Mark had resisted the urge to return to the beach in Penhallow Sands for the past two days. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to bump into Catherine again, because the idea of seeing her and talking to her again appealed enormously, but he didn’t trust himself not to dive back into the sea and save her again if he saw her swimming, or floating or even paddling. The idea of it actually made him smile because it was good to feel positive emotions towards a woman again, to feel desire for a woman other than Ellie, and to have that delicious sense of hope that had been missing from his life for some time. Yes, he barely knew Catherine, and yes, she might not be attracted to him, but she was there in Penhallow Sands and Mark wasn’t far away. He was convinced that there was something between them and would like to find out what it was, but he also didn’t want to push things. He had learnt over the years that he needed to take his time and to think things through before he reacted, so he wouldn’t rush down to try to bump into Catherine again. He wanted to give his own emotions some time to percolate first so he could find out if they were real, if they were more than just lust. He knew how powerful lust could be and something inside him told him that it was more than this with Catherine, but even so, he wanted to take his time.
So, instead of heading down to the village, he decided to explore closer to Plum Tree Cottage. He packed his rucksack with water and snacks then headed out into the balmy morning. He needed some air and some exercise before he sat down to write, so he’d go for a hike first.
In his hiking boots, T-shirt and cargo shirts along with a baseball cap and sunglasses, he was prepared for the sunny day that the forecast had promised, and he’d covered himself in sun cream too. Just before he left, he threw his swimming shorts and a towel into the rucksack – just in case. After all, the direction he’d decided to walk in did appear to have a sea view.
He set off across the field behind the cottage, hoping that it was okay to walk across the land, and when he got to the far side, he saw the path he’d spotted from the cottage garden. It was so overgrown that he doubted anyone had used it for years, but then with the British weather – often a mix of sunshine and rain – greenery grew quickly, so it might not have been that long after all.
He started to make his way carefully along the path, stepping over brambles and avoiding stinging nettles, although a few times his legs did get scratched and stung. The further along he walked, the more the trees thickened, and soon he was heading underneath a canopy of branches and leaves that shaped a cool archway through which the light created a dappled carpet on the ground. The aromas of flora and fauna were strong here and it reminded him of a time when he’d visited a hothouse at a zoo. Above him birds tweeted and warbled, and off to his right something charged through the undergrowth, making him wonder if it was a fox, rabbit or badger. Whatever it was, he hoped it was more scared of him than he would be of it should he encounter the creature.
After walking for about ten minutes, he could see a clearing at the end of the path. He forged ahead and soon the sunlight warmed his face again and he removed his cap, glad to have the fresh sea breeze on his face and head.
He gasped as he looked around him, because the path had brought him to the cliffs of the next bay along from Penhallow Sands. To his right, he could see across the land to the small village and make out familiar shops and buildings. He could also see the beach where he had rescued Catherine then tried to avert his eyes from her appealing curves. Lust shot through him and he forced the image from his mind. This was not the time to allow desire to consume him. He had exploring to do.
He looked left and saw that the path continued, so he followed it until he came to a stile set in a fence. There was an old wooden signpost with three thin pieces of wood nailed to it. The first was too faded to read; the second said Penhallow Sands and pointed in the direction he’d just come from; the third pointed across the stile and towards a path that disappeared over the edge of the cliff. He wiped a cobweb from the sign and saw that it read Plum Tree Bay.
Beyond the fence, in the adjoining field, were lots and lots of trees, and as he looked closer he could see that they were heavy with fruit.
‘Plums!’ he said aloud, delighted by the sight, wondering if it was why his rental property was named Plum Tree Cottage. Perhaps the cottage had been linked to this land at one point in time; it certainly wasn’t far away.
He climbed over the stile and made his way carefully to the top of the path and looked down. The path was steep but it was wide enough for two people to descend side by side, so he’d be safe to use it. He shrugged; he’d come this far so why not keep going?
He descended carefully, keeping his eyes on his feet in case he encountered a stone that could trip him or a bramble that could catch his lace and cause him to fall. When he reached the bottom, he turned and gasped, because spread out before him was the most beautiful little bay he had ever seen.
And it was completely deserted.
He dropped his bag and hat on the sand, stepped out of his clothes until he hadn’t a stich on, and ran, laughing, excited and carefree as a child, towards the sea.
Then he dived into the water of the secluded, and seemingly forgotten, Plum Tree Bay.
‘Good afternoon, gorgeous!’
Jamal kissed Catherine’s cheeks as she entered Hairway to Heaven.
‘Afternoon, Jamal.’
‘You are looking good, Catherine. Have you been swimming a lot this week?’
She nodded. ‘Every morning, bright and early.’
She hadn’t seen Jamal for a few days as he’d been working and she’d been settling into her summer holiday routine of swimming, baking, reading and napping. It was bliss. The only thing that had disappointed her so far about the week was that she hadn’t seen the handsome Mark since his rescue attempt five days ago. Every morning, she’d found herself hoping that he might appear at the beach – after all, she went for a swim at the same time every morning – but there had been no sign of him. Perhaps he only ran once a week or perhaps he’d decided to steer clear of the beach after what had happened. She hadn’t exactly been brimming with gratitude towards him; she had, in fact, been a bit cold and ungrateful. The thought that she might never see him again left her feeling extremely disappointed, even though her common sense told her that it was probably for the best. After all, what could possibly happen between them?
‘I’ll just finish up here…’ Jamal glanced behind him at the woman sitting in front of one of the salon’s mirrors, her head down as she scanned her smartphone. ‘This woman is being a pain in the backside. She’s bleached her mop so many times it’s fit to fall out, but still she insists on being blonde.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘It has taken some industrial strength conditioning treatment to soften the wiry mess she created. If she’s not careful, it’ll be a wig next.’
Catherine bit her lip, hoping that the customer couldn’t hear Jamal’s whispering, but she didn’t raise her head so she must have been engrossed in the world of social media.
‘Coffee, Catherine?’ Bradley peered around the wall that separated the salon from the sinks and small kitchen.
‘Please.’
He nodded then disappeared again.
Catherine took a seat on the purple leather sofa in the window and picked up a celebrity gossip magazine. She leafed through it, scanning the articles but not really finding anything of interest, until she came to a section titled ‘What’s in a Pen Name?’ She read through, surprise filling her that some of the authors out there whom she’d assumed were male, were actually female, and vice versa. Sometimes, it was deliberate and others, it was down to reader assumption. She shrugged. An author’s gender didn’t matter at all, as long as their books were good. But her mind strayed to some of the authors whose books she read and she ran through their names. Some had websites featuring photographs, many were on social media sites like Instagram and they posted personal photos and details of their lives. But not Alex Radcliffe. She had never seen a photo of the author and had no idea what she looked like. Or what he looked like. Now what if Alex Radcliffe was a man? A man who wrote such romantic sensual stories. A man who clearly understood what it was like to love and be loved in return. A man who must have a romantic soul, because otherwise, how would he have such a deep understanding of love and passion? He must be… a wonderful man.
‘What’re you smiling about?’ Bradley asked as he set a glass coffee mug on the table in front of the sofa.
‘Just thinking about something I read.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘An article in here.’ She tapped the open magazine. ‘About pen names.’
‘Thinking about writing, are we?’ He raised his perfectly shaped black eyebrows that always caught Catherine’s attention because his head was completely hair free.
‘Goodness, no!’ Catherine laughed. ‘I have enough to do without trying to write as well.’
‘That you do.’ He nodded. ‘Are you enjoying the holidays?’
‘I’ve settled into them now and yes… it’s bliss. It always takes me about two weeks to unwind and to feel that I don’t have to be busy every minute of every day.’
‘I know, doll, it can be difficult to relax. I find wine helps. Talking of wine makes me think of parties. And talking of parties… You still want me to bring the cake later?’
‘Yes, please! I’m relying on you, Bradley.’
‘I hope you’re going to like it.’
‘I’m sure I’m going to love it.’
Bradley leant over and gave her a hug. ‘See you later. Around six?’
‘On the dot!’
Bradley swanned away, his skinny jeans clinging to his slim hips, the back of his tight T-shirt featuring the shop’s logo of a staircase with a woman at the top, her long hair tumbling down to touch the bottom step like Rapunzel.
It was Catherine’s mother’s birthday, so she was heading up to Greenacres with Jamal to purchase some wine for the small party they were holding at home. It was a surprise party that Catherine would tell her mother about an hour before it started. She couldn’t tell her any sooner as Diana would want to cancel it, but she had to tell her before guests arrived, otherwise Diana would be too surprised to handle it. Catherine took a deep breath then exhaled slowly. It was so challenging and tiring trying to navigate around her mother’s emotions and her ups and downs, but Catherine did her best to be a caring and thoughtful daughter. She loved her mother so much and all she wanted was to see her happy. It was why she’d never really made more of an effort to have a life of her own. Other people might think Catherine was strange for that, she’d endured enough snide comments when she’d been a pupil at school and a few later on too, but the ones she’d heard as an adult had been uttered out of concern and pity. She knew that some people in Penhallow Sands pitied her, thinking she was held back by her mother, but they just didn’t understand. No one could understand someone else’s life unless they experienced it first- hand. They hadn’t lived Catherine’s life, witnessed Diana’s sadness, or held her as the dark clouds had descended and left her at rock bottom. How could Catherine live her own life when her mother needed her so badly? How could she enjoy herself knowing that Diana had no one else, that Catherine and Bob Scratchit were the only reasons Diana got up in the morning? Loving someone meant that you were at least partly responsible for them and Catherine had never been one to shirk her responsibilities.
Thankfully, Diana’s very low times didn’t tend to last for more than a few weeks at a time and she was able to continue with her daily routine. Catherine had tried to persuade her mother to seek medical help, but that only led to Diana becoming angry and believing that Catherine wanted to be rid of her, so it was easier to keep quiet and just… be there for her. After over thirty years of living with her mother, Catherine had developed strategies for dealing with her moods and she was lucky enough to have a job that she could escape into, and good friends in Jamal and Bradley. She had so much to be grateful for in her life and she always tried to focus on the positives.
Her mother was seventy-six today; she needed Catherine more than ever.
That was how it was. That was how it would always be.
It was the life Catherine had been given when her father had walked away when she was twelve, leaving her to care for her mother, to miss out on the life she might have otherwise had. She had resented him for a long time, had struggled to deal with her anger towards him throughout her teenage years, but she had read self-help books and spoken to Jamal about it, and at some point, she had been able to make a kind of peace with the situation. She wasn’t happy about what had happened and never would be. In fact, she was still incredibly sad about it, but she had been able to let go of the vile black anger that could have soured her existence. It was what it was and no amount of sadness or regret would change that. Although she was no fool and she was aware that it had impacted upon her life choices and the way she had handled her romantic life. How could such abandonment not leave scars?
Movement in the mirror opposite, which reflected the street outside, made Catherine turn to look out of the window, and as she did, she caught sight of a figure bobbing up and down. She stood up to get a better look but the figure darted away, so Catherine went to the door and opened it. As she peered out onto the street, she saw a yellow raincoat darting through the crowds on the pavement then disappearing around the corner. It was the same colour as the raincoat she’d seen earlier in the week. Was it the same woman? The one who’d run into a signpost?
‘What’s up, Catherine?’ Jamal asked over the noise of the hairdryer that he was using on his customer.
‘Oh… I thought I saw something. Doesn’t matter.’ She didn’t see the point in telling Jamal as he’d likely chase after the person and it was probably a false alarm. Hopefully, anyway.
She shook her head and sat down, taking a sip of her coffee.
There was definitely something strange going on in Penhallow Sands at the moment.
Mark stood back and stared at the results of his labours.
The lounge window was sparkling.
It was amazing what procrastinating could do for an author. He might not have written anything substantial this week, but today he’d cleaned the rental cottage from top to bottom (not that it needed it, as it was already spotless), he’d mowed the grass and weeded the flower beds, and he’d done all his washing and ironing.
After his encounter with Catherine Bromley earlier in the week, he’d thought he’d felt a spark of inspiration and he’d rushed back to Plum Tree Cottage to make some notes. His head had been filled with images of a beautiful woman, of a mutual attraction and a dramatic rescue that had led to romance. But that was all that his spark had led to and since then, he’d had nothing more. Not a paragraph, not a sentence, not even a word… Then he’d discovered Plum Tree Bay and he had spent the past two days there, swimming, enjoying picnic lunches complete with some plums that he had picked from the trees, hoping that no one would mind since they seemed to be quite wild and neglected now, as if people had forgotten they were there, and lying on the sand as the sun shone down on him, turning his skin a golden amber. He’d reasoned with himself yesterday that he could have another day down at the bay as long as he made up his word count over the weekend. The freedom he’d felt skinny dipping in the waves and being the only person on the beach had already had a restorative effect upon him and his spirits had lifted considerably. This was life and he was living it, grabbing it with both hands and delighting in it.
And now it was Friday and he’d made a deal with himself that after he’d cleaned and done his chores, he would head up to Greenacres and purchase some local wine that he could enjoy with his homemade plum crumble.
It was a glorious summer day: the air was sweet with the fragrance of roses and honeysuckle, and below that was that salty tang of the sea. Plum Tree Cottage was perfectly placed – within walking distance of the beach and pretty village of Penhallow Sands, but off the beaten track so he could avoid the swarms of tourists and enjoy the peace and quiet of the countryside. He had been frustrated by his lack of writing but he had to admit that he was starting to unwind and his two trips to Plum Tree Bay had helped with that, as had the location and the solitude, being surrounded by greenery and by nature. In the mornings he woke to birdsong and in the dark of night he could hear the hoots of owls and the calls of foxes. Last night, he’d heard a different noise, a kind of snuffling and purring, so he’d got out of bed and gone to the window. At first, he hadn’t been able to see anything, but then, a small shape had appeared from the undergrowth and shuffled out along the path and another had followed soon after. Mark hadn’t even realised that hedgehogs made any noise.
He peered down at his T-shirt. If he was going anywhere, he’d better take a shower and put some clean clothes on. He didn’t want to meet his landlord and landlady smelling of sweat and window cleaner.
‘Which do you think she would prefer?’ Catherine held up two bottles of wine and Jamal read the labels.
‘Will she even drink any of it?’
Catherine shrugged. Her mother didn’t drink much alcohol because she said it made her feel worse, but now and then – on special occasions – she did enjoy a glass of good wine, so Catherine wanted to make sure she got one that her mother would approve of.
‘Why don’t you get them both? Then she’ll have red and white to choose from.’
‘They’re both very tasty, Catherine.’ Holly Dryden smiled at her from behind the counter. ‘I know I’m biased, but…’
‘Okay, I’ll take them both.’ Catherine placed the bottles on the counter.
‘How’s everything going with the vineyard these days?’ she asked Holly. The vineyard had been developed earlier in the year and if it was as busy there throughout the rest of the summer as it was today, then they must be doing well.
Holly leant forwards over the counter. ‘It’s going fabulously. We’re really pleased.’
‘I’m so happy for you.’
Holly wrapped both bottles in tissue paper. ‘Thank you. I’m really enjoying being home at Greenacres again and… well, you know, it’s wonderful being here with Rich and Luke and the shop is doing well too.’
Holly was glowing with happiness. Catherine knew that things hadn’t been easy for Holly this past year and that Holly and Rich had split up for a while, but now they were back together, living at Greenacres, proud parents to their baby son, Luke.
‘And, of course, Fran’s work is selling faster than she can paint.’ Holly gestured at the wall behind her where four watercolour landscapes had SOLD stickers underneath them.
‘I’m not surprised,’ Catherine said. ‘They’re wonderful.’
Fran Gandolfini was a local artist who sold some of her paintings and pottery via the vineyard shop. Her watercolours of the vineyard and surrounding scenery were very popular. She was also Holly’s best friend and had been for as long as Catherine had known them.
The old-fashioned bell above the shop door tinkled and Jamal let out a low whistle. ‘Who is that?’ he muttered.
Catherine turned around and met the dark green eyes of Mark Coleman. Instantly, heat flooded her cheeks and her heart fluttered. She quickly turned back to the counter and took a few deep breaths. Was this man destined to turn up everywhere she went this summer?
‘It’s Mark something or other.’ She tried to sound nonchalant even though blood was racing through her veins. ‘I bumped into him at the beach the other day.’
‘I wouldn’t mind bumping into him. He looks just like that John Krasinski.’ Jamal leant casually against the counter, affecting his flirtatious pose, and Catherine nudged him.
‘You are taken. Remember?’
‘That I am, sweetie, but a man can look as long as he doesn’t touch.’ He leant closer to her. ‘Besides which, I’m more interested in that shiny dark hair of his. Imagine what I could do with that! In fact, he’d be perfect for Beach Waves. You think he’d want to model?’
‘I barely know him so I have no idea.’
Catherine realised that Holly was staring at her quizzically.
‘Would you like anything else, Catherine?’
‘No. No, thank you. These are perfect.’ She paid for the wine then picked up both bottles.
‘Hope your mum has a great birthday.’
‘Thanks, Holly.’
Jamal went to the door and opened it. As Catherine crossed the shop to join him, Mark was standing in front of the shelves of bottles reading the labels. She was debating whether to say hello when he turned to face her.
‘Hello, Catherine. How are you?’
‘I’m good, thanks.’ She wished the raging heat would leave her face and neck but knew there was no chance of that happening anytime soon. ‘How are you?’
‘Not bad. Thought I’d treat myself to some wine. Any suggestions?’ He glanced at the bottles she was holding.
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Uh… what I mean is, yes.’ She tucked one bottle under her arm then held up the other one. ‘I can’t remember which one I picked up. Hold on.’ She fumbled with the tissue paper, trying to unwrap the bottle but her palms were clammy and her cheeks were burning and all she wanted to do was get out in the fresh air.
‘Here, let me.’
Mark went to take the bottle from her at the same time that Jamal did and it slipped from Catherine’s fingers. The sound of the bottle smashing was followed by an aroma of rich berries and oak and Catherine looked down at the floor in dismay.
‘Oh no!’ she gasped.
‘It’s all right. I’ve got it.’ Holly appeared by her side with a dustpan and brush. She deftly swept up the mess then returned to the counter for a cleaning spray and cloth.
‘I’m so sorry about that.’ Mark chewed his bottom lip. ‘It was completely my fault.’
‘Or mine,’ Jamal’s deep voice rumbled next to Catherine.
‘Let me replace it.’ Mark pulled a wallet from his pocket.
‘No, it’s fine. Don’t worry.’
‘I insist.’ Mark waited until Holly returned to them then said, ‘I’d like to replace that bottle of wine, please. And I’ll take another one too. I’m really sorry for the accident. It wasn’t exactly how I wanted to introduce myself.’
Holly smiled at him. ‘Introduce yourself?’
‘Yes… are you Holly Dryden?’
‘I am.’
‘I’m Mark Coleman. Your new tenant.’
‘Of course! Wonderful to meet you.’
They shook hands.
‘We should be going,’ Jamal said to Catherine. ‘We need to collect the pastries from the bakery before it closes.’
‘Yes.’ Catherine nodded. ‘Sorry about that, Holly, I really am. Uh… Mark, there’s really no need to replace the bottle. I’ve got white wine here, so the red doesn’t matter.’
‘Why doesn’t he come to the party and he can bring the replacement wine then?’ Jamal asked, causing Catherine to turn and scowl at him. ‘The more the merrier, right?’
Catherine turned to Mark, knowing that her face would now be a blotchy, red mess. ‘He’s probably busy. Aren’t you, Mark?’
‘Actually, no. Not really. But I wouldn’t like to intrude.’
‘Nonsense!’ Jamal shook his head. ‘Let me give you my number then you can text me and I’ll send you the address. I’ll put it straight into your phone if you like.’
Catherine looked from Jamal to Mark to Holly. The vineyard owner was grinning but trying to hide it, and Catherine’s blush deepened while her armpits tingled uncomfortably. This was just great! Her best friend had invited this very handsome stranger to her mother’s party. At her home. Where her mother would be. Where Jamal would be. Where they would have to make small talk and she would have to pretend that she didn’t find this man very attractive and that was going to be a challenge indeed.
‘That’s settled then.’ Jamal handed Mark’s phone back to him. ‘See you at about six thirty.’
‘Fabulous.’ Mark smiled. ‘See you later.’
‘Yes.’ Catherine forced her lips into a smile. ‘See you then.’
They left the shop and crossed the yard to the car park. Catherine’s legs were stiff; her feet felt like lead weights as she tried to lift them and walk normally and she stumbled once and stubbed her toe. She didn’t say a word until they were inside Jamal’s white Jeep.
‘Why did you do that?’
He turned to her and raised his eyebrows.
‘Do what?’
‘Invite him to the party.’
He gave a throaty chuckle.
‘Please, Catherine, tell me you don’t fancy him and I’ll go back in there and tell him he can’t come after all.’
‘What the… What on earth makes you say that?’
‘It was obvious from the moment you locked eyes with him in the shop. Holly could see it too, I reckon. You started behaving strangely and you went the colour of the wine you spilt.’
‘I do not fancy him.’ Catherine set the bottle of white wine on the floor between her feet. ‘And I have no idea where you got that from.’
‘He fancies you too.’
Jamal’s shoulders were shaking with laughter. Catherine tapped his arm.
‘Cut it out. I am a grown woman with a career and responsibilities and even if I did fancy him – which I don’t – it wouldn’t matter. There is no point in him coming to the party.’
‘There’s every point.’ Jamal took her hand and squeezed it. ‘I’ve known you for years and I’ve never seen you react like that to a man. You like him a lot. There’s something between you two and if I’m not mistaken, it’s attraction. Perhaps it will come to nothing, but I wouldn’t be a good friend if I didn’t try to set you on the right course.’
‘The right course? For what?’
He started the engine and the air conditioning came on. Catherine tilted the vents to make the most of the lukewarm air. It would soon cool down and soothe her heated cheeks.
‘For true love.’
‘Jamal… just get us to the bakery and stop talking nonsense.’
‘Your wish is my command!’ He gave a small salute then drove them away from Greenacres and back to Penhallow Sands.
Catherine knew that he meant well. He was a good friend and he was right about her feeling something towards Mark Coleman. But she wasn’t even sure what it was, and it made her nervous. But also a bit excited. Catherine liked being in control of her situation, her surroundings and her circumstances. It was something she’d learnt from her mother. For some reason, although she’d only met him a few times, Mark Coleman made her feel as though that control could slip away at any moment. It was unsettling, unnerving and unacceptable. It made her heart beat faster and turned her palms clammy. It did funny things to her core, things that made her think of Alex Radcliffe’s novels.
If Mark did bother to turn up at the party later, she’d keep her distance.
Anything else would never do.
Not even a summer fling. No matter how tempting the idea was…
Mark paid for two bottles of red wine then gently tucked them into his rucksack. He didn’t want to risk dropping them and making more mess on the shop floor. He felt really bad about what had happened with Catherine’s wine. He would have spared her that embarrassment if he could have. So far, they didn’t seem to be having much success around each other at all, although they did keep bumping into each other. Was it coincidence or something else?
‘Right, I need to pop up to the house for a moment, so would you like to come and meet Rich?’ Holly asked as she pushed her short blonde bob behind her ears.
‘Yes, that would be great, thanks.’
Holly locked the shop door behind them and they walked up towards the big house that dominated the vineyard.
‘Have you lived here long?’ he asked.
‘All my life, apart from a few months when I spent some time… away. My grandparents owned the house and vineyard and when I was born, my mum and dad brought me up there too. My granny still lives there but my grandpa passed away earlier this year, and my mum… well, she passed away when I was a teenager.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She smiled at him.
‘It’s okay. I mean, obviously I miss them both but I also have a lot to be grateful for. Rich, my partner, actually bought Plum Tree Cottage for us to live in. He secretly renovated it and made it beautiful. But as much as I love the cottage, I didn’t want to leave Greenacres. My granny and my dad live here and it’s nice having our family together under one roof.’
‘I can imagine that it would be.’ Mark nodded. ‘Family is important.’
‘Very! Ah, there’s Rich!’
Holly waved to a tall, dark haired man who was standing on the doorstep. He waved in return then walked through the small rear garden and let himself out of the gate.
‘Rich, this is our tenant, Mark Coleman.’
Mark shook Rich’s proffered hand.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Rich smiled. He had to be about Mark’s age, possibly a bit younger and Holly looked younger again. ‘We would have come down to Plum Tree to say hello but we wanted to let you get settled in first. Besides which, I’d hate to be the nosy landlord, appearing without notice and making you feel on edge.’
Mark laughed. ‘Oh there’s no danger of that. You’d be most welcome, but thanks anyway. It’s a fabulous cottage and I’ve settled in very well.’
‘Do you think you’ll stay longer than you initially thought?’ Rich asked and Holly cleared her throat.
Rich shook his head. ‘Sorry. I know I shouldn’t ask. It’s just that it would be great to have a long-term tenant. We could let it as a holiday cottage, but we already have two here at Greenacres, and with running the vineyard too, we have our hands full. Obviously, the agent takes care of the paperwork now, but even so… it’s good to have tenants that we know and can rely on.’
‘I’m not sure what my long-term plans are yet,’ Mark said, wanting to be honest with this warm and friendly couple, ‘but I’ll let you know soon. It depends how my writing goes, to be honest.’
‘The lettings agent said something about you being an author,’ Holly said. ‘What do you write?’
Mark paused, wondering how much to say. He wanted to be honest about the work he loved but he also didn’t want to go through the whole pen name discussion, not yet at least.
‘Fiction. A mixed bag really.’ And that was true, because he had written thrillers and romcoms, he just preferred to focus on romcoms now.
‘Lovely.’ Holly smiled. ‘Just imagine, Rich, one day we’ll be able to put a plaque on the cottage wall that says “Famous Author Lived Here”.’
Mark chuckled. ‘Now that would be something. I’ll have to ensure that I only write Sunday Times Bestsellers from here on in.’
The couple laughed.
‘Is Luke okay?’ Holly asked, turning to Rich.
‘He’s napping in the lounge and your granny is keeping an eye on him.’
‘Great. Well, I’d better pop inside… just to give him a kiss… then get back to the shop.’
‘What about me?’ Rich asked.
Holly shook her head then stood on tiptoes and kissed Rich’s cheek.
‘There!’ She grinned at Rich. ‘See you again, Mark. Don’t forget to call if you need anything.’
Mark could see that the couple were very much in love. They had that way about them that spoke of trust and intimacy, of a bond that wouldn’t be broken. It was heart-warming to see but it also made him aware of what he didn’t have, of what he’d lost. He’d thought that he’d have a wife and a perhaps a family of his own by the time he was forty, but at thirty-eight, that seemed unlikely now. Ellie had taken his dreams and his world and everything he’d thought he’d known and dashed them against the rocks. Sometimes, it was hard to stay positive, especially with his author life taking a nosedive too, but although he knew he had to let Ellie go, he couldn’t do the same with writing. It was a part of who he was and no matter what else changed in his life, he knew he would always need to write. He just wished he could get going again, but right now he had no idea what it would take to achieve that. However, since meeting Catherine, he was also aware of a flicker of hope. He hadn’t so much as noticed another woman since his split with Ellie, at least until Catherine. That had to be a positive thing.
‘Are you in a hurry or do you have somewhere you need to be?’ Rich asked.
‘Not at all.’ Mark shook his head.
‘Well, seeing as how I have the day off… I’m on holiday this week from my accountancy job… How do you fancy a quick tour of Greenacres?’
‘I’d love to take a look around,’ Mark replied.
‘Let’s start with the winery building, shall we?’
They set off around the vineyard, and Mark listened to Rich’s clear and enthusiastic explanations of how the vineyard ran efficiently and how long the family had been there and about their hopes for the future of Greenacres. It was fascinating, and Mark wished he’d brought his notepad with him, because he felt sure there must be a novel in there somewhere.