Just Say Yes (12 page)

“Hell, I don’t know. Average. Tall-ish,” he said, closing the browser on the computer.

“As tall as me?” she asked.

He thought for a moment. “A bit taller, I guess.”

“Slim? Fat?”

Josh knew he had to close down this discussion quickly. He guessed what Sara was fishing for. She was a hundred percent beach babe, fit and tanned. He’d often told her so, and yet it still didn’t seem to satisfy her. Lately, she’d wanted constant reassurance that she was attractive. She needn’t have worried. From what he’d seen of her, the mad girl was fair-skinned and curvy in a way Sara would have derided.

“How old is she?”

“Same as us, I guess. Difficult to tell.”

Sara nodded. “From London?”

“I suppose so, she had one of those non-accents.”

“So average, no accent, medium height, but mad as a hatter.”

“She had unusual hair,” he said, suddenly recalling the girl’s black hair curling over her shoulders. He had to kill a smile as he remembered her expression: she’d acted as if he was an ax murderer or a Peeping Tom—or maybe the law.

Sara’s eyes lit up. “How do you mean, ‘unusual’? Spiky? Punk? Goth? Pink?”

“Dark, I suppose,” said Josh, jumping down from the desk and lacing his arms in front of him in an effort to ease his aching shoulder. Maybe it was a good job the course had been rained off, for the sake of his back. Someone had to save him from himself.

Sara pressed on. “Dark as in black or as in brown? I need detail.”

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “OK. Let me see. Her hair was black like the paint job on the Wilsons’ Sunseeker, maybe with some kind of purply thing happening like the sails on the Mirage dinghy Dave Hollins just bought off Esme Trerice. And her skin was a sort of creamy-white—you know, I think it was exactly the color of the leather upholstery in that French couple’s Beneteau thirty-six-footer and…”

Sara’s mouth gaped open.

“Well, you did ask me.”

“Not to make fun of me!”

He lifted her chin and planted a quiet kiss on her mouth. “Would I? Sara, I really have no idea what she looked like and, frankly, I don’t give a toss. Now, I have to get back. I need to fix the dishwasher in Porthcurno Cottage before the guests arrive, and maybe Fiona will be at Creekside to let me fix her heating.”

She nodded as he picked up his keys from the in-tray. “So, shall I see you later? There’s a gig at the Smugglers tonight…”

He smiled and hesitated just long enough to sow a seed of doubt in her mind. “Why not? Pick you up around seven?”

“Cool.”

He was halfway out of the door when he turned back. “Sara?”

“Yes?”

“That mad girl at Fiona Thingy’s place?”

Her eyes lit up and for a moment he had second thoughts about teasing her. “Yes?” she said eagerly.

“She had jam round her mouth.”

Leaving a kiss on her indignant face, Josh strode out of the office, across the slipway to his pickup. He wasted no time in driving back to Tresco Farm. The high season was nearly here and as usual, he had a list of jobs as long as his arm to get on with. Ten minutes later, he was pulling up in the courtyard. A joyful bark from inside told him that Tally, at least, was pleased to see him.

“Don’t have to ask how you are, do I, girl?”

In response, Tally leapt to her feet and padded over, tail thumping against the stove in excitement. Crouching down, Josh ruffled her ears and tickled her belly as she rolled onto her back in pleasure.

“Sorry, girl, I don’t have time for a walk,” he said as the dog jumped up and raced for the back door. “Later.”

Outside, the rain was easing. Josh could see the row of cottages opposite and, beyond that, he could almost make out the sea now, gray against a gray sky. The cottages never ceased to inspire him with wonder. That they belonged to him at all, he still found hard to believe.

From his background, with all that he’d got up to in his youth, even in his wildest dreams, he could never have imagined running a business and owning property. If it hadn’t been for Marnie Trewellan, his foster mother, Josh had no idea where he’d be now. Probably the same place his brother Luke was—on the streets. But Luke had had the same chances and Josh had tried hard enough to find him and give him a share of what was rightfully his. What could Josh do if he’d chosen a different path? And now wasn’t the time to be wringing his hands over Luke. He had work to do.

“See you later,” said Josh, gathering up his tool kit from the kitchen countertop. Tally laid her head on her paws in misery.

“It won’t work,” he said, seeing her soulful eyes.

Tally flattened herself onto the quarry tiles and Josh shook his head.

“Why do you do this to me every time? Come on, then—but don’t leave hairs on the bed.”

At that, the dog leapt to her feet, paws slithering on the quarry tiles, and stood panting by the stable door that led out onto the yard. Outside, a peep of blue sky was now peering down between ragged clouds. Josh set off through the yard. Once pigs and hens had been kept here, but now it was graveled and provided extra parking for the guests of the cottages. Tally sniffed around the walls. Josh turned to look at the house, all dour gray stone, with roses and some purple plant running wild around the doors and windows.

He knew he ought to cut the climbers back or they’d block out the light, maybe destroy the mortar, but he was way too busy trying to keep the rental cottages in good repair. Tresco Farmhouse had managed for three hundred years; it could wait a while longer.

A hundred meters away from the farm stood the four former farm workers’ cottages which included Fiona’s place, Creekside. He knew Fiona had persuaded Marnie to sell her the property years ago while Josh had been away at college, struggling to get a degree in business. The other three cottages belonged to him.

They rented out well enough, considering Tresco Creek was off the beaten track. Seaspray was empty right now but Porthcurno had guests arriving later. With Mrs. Sennen still laid up with a sprained wrist, it fell to Josh to clean and prepare the cottage for the next guests. He also needed to repair the dishwasher, although he’d rather be carve jibing in a Force Five, flying over the water of the estuary. He smiled. Getting it wrong, more like, and catapulting into the creek, salt water shooting into his mouth, eyes, nose…

“Work, Tally!” called Josh, and the dog came to heel and trotted after him toward the cottages.

Lucy turned on the shower in the bathroom and hoped that the trickle of hot water dribbling out of the faintly mildewed head might someday be powerful enough to wash in. She fiddled with the controls and then the water suddenly whooshed down, icy cold. After a shriek and some hasty adjustments, it heated up. At least in here she was safe from reporters.

She’d decided that the scary guy with the camera had to have been from the press and wondered if he was from some local paper, hoping to make his name out of snapping her in her knickers. She had no idea how he’d found out she was here unless he’d been tipped off by the people who maintained the cottages. If so, why would Fiona have told them who she was? Above the hiss of the shower, Lucy heard the cottage door open and the familiar sound of Hengist’s bark. There was a clattering of claws on stairs.

“Fiona?” she called.

“Hi!” Fiona called back. “Shower working OK?”

“Fine,” lied Lucy, hastily turning off the shower as the hot water ran out unexpectedly.

“I’ll make some coffee. I managed to get some almond croissants. There’s a posh new patisserie opened in Porthstow,” called Fiona.

“OK. Thanks. I’ll be down in a minute,” said Lucy.

Wrapping herself in a towel, Lucy brushed her teeth and checked her face in the cracked mirror above the sink. She still looked pale but definitely not “haggard.” Maybe a few weeks of fresh air and sun would help with the outside, but her inner paleness would take longer to go. She wondered how Nick was coping. Gathering up her pajamas and wash bag, Lucy lifted the latch.

“Oh my God!”

A black Labrador was slurping her bare leg but that was the least of her worries. The fake postman was standing on the landing, holding a wrench.

“How the hell did you get in here?” cried Lucy.

“Fiona let me in,” said the man, with chilling calm.

“Fiona?”

He spoke slowly, as if she was an especially dim
Big
Brother
housemate. “Yes. The woman who owns this cottage.”

Involuntarily, Lucy raised her hand which was armed with a particularly noxious bottle of lavender bath soak.

“Fiona asked me to come over to fix the central heating pump,” said the man, eyeing the bath soak with a mix of amusement and alarm.

Then Lucy noticed the canvas tool bag farther along the landing, spilling an array of deadly weapons such as pliers and screwdrivers onto the floorboards, which was quite a large clue to the fact that he was telling the truth.

“If you came to fix the heating, why didn’t you say so earlier when I answered the door?” Lucy asked, reluctantly lowering the bath soak.

“You hardly gave me the chance.”

“I thought you were a postman…”

“A postman? Why would you think I was a postman?”

“Fiona was expecting a package… oh, it doesn’t matter. And after I realized you weren’t a postman, I thought you might be a reporter.”

He scratched his chin. “Right. OK. That makes everything crystal clear. Of course. Why would I be a reporter?”

How could she explain? She’d come down here precisely to disappear, it was no use blurting out the whole charade to the first stranger she met. “You had a camera and—”

“She’s exhausted after the journey,” cried Fiona thudding up the stairs after Hengist. “Hengist! Will you please leave poor Tally alone?”

Hengist had squeezed past the man and was giving the Labrador’s tail a thorough sniff.

“Tally, lie down!”

Trotting to his side, Tally dropped to the floorboards and laid her nose on her paws. Hengist gave a mournful howl but kept his distance. Some use he was, thought Lucy in disgust. Then again, she hardly blamed him, confronted by six feet of thug.

“Lucy,” said Fiona, “this is Josh Standring. He’s come to mend the central heating.”

Lucy clutched her towel tighter. Josh seemed unconcerned, as if he was introduced to wet girls in towels every day of the week.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said sarcastically, holding out his free hand.

Lucy kept hold of the bath soak. “So you’re the um… plumber.”

“Plumber, electrician, builder, cleaner. Even do a bit of bird-watching and youth-club work in my spare time.”

Lucy swallowed and felt her cheeks growing warm, remembering her taunts to him on the doorstep. Now she came to think of it, he was, she grudgingly admitted,
far
too good-looking to be a reporter. Most of the reporters who’d swarmed round her doorstep had been flabby specimens smelling of cigarettes or in need of a decent body spray. This guy looked like a physical training instructor in the marines. But he didn’t look like a bird-watcher either.

“Actually, Josh owns Tresco Farmhouse,” cut in Fiona. “Apart from Creekside, the rest of the cottages are part of his vacation rental business. It really is very good of him to drop by and help out.”

“It’s no trouble,” said Josh, throwing Fiona a smile that was barely more than a grimace. Lucy could tell he was desperate for them to leave him alone to get on with the job. As she was desperate to leave too, that was absolutely fine.

“Of course,” she said, finding it difficult to make small talk half naked. “Um… sorry about earlier by the way…”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I’d better get dressed.”

“And I’d better get the central heating fixed. You look cold.”

Lucy hoped the towel was stopping him from seeing just how cold she was. “I’ll get you both a coffee,” said Fiona hastily.

“Thanks, Fi. Um… excuse me,” said Lucy, realizing that Josh and his wrench stood between her and the safety of the boxroom.

“Of course.” He flattened himself against the wall. As she passed, his mouth twitched and Lucy thought he might be laughing at her but she couldn’t be sure. Scuttling into the boxroom, her cheeks burning, she closed and latched the door. As she sank onto the bed, she heard Fiona twittering. “You’ll have to make allowances for Lucy. She’s from London and she’s not been well.”

Some time later, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, she headed downstairs to the kitchen where she found not only Fiona, but also Josh and a petite blond-haired girl drinking out of mugs. As she walked in, their faces turned in her direction and the conversation stopped. Anyone would think that the Bride of Dracula had just entered the room, she thought. She tried the smile she used when trying to get the partners to approve the budget for a marketing campaign.

“Hi, everyone.”

Josh nodded curtly and took a slurp of his coffee. The blonde smirked. So that had gone well…

“Feeling better?” asked Fiona brightly, holding out a mug.