dad in his will.’ She held the tablecloth tighter around herself, the plastic feeling sticky and uncomfortable against her skin. ‘I came down last night. I’m staying here until the cottage is sold.’

A look of disdain crossed Marcus’s suntanned face and his hazel eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you were coming down next weekend. You obviously couldn’t wait to claim your inheritance. Shame you didn’t see fit to visit your uncle when he was alive and lonely.’

Ouch! Well he had obviously got her earmarked as a gold-digger who didn’t give a damn about her uncle. She opened her mouth to explain, but then anger set in. How dare he judge her when he didn’t even know her?

‘You don’t know a thing about me, so keep your high-handed moralistic opinions to yourself!’ She lifted her chin defiantly, then, clasping the tablecloth tightly with one hand to ensure it didn’t slip down, she held out the other. ‘And I’ll have the key to my cottage back, thank you. I don’t want strangers walking in on me any time they like. Thank you for looking after Buddy,’ she added stiffly. ‘But I’ll take care of him now.’

Marcus’s eyes flashed sparks of anger and his mouth was set in a grim line, but he put his hand in the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a key. ‘Be my guest.’ He threw the key down on the table, then turned, revealing a large eagle tattoo with wings outspread across his back, and walked out.

‘Bugger off, then,’ Buddy screeched loudly as Marcus slammed the door behind him.

Hattie giggled at the parrot’s outburst; she couldn’t have put it better herself! What a horrible man! He might look hot with his lean, sun-kissed body and surfer-boy hair, but he didn’t appeal to her one little bit. He was so up himself and bad-mannered, he hadn’t even apologised for walking in on her. Just her luck that he lived next door. Well, she intended to avoid him as much as she could. She hoped the neighbour on the other side of her wasn’t so unpleasant.

Well done, Marcus, you not only walked in on the poor woman naked, but you also didn’t even stop to check that she knew how to look after Buddy properly. Parrots aren’t as easy to care for as most people think, and Buddy had been pining since poor old Albert died. It was only seeing Marcus’s familiar face first thing in the morning and last thing at night that seemed to cheer him up. He needed to be let out to exercise his wings, too . . . would – what was her name? – Hattie even think of that? And if she did, would she think to close the windows to make sure Buddy didn’t fly out? And would she be able to get the parrot back in the cage again? Buddy could be pretty stubborn. Like his owner.

It’s not my problem anymore.

He’d promised Albert when he was taken into hospital that he would look after Buddy, and he’d kept that promise even after Albert had died. At first, he’d taken Buddy back to Curlew Cottage with him, thinking it would be best not to leave him on his own, but Mr Tibbs, his tomcat, had taken an instant dislike to the parrot, spending his time either staring into the cage or climbing onto it, and poor Buddy had got really agitated and stressed so, after a couple of weeks, Marcus had taken Buddy back home again and since then had popped in to see him every morning and evening. Buddy was happier back in Fisherman’s Rest, but he missed Albert. Marcus did too. He’d befriended the old man when he’d moved next door, into Curlew Cottage, seven years ago, and although Albert had been independent right up until the day he’d caught the flu which had turned into the pneumonia that had killed him, he’d been happy to accept the meals that Marcus had brought around for him. Marcus had even bought Albert an electric kettle and microwave one Christmas a couple of years ago, so he could warm the meals up. He’d admired the old man very much and spent many an hour in the evening after work sharing a dram of whisky with him and listening to Albert’s seafaring tales.

You shouldn’t have been so rude to his niece, he told himself. Your cottage was inherited too, from your grandparents. Yes, but he’d loved and looked after his grandparents, and the cottage had been left to him, his mother and his sister. He had bought them both out – okay, at a discounted price, but even so it hadn’t been a complete gift. This Hattie hadn’t been down to see Albert once in all the time Marcus had lived next door. She was obviously a spoilt townie, eager to put the cottage on the market and get her share of cash so she could buy a bigger house, faster car, or whatever she wanted to spend the money on. As for her dad, don’t get me started on him. Owen Rowland had flown over for the funeral, spent a couple of hours in the cottage, and flown back the same day. Marcus had returned from work just as Owen had been leaving, so hadn’t even had time to tell him that he was looking after Albert’s parrot for him. Fat lot he seemed to care about his brother.

Albert, however, had been proud of his younger brother, often telling Marcus what a go-getter Owen was, how he had his own business over in France. A five-star B&B. There were twenty years between them so they weren’t close, Albert had said, but they kept in touch. Sometimes, when he and Albert were chatting over a whisky in the winter evenings after Marcus had finished his shift at work, the old man had talked about his niece Hattie, showed Marcus photos of her – a blonde, vivacious-looking child – related how she used to come down on holiday until her parents split up. Marcus could see that he missed them all and had tried to persuade him to get in touch with them, but all Albert said was that ‘folks have their lives to live’. And now he’d left them the cottage. There had been no one else to leave it to, of course, but Marcus resented – on Albert’s behalf – the fact that his family hadn’t eased the loneliness of his later years, but then couldn’t wait to come down and sell his home.

Even so, he had walked in on Hattie unannounced and . . . the image of her sensual naked body flashed across his mind: full breasts, tiny waist, a cute stars and crescent moon tattoo on the top of her right arm and looong legs. Tousled white-blond hair cut into a shaggy bob and those summer-blue eyes flashing with anger as she tore a strip off him, looking ridiculously cute wrapped in that red, checked, plastic tablecloth. Not to mention the enchanting slight lilt to her voice – he’d certainly noticed a lot in those couple of minutes that they had stared at each other! He was impressed that she hadn’t screamed or blushed but had held her ground. She seemed like a tough cookie. He should have apologised for walking in on her like that, and he would if he bumped into her again. Apart from that, he wasn’t wasting any more time thinking about a spoilt little townie, even if she was gorgeous. He was going surfing, as he did every morning, then he intended to do some painting – he had a commission to finish – and then he was working tonight. It suited him to be chef for the evening shift, it left him with the days free to surf and paint, whilst Shanise was happy to do the lunchtime meals as then she had the evenings free with her partner and children.

He changed into his wetsuit, leaving the top half to dangle from his waist until he got to the beach, picked up his surfboard, a bag with his rash vest, wetsuit boots, surf gloves and a towel, and set off down the hill. An hour or so riding the waves was all he needed to regain his equilibrium.

An hour later, showered and changed into denim shorts and a black vest top, Hattie took her camera bag which held her Nikon D810 and her tripod camera equipment out of her top box and slung the camera around her neck,. Then she moved her motorbike around to the back yard and parked it by the side of the shed before heading off down to the harbour, hoping she would find a café open and be able to grab s. . .