Winter Wishes (21 page)

She turned back for the village, walking at the water’s edge this time and pausing to watch as her own footprints were smudged away by the lapping waves. The air was thick with the smell of the rotting seaweed tangled around the exposed chains of the moorings. The cottages above watched her, and up at Mariners a bonfire was burning, sending sparks fantailing into the greyness. Beyond that was nothing but low cloud rolling in from the Channel, thick with spray and the threat of more bad weather.

Jules plodded back over the sand, deep in thought. The scene was unusually quiet and, except for one dog walker, the beach was empty. The last cold fingers of sloping sunshine were being ambushed by clouds; by the time Jules was back in the village, the sunlight had been smothered altogether, until the world looked as grey and as bleak as she was starting to feel. In the past she would have been with Danny, laughing about something or listening to him tell a tale of the Pollards’ latest antics, and then they’d have headed up to Seaspray together to drink tea with Alice. Jules hadn’t set foot in the Tremaine family home since Halloween. The dynamic had changed with Tara’s arrival, and going there no longer felt easy or right. It was Tara’s place now, not hers. At least tea with Caspar was a distraction from the dull ache in her heart.

Jules laughed despairingly at this thought. Now she was even thinking in clichés! Caspar was not a good influence. She needed to read less of her Cassandra Duval books and get stuck into the more racy stuff like
Blackwarren
. Lord Blackwarren was far too busy having sex with a bevy of willing maidens to worry about aching hearts – although he got so much action that surely other bits of him must ache! Jules was rereading the e-book and still trying to figure out just who the secret author was. It had to be a local, but who? She’d already worked out that the shopkeeper character was based on Chris the Cod and that Lord Blackwarren was probably Teddy St Milton, while the sneaky wreckers were poorly disguised Pollards. Jules was now trawling through the book again, just in case she’d managed to miss a plump vicar. As for Blackwarren’s feisty stable wench Alicia, the true love of his life and the only woman who was his equal, well the jury was out regarding her identity. No wonder most of the villagers were reading the book. They were all trying to work out whether they were in it!

Caspar’s home was a crumpled building that looked as though it was sliding down the slipway and in danger of sploshing into the harbour. It had once been a hovel dwelt in by poor fisherfolk, but had been given a chichi facelift by a second-homer and was now a picture-postcard Cornish cottage, complete with sage-green window frames, potted bay trees and a red front door. The adjacent cottage was owned by Richard and, although not quite as twee, was in Jules’s opinion far more authentic with its piles of crab pots, its weathered bench and its tubs of die-hard geraniums. Richard hadn’t owned the cottage for long but he was head over heels in love with the place and Jules could see why: it had views to die for and a boat mooring. What more could an ocean-loving doctor ask for?

Since the slipway was on the opposite side of the village, Jules had to trek all the way around. She went past The Plump Seagull and the village green, ignoring the delicious smells from Patsy’s Pasties, and crossed two bridges. She was just turning into the next street, to make the final loop to the other side of the harbour, when a taxi came hurtling towards her at speed. Jules had only seconds to flatten herself against a whitewashed cottage wall to avoid being run over. Cold spray from the road splattered her jeans and splashed onto her face. As she mopped her eyes on her sleeve, the taxi’s passenger window hissed down.

“Sorry about that, love!” called Jimmy Tremaine, looking anything but repentant. He was wearing a stars and stripes bandana and blue-mirrored Ray-Bans. “In a bit of a hurry! Got a plane to catch!”

Then the window shot up and the cab sped away. So Jimmy really was off to California. The last Jules had heard of this was that Jake and his father weren’t speaking because the trip had all but cleared out the marina’s account. Alice must be in despair.
I ought to catch up with her
, Jules thought guiltily. In avoiding Dan, she’d also been staying away from her friend. Maybe she should take Alice up to the Polwenna Bay Hotel for lunch. Then they could have some time together on neutral territory.

Jules was still musing on this idea when she knocked on Caspar’s cherry-red door – which was flung open almost as soon as her knuckles met the wood.

“Come in, beautiful lady! Come in! Don’t let’s dally upon the doorstep!”

In his leather trousers, frilly cerise shirt and flowery waistcoat he looked like an aging Russell Brand, Jules thought – although she couldn’t quite picture Russell Brand wearing that pinny or the fluffy slippers.

“The stone floors are terribly cold,” Caspar explained, seeing her look. “Under-floor heating isn’t standard here, I take it?”

Thinking of the superannuated storage heaters in the vicarage, Jules just laughed. “You’re not in Kansas now, Toto!”

“Indeed I’m not,” he agreed, his eyes twinkling down at her. “And very happy to be here with a Cornish maid come to visit me!”

“I’m from Basingstoke originally. I haven’t even lived here all that long; I was based in the Midlands this time last year,” Jules pointed out, but Caspar wasn’t going to let a minor detail like the truth get in the way of a good storyline. He was still busy spouting forth about
Poldark
and du Maurier as he took her fleece. Then he grasped Jules’s shoulders, and a rather moist kiss landed on her cheek as his liberally applied Aramis almost asphyxiated her.

“Come and sit down,” he said, taking her hand and towing Jules into the small sitting room and gesturing to a laden table. “Let’s have afternoon tea.”

“How many people have you invited?” Jules asked, taking in the piles of scones, the Victoria sponge oozing jam and cream, and the stack of sunshine-yellow saffron buns.

“Just us,” said Caspar, which was as Jules had feared. “Make yourself at home. I’ll just finish making the tea. I’ve only got Earl Grey. Is that all right?”

One of the lesser-known dangers of being a vicar was extreme tea-drinking. Some days Jules was literally awash with the stuff; people seemed to get offended, or at least very insistent, when she declined. Moreover, being more a builders’ brew kind of girl, there was nothing she hated more than dishwater Earl Grey. Still, she tried her best to be tactful at all times.

“Lovely,” she told him dutifully. Hopefully fibbing about tea didn’t count as a lie and, if it did, surely the Boss would forgive her?

While Caspar clattered away in the kitchen, all the while keeping up a steady monologue of his writing woes, Jules admired the pretty sitting room with its thick walls, Cath Kidston print soft furnishings and cheerfully glowing wood burner. Every now and then she threw an “mmm” or an “absolutely” in his direction, which seemed to keep Caspar happy, but mostly she tuned him out. There was only so much doom and gloom about not being able to write that she could handle, especially when her Sunday sermon was still waiting to be penned. Somehow Jules didn’t think her congregation would be very sympathetic to the notion of writer’s block.

Surely just staying here would be enough to inspire anyone to write? The view from the window was breathtaking even on such a gloomy day. The small boats lined up on the harbour floor, the sparkle of fairy lights from the pub and the cottages sprinkled on the hillside opposite were just crying out to be included in a novel. Jules had lived in the village for almost nine months now, but even so she never took Polwenna’s beauty for granted. On a summer’s evening when the light was long and golden and the sky arched over the harbour, the view from this cottage must be incredible. Wanting a closer look, Jules perched a buttock on the window seat and leaned forward. She was trying her hardest not to disturb the heaped papers or touch the laptop balanced next to them, but her backside was a little more generously proportioned that the seventeenth-century equivalent and she inadvertently nudged the computer.

The screen of Caspar’s laptop flared into life. Jules didn’t mean to pry but the sudden brightness was hard to ignore and her eyes were instantly drawn to it. The problem was, once she’d seen what was typed at the top of the otherwise blank Word document, there was no way she could
not
look. It would have been easier to stop the tide from seeping back into the harbour.

The Duke’s Dangerous Desire

by

Cassandra Duval

Not a great deal in life surprised Jules these days – being a vicar opened your eyes to all sorts – but this discovery really did knock her for six, partly because she’d rather unkindly written Caspar off as just a wannabe author and partly because she loved Cassandra Duval. There wasn’t a novel of hers that Jules hadn’t devoured within a matter of hours. Cassandra’s books were romantic and escapist, with heroes just the right side of the alpha male/dominating sadist line and feisty heroines who always ended up being the ones to reform the confirmed rakes. It was all total nonsense, of course, but Jules and thousands of other readers like her couldn’t get enough.

And these books were written by Caspar Owen? A self-absorbed dandy in fluffy slippers and a pinny? Seriously?

“Here’s the tea. Do you want milk or lemon— Oh!”

Caspar stared at Jules. His face was as white as the cottage walls.

“I’m really sorry. I was looking out of the window and I brushed against the computer,” Jules said, feeling as though she’d been caught rifling through Caspar’s wallet.

“I take it you’ve seen what’s on there?”

She bit her lip. “I’m afraid so.”

Caspar nodded and then glanced at the laden tea tray. “I think I need a brandy rather than a cuppa now.”

“Me too,” Jules said. Her head was spinning from the discovery. “So you’re Cassandra Duval? Really?”

Caspar didn’t reply but the tea tray was set on the table with a clatter. It was only after two generous measures of brandy had been poured into tumblers that he seemed ready to speak. He leaned against the mantelpiece, raised his glass and gave her a weary smile.

“So now you know the truth. Yes, Cassandra Duval is my nom de plume, for my sins.”

Jules’s eyes were wide. “But you’re a man.”

He raised his eyes to the beamed ceiling. “And that’s exactly why I have a pen name. Call it reverse sexism if you like, but men who write romance only sell well if they pretend to be female. Darling, you’d be amazed how many romantic novelists are guys.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Jules agreed. “Well, don’t worry, Caspar. I won’t say a word. I’m a priest, after all, so everything is in total confidence.”

Caspar looked relieved at this and, feeling a little star-struck, Jules added, “You’re one of my favourite authors! I’ve read everything of yours and I love them all. Honestly, I can’t wait for the next one.”

“You and several million others,” Caspar said wearily. “Along with my agent and my publishers and my publicist. Everyone wants that sodding book.”

“But isn’t that a good thing? You’re super successful. A real bestselling author, right up there with Jilly Cooper and Dan Brown! That must be great.”

In answer he knocked back the brandy and poured another, before drinking that too and then abandoning his glass in favour of the bottle.

OK, maybe not, thought Jules.

“Can you imagine the pressure I’m under to deliver this book?” Caspar asked her finally. “It’s got to be as good as, if not better than, the last one – or else my career is over.”

“But it
will
be good. All your books are brilliant!” Jules assured him. “Goodness, I’ve had this one on pre-order for months.”

He groaned. “That’s just great to hear. You can see for yourself just how much of it I’ve written.”

“The title? There’s nothing else? That’s it?”

“That’s it. Now can you see why I’m so desperate? I’m already three months late with it and the publishers are starting to talk about calling in my advance.”

“So can’t you just sit down and write it?” Jules was stumped because the answer seemed obvious.

“Hah! That’s what they say too! That’s what they all say! I can’t write a word, Jules! My muse has left me!”

More brandy was knocked back and Jules was worried. This was worse than she’d thought.

“All this muse stuff is way too metaphysical. You need to treat writing like any other job. Just sit down and get on with it,” she said sternly.

Caspar passed a despairing hand across his eyes. “If only I could. The thing is, I need a muse in order to write and for the past five years it was my girlfriend, Imogen. She was the inspiration for all my heroines. When I looked at her it was all I could do not to write odes.”

Privately Jules thought this must have been quite annoying for Imogen. Odes were all very well but after a while the novelty must surely wear off.

“When Imogen left me last year she took my gift with her too,” Caspar explained sadly. “I haven’t written a decent word since, and I know that I won’t be able to write another either until my muse returns. I had hoped that a change of scene would help me write – but I knew within moments of arriving here that my hopes were misplaced. I need passion in my life. Without it I’m nothing!”

“Oh dear,” Jules said lamely. So his writer’s block was caused by a broken heart. That would be trickier to fix than she’d thought.

“You know I’m not muse material, don’t you?” she said hastily.

“I couldn’t possibly have you as my muse now. You have uncovered the secrets of my soul. I have laid my ego bare. I have flayed myself raw, I have—”

Jules held up her hands. “Yes, yes, I get the gist. But Caspar, if you sit around waiting for too long for this muse you’ll never get the book written at all. Can’t you love a woman from afar? A bit like the troubadours did in the olden days?”

“Unrequited love?”

“Absolutely! I think it was supposed to really inspire writers.” Jules was frantically dredging up her A-level Lit. “Think about it. Petrarch loved Laura from a distance and Dante was the same with Beatrice. They wrote great poetry. And how about Shakespeare’s sonnets to the Fair Friend?”