Winter Wishes (12 page)

“Did you, Morgan?” she asked gently.

Her son nodded miserably.

“Without my permission!” screeched the old woman. “I know all about little perverts like him! It’ll be all over the Internet in minutes! On that Book-Face thing! Give me that camera now, you little rat!”

She dived towards Morgan, but Tara stepped forward. Not for the first time in her life she was glad to be taller than average. Crowded pubs, getting served at the bar, fending off mad old bats… Other people – like Mo, for example – might fight with words, but somehow Tara didn’t think this character would be stopped by semantics. Like all bullies, physicality intimidated her.

“Don’t you dare call my son a pervert,” she said, her voice dangerously cold. “He loves photography and, as I’m sure Alice has tried to explain, there are good reasons why he likes to do things a certain way. If he took your photo without permission then he’ll certainly apologise and delete it, but I won’t stand for you bullying an eight-year-old. That isn’t appropriate. Do you understand?”

Ivy glowered at her. “Appropriate? As if spying on people is? Of course he didn’t have my permission, you stupid woman. As if I’d let a brat take pictures of me!”

Ignoring these insults, Tara crouched down until she was face to face with Morgan. He was pale and shaken but this, she knew, was more from the fear of having his camera taken and nothing really to do with Ivy’s shouting. Morgan didn’t respond to shouting or any extremes of emotion. These just perplexed him.

“Sweetie, did you take this lady’s picture without asking?”

“Yes.”

“OK.” Tara took a deep breath. “Can you tell us why?”

Morgan looked up at Ivy. “Don’t be cross, Mrs Lawrence. I had to do it. It was an important scientific experiment. I was trying to help you.”

“A scientific experiment?” Alice echoed. “Darling, whatever do you mean?”

“Issie told me that if I took a picture of Mrs Lawrence my camera would break,” Morgan explained, deadly earnest about this. “I said that was rubbish but Issie promised it was true. She said that if you take a picture of a wicked old witch your camera will break, but I said there’s no such thing as witches. Fact. So I took a picture of Mrs Lawrence to prove it.”

Alice clapped her hand over her mouth, and Tara didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Bloody Issie!

Ivy’s jaw was swinging open in disbelief at what she was hearing.

“It was a good experiment because my camera still works,” Morgan said, with pride. Turning to Ivy, he added kindly, “Which means you’re not a witch, even though you are really nasty to everybody and make all the children scared. Is that why you don’t have any grandchildren? Because you were nasty to them? Did they run away?”

“I… I…” spluttered Ivy. She’d suddenly run out of words.

Poor Alice was mortified. “Ivy, I’m so sorry. Morgan sometimes takes things very literally. Like in this instance, Issie saying something very rude and very silly when she ought to know better.”

Issie really was twenty-two going on six, thought Tara wearily. To Ivy, she said, “I think this has been a very unfortunate misunderstanding. I’ll delete the pictures right now and maybe we can draw a line under it all.”

“I’ll do it for you,” said Morgan helpfully. “Unless you want them as proof you’re not a witch?”

Ivy scowled at him. “Just delete them, you stupid little boy!”

Morgan fiddled with his camera and his brow pleated. “I’m not stupid actually. I have a very high IQ. Fact. You shouldn’t call people stupid either, by the way. It’s very rude and one of my teachers said it makes people sad and then you have no friends. Is that why you have no friends? Because you’ve been unkind and made everyone sad? Will you die all alone like Mr Scrooge nearly did?”

Ivy stared at him. “I…”

“Because you probably will and I think you really should be nicer,” Morgan told her. “Then people might like you. But they all hate you now. Fact.”

“Right, that’s enough,” Tara interrupted him, jolted out of her shock and into parent mode. “You are being rude now. Apologise!”

“But I was telling the truth!”

“Morgan,” Alice said gently, “remember how sometimes we need to think about whether the truth makes someone happy or sad?”

Her grandson nodded. “Sometimes when something is true we shouldn’t say it,” he told Ivy gravely. “I’m sorry if telling the truth about you being mean has made you sad.”

Time to nip this apology in the bud before it gets any worse, thought Tara.

“The pictures are all gone,” she said quickly, taking the camera from Morgan and holding it out to Ivy. “Do you want to check?”

But Ivy seemed dazed. “What? No, no. If you say they’re gone, I may as well believe you.”

That was big of her, Tara thought. What a nasty piece of work. She didn’t usually agree with Issie, but Ivy Lawrence really was a wicked old witch; Tara wouldn’t be at all surprised to see her zip by on a broomstick.

Without uttering another word, not even so much as a grudging apology, the old woman had turned her back on them and headed back to her cottage, where she’d probably stick pins in a few dollies and boil up a hex or two.

Tara shivered. It was all nonsense, of course it was.

So why did she feel as though she’d just made a terrible enemy?

Chapter 8

“So what do you make of the Wicked Witch of the South West rocking up?” Issie asked Jules over an enormous plate of cheesy chips. Dunking one in ketchup and biting down hard on it as though wishing it were Tara, she added, “I take it you’re as shocked as we are?”

It was Monday and officially Jules’s day off. Even so, she’d spent most of the day so far worrying about work. She’d already planned a sermon and spent several hours puzzling over the mystery money that kept appearing in the St Wenn’s account, before chewing her nails to the quicks as she stressed over the bishop’s impending return visit. Still, it was good to keep busy, Jules decided, because that way she didn’t have time to think. While she was supervising the Pollards or listening to Sheila Keverne’s moaning she couldn’t dwell on her own private unhappiness, whereas all alone in the vicarage it was a different matter entirely. When Issie had called and suggested lunch in The Ship, Jules had leapt at the chance of some distraction. Of course, she should have known that Issie would want to dissect in minute detail the very subject Jules was desperate to avoid…

“Well?” Issie demanded when Jules didn’t reply. “What do you make of Tara coming back?”

How on earth could Jules respond? The real answer would be “horrified, jealous, afraid and torn”, but Jules wouldn’t dream of saying this. She hardly dared admit it to herself.

“I think it must have taken a lot of courage,” she said carefully, avoiding Issie’s beady eye and focusing her attention on her mackerel salad. Healthy and slimming. Danny would have been proud.

Issie snorted. “No shame, more like. She’s got nerve, I’ll give her that. What does Danny say?”

“Danny?”

“Yeah, Danny. Six feet tall? Scars? Blond hair? Arm missing? Irresistible to women, apparently, and can belch
God Save the Queen
? Spends a lot of time with our local vicar?”

“Danny can belch the national anthem?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Issie said sternly. “We all know how close you two are. We’ve hardly seen him at Seaspray since Thursday. Jake thinks he’s still kipping in the office at the marina, unless he’s up at yours?”

Jules felt her face grow hot, and not just from the peppery fish. “He certainly isn’t at mine and I have no idea what Danny thinks. I’ve not seen him since Thursday either.”

“Blimey,” Issie spluttered. “I nearly choked on my food then! You two are normally joined at the hip.”

“We are not.” Jules pushed her plate away. She wasn’t hungry in the least today. Her appetite had vanished on Halloween and at this rate she’d be a size zero by Christmas. “As for how he feels? I should imagine pretty upset, especially since he’s still got feelings for her.”

Issie goggled at Jules; the ketchup-laden chip she was holding halted on its final journey. “What? Did he tell you that?”

“Tara’s Danny’s wife,” Jules replied. “He’s upset because he still loves her. I know she hurt him pretty badly—”

“That’s an understatement. She must have said some pretty unforgivable things to him when he was in hospital, because he wouldn’t see her after that. No,” Issie shook her head and her blonde braids swished in agitation. “I think you’re totally wrong, Jules. Danny doesn’t love Tara. No way.”

Jules said nothing. Issie hadn’t seen the state Danny had been in on Thursday and neither had she been party to Tara’s confession to Jules, back in the early summer, that she still loved him. It was one of hardest parts of Jules’s job: people confided in her, but who could she confide in? God, of course – that went without saying – and Jules usually told Danny everything too, but how could she share her conflicted feelings about all this with him? He had his marriage and his son to think about, and they had to come first. The last thing he needed was Jules’s feelings colouring his decisions.

“Things are complicated,” was all she said. “Tara and Danny have history and a child. They need time to work things out. Maybe we should give Tara a bit of support? It can’t have been easy for her.”

“Are you mad?” Issie shook her head. “Or are you trying to get some kind of promotion by being a total martyr? St Jules of Polwenna? Don’t be a muppet. Danny doesn’t want to be with Tara.”

Ignoring the jibes, Jules said quietly, “I just think we should let them have some space, Issie, and give Tara a chance, OK? Doesn’t everyone deserve that? If you won’t do it for her, then at least do it for Morgan. You’re always telling me how much he needs stability. The last thing he needs is his family arguing and making it clear they don’t want his mother around.”

“Now why do I feel guilty? She’s the bad guy, not me,” Issie grumbled. “Honestly, you’re so annoying sometimes, Jules. You always make people think about stuff.”

“All part of the service,” Jules said, thinking privately that nobody knew better than her just how annoying that
stuff
could be.

“Especially after all the upset with Poison Ivy the other day,” Issie added thickly through mouthfuls of cheese and potato. “Morgan was really upset.”

Jules nodded. The story had filtered back to her, no doubt heavily embroidered in the retelling, but from the gist of it she gathered it was standard Ivy behaviour.

“And if she ever upsets Morgan again then I won’t hold back,” Issie promised. “She can’t go around being so horrible, Jules. Somebody needs to tell her.”

“I know,” Jules agreed wearily. “I’ll talk to her.”

Issie grimaced. “Good luck with that. She’s a horrible old bag and even you, Jules Mathieson, won’t change my mind on that one. Some people really are just born nasty.”

Jules feared that Issie was right. Try as she might, there really wasn’t a positive spin that she could put on Ivy. She hadn’t a clue why the woman was so relentlessly unpleasant. Ivy just seemed to revel in making everyone’s life a misery. While Issie fetched more drinks, Jules gazed thoughtfully out of the window at the wintry village. It was a dreary day; November had chased away the last golden days of the autumn, and it was hard to see where the leaden line of the sea met with the grey sky above. It was only early afternoon, but already the daylight was starting to die and lamps were shining in cottage windows as smoke coiled lazily from the chimneys. Winter’s chilly breath was in the air now. Even the seagulls were huddled up on the rooftops, their feathers fluffed up against the cold.

The fire had been lit in the pub. It crackled merrily in the hearth, sparks fantailing upwards into the chimney, and every now and again the landlord added another log. A man was sitting in the chair beside the fire, a notebook held loosely in his hand as he stared into the flames, deep in thought. He had a striking, hard-boned face, hooded eyes and a strong chin. An emerald bandana held his thick long mane of silvery hair away from his lived-in face, a roll-up was tucked behind his ear, and both of his wrists were looped with leather bracelets. All in all, the look was an intriguing mixture of a young Dumbledore and Jack Sparrow, Jules observed with amusement. Even his clothes were a mishmash of fantasy and historical costume; a purple shirt was tucked into tight black leather trousers and his outstretched feet sported cowboy boots. He was wearing some kind of cloak over his shoulders too. He couldn’t possibly be a local, Jules thought. Compared with the fishermen standing at the bar in their jeans and sweaters, he looked like a lost parrot surrounded by a flock of sparrows.

Sensing her watching him, the man glanced up and smiled politely before returning to his writing.

“I leave you for one minute and you’re on the pull!” Placing two glasses of cider on their table, Issie cast a glance at the stranger who, Jules noted, smiled at Issie a lot more enthusiastically than he had at her.

“I am not on the pull!” Jules protested.

“Shame,” said Issie. “He’s not bad for a crumbly, and it’s about time you had some fun, Rev.” She slipped back into her seat and reached into her bag to pull out a creased paperback. “Never mind; here’s the next best thing,” she added, passing it to Jules.

“
Blackwarren
,” Jules read. The scarlet cover bore just a title, and the paper felt thin and cheap. It looked like a self-published book, the kind that Betty Jago often sold in the village shop as a favour to locals with literary aspirations. Flipping it over, she scanned the blurb and felt her face turn the same cover as the book. “Issie! What is this? Porn?”

“
Porn?
” mimicked Issie. “How old are you, Jules? It’s called erotica now, FYI, and anyway, this is hardly up there with
Fifty Shades
, although it is pretty steamy.”

“So I can see.” Jules handed the book back. “I’ll stick to the Bible and the odd romance, thanks.”

Issie’s nose crinkled. “Like those pink books you try and hide?”

“My Cassandra Duval novels?” Jules shrugged. These bestselling bodice-rippers were her guilty pleasure and she’d devoured every one. From passionate pirates to headstrong highway men, there was always an alpha male sweeping the heroine off her feet. Jules guessed it was the closest she’d come to this in real life, unless some serious weight loss happened or her hero had a crane.