Beneath Beautiful (6 page)

“Yes. Have you been before?” She looked over at him.

“No. Never.” He stared outside the car window.

“Didn't think you would have. It doesn't seem very you.”

Cameron looked over at her now, his eyes suddenly lighting up. “But it's very you?”

“Oh, yes. Very.”

“Well, that's all I need to know then.”

“Derwa
! It's so good to see you.” Cassie left her bag on the gravel behind her and ran over to the old family friend. She was immediately enveloped in one of those classic Derwa hugs that went on forever, smooshing you into her large bosom. She smelt exactly like Cassie remembered—a combination of Yardley's English Lavender, sea salt, and baking. “It's lovely to be back. It's been too long.”

“It most certainly has,” Derwa agreed.

“This is my . . . friend. Cameron. He'll be taking the other room.”

Derwa nodded in his direction, but gave Cassie a look that told her she would want to know more later. “I've given you the two rooms on the top floor. There's no one else here. No one booked in for another week, in fact. We're heading into the low season now, you know. So, dinner at seven?”

Cassie nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, please. That would be perfect.”

“Right you are, then. I was just about to duck out for a few things.” Derwa held up an empty basket and passed Cassie two sets of keys. “Would you mind letting yourself in to your rooms?”

“Of course not,” Cassie said. “I know where everything is.”

“Good girl.”

Cassie and Cameron watched as Derwa made her way toward a set of stone steps that led down into the village. When she was finally gone, Cassie smiled at Cameron. “The people are amazing down here.”

Cameron's raised his eyebrows. “I'm hoping for one of those hugs before we leave.”

“They're the best.”

“And how's the food down here? Dare I ask what's for dinner? Chips and beans?”

Cassie laughed, her eyes darting from his as she began to realise she could like him. As in, really like him. His jokes. His sleeping in the car. The way he looked at her when he woke up—as if he couldn't quite believe his luck that she was still around. “You'll eat those words tonight; you'll see. Anyway, how's your head?”

“Much better, thanks. But I really shouldn't have slept all the way.”

“Don't worry, you can make it up to me now. I'm going to take you for a painfully long, hilly walk. Don't forget your coat. You'll need it.”

“I
've been coming to Polperro for as long as I can remember,” Cassie told Cameron as they twisted and turned their way through the narrow streets of the tiny fishing village. “Though usually in the summer, when it's much, much busier than this. In summer it's absolutely heaving. Full of tourists eating fish and chips, seagulls begging for scraps, and toddlers with ice creams bigger than their heads. Come on, then, this way . . .” Cassie took off.

“This is a village that doesn't do normal, does it?” Cameron said as they passed by a family of four. The two children, both girls under ten, wore wetsuits, and were taking turns diving into the harbor. Cassie smiled, thinking how they looked like seals.

“That's why I love it. Before we head up, are you starving?”

“Vaguely.”

“That's because I ate your sandwich. Wait here a moment.” She parked Cameron beside a small bakery and ran inside. A moment or two later, she exited with a small, white paper bag and passed it to him ceremoniously. “A pastie. Cheese and onion. Local specialty.”

“Thanks. I think.” Cameron lifted the bag up to peer inside.

“You can walk it off at the same time.” Cassie started off once again, leading the way up a steep street toward some stone stairs. At one point, she scooted around a man who was painting in watercolor, his easel tucked half under the shelter of a ridge of rock. As they passed by, Cassie stole a look at his work.

“Not your kind of thing?” she said when they were out of earshot.

Cameron didn't seem to mind either way. “I've got nothing against it. It was very . . . pretty. But you might have noticed I don't do pretty.”

“Yes.” Cassie's mouth twisted slightly as she remembered the images she'd brought up on her computer screen in her grandmother's apartment. “I had noticed that.”

They kept walking up further, toward the rocky cliffs. At the top of the next set of stairs Cassie paused to take a deep breath of the cold, windy air. “Gorgeous.”

Cameron shot her a look of disbelief, his lips in a half smile. “The English truly are weird. Now, Jamaica is gorgeous. The South of France is gorgeous. The Greek islands are gorgeous . . .”

The wind stole Cassie's laugh away. “It's a different kind of gorgeous, I'll admit. Just up here . . .” She pointed to a wooden bench in the distance, and the pair made a beeline for it, pushing against the salty wind in order to reach their destination. Cassie sat down first on one corner of the seat. “If you sit down,” she told Cameron, who was towering above her, making her stomach begin to churn nervously, “you're less likely to be blown out to sea.”

Cameron sat down obediently, slightly closer to Cassie than she’d expected. The black wool of his coat fell upon the back of her right hand unexpectedly and she froze, unsure whether Cameron was aware of this and whether she should move slightly, breaking their contact, or not. Just moments ago she'd felt at ease, but now her head filled with worry. What was he expecting from this weekend? If it was even a weekend they were away for. Would they stay for longer? She didn't know. And that wasn't usually how her life operated. This was the problem with Cameron Callahan, Cassie was finding—just when she thought she had everything under control, even the smallest touch or look from Cameron could show her that this was so far from the truth it was laughable.

The pair stared out over the jutting, jagged rocks as waves tore at the cliff face below, sending up random bursts of white sea-spray. After some time, Cassie pulled her coat tighter around her, releasing herself from Cameron's touch, and tension pulsed through her body. “Well, I think it's gorgeous. Or at least bracing.”

“Bracing I'll agree with.” Cameron nodded, tearing open the white paper bag. “Bite?” He held the pastie up to Cassie's lips, and she wondered if he was being deliberately provocative (but with a pastie? Really?).

“It's all yours.” Cassie shook her head slightly. “I insist.”

“Well, if you
insist
.” He sat back in his seat as he took a bite. “Not bad,” he said, eventually. “Not bad at all. Good hangover fare.”

“They're my favourite,” Cassie said, standing up again. “So, obviously you've got some kind of taste. You can choose the wine for tonight.”

Cameron looked up at her, taking another bite of his pastie. “You'll have to remind me what goes better with chips and beans. Shiraz, or Merlot?”

“Very funny.”

Finished his pastie now, Cameron crumpled the paper bag and thrust it in his pocket. He held out his hand and Cassie, not thinking too hard about it, took it, and pulled him up to standing. What she was thinking taking his hand, she had no idea. When upright, he was again slightly inside her personal space and pressing her for . . . she didn't know. Was he waiting for her to do something? Say something? Make the first move? She couldn't tell. He seemed completely comfortable with the situation. Cassie, however, was not. “Cameron, I . . .”

But before the rest of the words passed her lips, Cameron had turned slightly to look at something and broken the spell, making Cassie doubt her feelings in that moment. She was supposed to be getting to know him, but kept finding the more she knew, the less she understood.

“What was that?” He turned back to face her once more.

“Nothing.” She frowned slightly, unsure of every emotion she'd ever had. “Nothing at all.”

C
assie opened the blue wooden door to the small stone hut with a flourish. “After you.” She ushered Cameron inside, then gave him a moment or two before entering also.

Inside the room a fire crackled away, ensconced in a large stone fireplace. Candles shone from rocky crevices in the wall. In the final vestiges of the remaining light two large windows, their blue shutters pushed back, showcased the view over the green hills and out over the sea and beyond. A large, rustic wooden table filled most of the warm room, this evening set for just two.

Cameron placed the bottle of wine they had chosen upon the table. “Now I'm really hoping we're not having beans and chips.”

Cassie grinned. “Definitely not. Derwa is a brilliant cook. A seasonal cook.” She walked over to a ledge near the fireplace and found what she was looking for. “Catch.” She threw a waiter's friend over to him and he caught it deftly.

Within moments the pair both had a glass of Shiraz. “What should we toast to?” Cassie looked over the top of her glass at Cameron.

“Your choice,” Cameron said.

Cassie hesitated. What should they toast to? Her surviving this experience in one piece was something that came to mind. “To your sculpture. Or the idea of it. Whatever it might be,” she finally decided upon.

“And the inspiration behind it.” Cameron clinked his glass against hers.

Cassie took a sip from her glass. “Very nice,” she said. “You have good taste.”

“In both wine and in inspiration,” he replied, smiling as his eyes met hers.

“I
'd eat my words, but I'm not sure I'd fit them in,” Cameron said, as Derwa disappeared with their plates. Both the small ramekin containing the delicious cheese and leek soufflé and then the fresh cod resting on a bed of runner beans and crispy prosciutto had gone down beautifully, despite their mismatched wine.

“Pace yourself. You've still got to fit in pudding yet.” Behind Cameron's head, Cassie found her eyes pulled yet again to the outline of a small house down on the hill below.

Cameron swiveled quickly in his seat. “You keep looking at something down there. What is it? That house? Down below?”

Caught out, Cassie wasn't sure how much to tell him. “That was our holiday house. Our family's. That's how we know Derwa. She was our neighbor, I suppose you'd call it.”

Cameron turned back to face her. “So your family doesn't own the house anymore?”

“No,” Cassie said slowly. “We haven't for some time now.” She replaced her glass slowly on the table, then decided she may as well tell him. He probably knew, considering he'd known about her father. He'd obviously done a little research on her background. “We sold it. When my mother died. We hadn't been there for years, anyway.”

“I'm sorry,” Cameron said. “About your mother. I lost my own father young. Alcohol.”

Cassie nodded, but said nothing, and tried to quell the sickening feeling she had that she shouldn't have brought him here and opened up to him so readily. But there was something inside her that knew that if she'd chosen anywhere else, he would have seen through her in an instant—that it was all or nothing if she wanted to work with Cameron Callahan. It heartened her as well to see the cracks in his charisma the longer she spent in his presence. Underneath the glossy resin and slick PR was a real person. A person with a history not so unlike her own.

“I'm going to sound completely pretentious when I tell you this, but I'm going to say it anyway because I think you'll understand. I bought my sister a beach house a few years ago. You see, when I was small, all these kids used to come back to school after the summer, and they'd write about how they'd been to summer camp and to the beach for the day and all kinds of things and my sister, Erica, and I . . . we never had anything like that. Not that I think every kid should have a beach house, and the area I came from, well, they weren't wealthy families anyway . . .” He paused to shake his head. “. . . this is coming out all wrong.”

“No,” Cassie interrupted. “I know what you mean. It's not about that. It's about the memories. Every child should have a memory like that. I don't think people comprehend how important family traditions are. Even the smallest ones.

Cameron took another sip of his wine, but continued to watch her closely.

“You know one thing I love about my brother-in-law? Every Friday, he brings something home for the children. Some sort of treat. It's nothing big—a book, or a sweet, or a little magazine. But they love it. So much. He always manages to find something. And he never forgets.”

“They're very lucky.”

“They are.” Cassie turned her glass in her hands. “Luckier than both of us, by the sound of it. It's strange, though—both our parents . . . alcohol . . .” She trailed off, leaving the words unsaid.

“I don't know,” Cameron replied. “How else do you become a tortured artist? And I'm sure you could count quite a few friends of yours whose parents have significant problems with booze, even if they didn't take things as far as ours did.”

Cassie held up three fingers to represent the three parents she knew like this. “Fully functioning, but still . . . Sad, really.” She took a deep breath. “So . . . you bought this beach house. With a big wad of cold hard cash.” She smirked, changing the subject to something more palatable.