I took a deep breath. And reminded myself to let it out again and take another, before I could pass out from sheer lack of oxygen. Because life-changing moments like these could send even the most rational person into a dead faint.

But this was going to be perfect, I told myself. This was exactly what every event planner dreams of: being at the top of her professional game someplace where every celebration seems like magic. And it happened by pure chance, all because the senior planner at Design a Dream, the firm where I worked, had to miss her interview due to a few red spots breaking out on her face. Spots which turned out to be a full-blown case of the chicken pox at the age of thirty-seven. What are the odds of that happening? Seriously, WHAT are the odds?

I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I was too busy ransacking my closet, looking for the right combination of shoes, clothes, and, accessories for the interview of my life. The interview my fellow planner had skipped in order to wallow in anti-itch cream at home. I would have gone to that interview sporting a face full of pockmarks and calamine lotion if I had to, but that’s just me. Anything to become the new event planner for a country estate in breathtaking Cornwall, England.

See what I mean by ‘magical’? This was the grown-up equivalent to a kid’s Disneyland fantasy. I was definitely enchanted by photos I viewed of Cornwall online, and the Travel Channel's episode I watched on England's southern counties made me even more desperate to land the position before a lucky rival could snatch it up.

And it worked.

Seventy-two hours later, they hired me. Me, Julianne Morgen, your average American girl was about to venture ‘across the pond’, as they say, for a new life. Pulling up roots and packing half my belongings into storage until I could find a permanent residence in the Cornish village whose name I still couldn’t pronounce after locating it on a map. It was hard to believe, and yet it was really happening, my friends and family throwing me a farewell party the night before I left. Their words of encouragement and advice were still ringing in my head as I nervously boarded the plane that would take me to a new life in England.

Now, taking my first deep breath of English sea air, I was just a few train rides away from the elegant country house in South Cornwall. A place called Cliffs House, an old family estate that was among the rare and beautiful country houses of Cornwall, now turned into a bed and breakfast that hosted events from weddings to charity galas.

Everything I owned that was worth bringing was stuffed into the bags I carried with me: clothes for every occasion; the collection of high-heeled shoes that fed my ever-growing addiction to footwear, and books on everything from flowers to French baking, all part of my old job in the States.

I had never really belonged at Design a Dream. Truthfully, my creation of lemon poppy seed tea cakes with lavender-infused frosting for an English tea-themed reception had been the only time my employer ever paid me a compliment. I was always overlooked, the best opportunities for creativity being handed to others, the firm's favorite event planners — including Francine, who was offered the job as a Cornish event planner before the chicken pox struck. Our boss, Nancy, had never found my designs to be 'to her taste' as she put it.

"It's too niche," she complained, quirking her eyebrow one time as she studied my sketches for an engagement dinner's flower arrangements. "It's all sleek lines and symmetry. Where are the vases overflowing with beauty? Where's the stuffed-to-burst elegance that we pride ourselves on, Julianne?"

"I was under the impression," I began, trying to sound confident under this interrogation, "that sleek was what our client wanted. She chose a venue with modern nineteen-twenties' architecture, inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright. Her colors were black and white. Simple and elegant." I did my best not to study the toes of my shoes as I made this point — a pair of red Jimmy Choos that had cost me four months of 'everyday luxuries,'—and that was for getting them at a bargain price, mind you.

"It's not what our florists want," said Nancy. "They want us to order show stopping arrangements, don't they? If we don't keep our friends happy, how will we keep our clients happy?"

By doing what they want? I wanted to reply.

"Triple the number of flowers in those vases, Julianne," said Nancy, dismissing me. When I was halfway out of her office, she added, "And as a gentle suggestion — find some more 'sensible' shoes for the office tomorrow. All right?"

Meaning ones that didn’t come from a famous designer, I supposed. Senior planners at Design a Dream didn't care for junior lackeys showing off any luxury fashion labels they happened to own.

I hoped whoever managed Cliffs House estate didn't mind. Especially since the first wedding I was supposed to coordinate happened to be for clients worlds above any Design a Dream catered to, supposedly.

You, Julianne, are going to be helping someone famous make their dream day come true. Cakes, dinner menus, flowers, invitations — your color palettes and sketches will be going places they've never gone before. Just like I, Julianne Morgen, would be walking along rugged pathways to the shores of the English Channel on my days off. Letting the wind whip through my dark chestnut hair, closing my eyes before the spectacular view, and imagining that a fairytale English prince would come riding up on his horse —

I opened my eyes. Enough of that. The only eligible prince left in England was moving to America, according to the tabloids I had glimpsed in the airport newsstand while buying a postcard for my best friend Aimee back in Seattle — and all the other unmarried royal males were in 'nappies and nursery schools.' With a grin, I turned away from the restless channel waters along the shores outside the Newquay tea shop and made my way towards its cobblestone walkway to meet the cab that would take me to the railway station.

It got me there with several minutes to spare, so I parked myself on a bench beneath the fabric canopies. My luggage surrounded my Valentino-clad feet as I waited for the train to Par. Next would come Truro, where someone from Cliffs House would be waiting to drive me the remaining distance to the estate. Just thinking about it sent my nerves tingling again. With my WiFi connection fairly sporadic, I found myself resorting to people watching as a means of distraction.

There were some obvious tourists among the crowd, their dazed but happy expressions similar to what I had seen in the mirror that morning. Some of them carried guidebooks; others brandished their cameras like a weapon, as if they were members of the paparazzi, preparing to ambush a celebrity off the next train. There were some other, more casual-looking travelers too: a group of twentysomethings chatting and laughing among themselves on a bench, and a couple of bored-looking teenage girls who shared the ear buds to a music player. A tall, dark-haired man stepped from the doorway to the nearby café.

Hmmm. Not bad looking, I thought. Even from this distance, I could tell he was attractive. There was something rugged about his appearance, further enhanced by his natural tan and careless dark hair. Strands of it brushed against his nicely sculpted cheekbones as he adjusted the leather portfolio under his arm. Was he a businessman, perhaps? He didn’t look quite polished enough for that, but he didn’t strike me as part of the surfer crowd either. Maybe he’s a student or a teacher somewhere. Definitely not a prince—though a galloping white horse might have suited him rather nicely.

I realized I was making up fantasies for a total stranger, and watching him as if he was the last attractive man on earth. Don’t be stupid, Julianne. I must be jet lagged, or maybe just sleep deprived to scrutinize someone this way. He couldn’t be all that handsome, could he?

His dark orbs flicked in my direction, and I quickly turned away, blushing hard. Had he noticed me studying him? My face blazed hot at the idea — with mortification that made me want to melt into the ground. He might very well be used to women staring at him and think nothing of it. Or else, he’s vain about it. That was more likely, I knew. Deciding to ignore the weird uptick in my pulse for those dark eyes meeting mine from across the station, if only for a second.

After studying the pointy toes of my pumps for awhile, I dared to glance back in his direction. But the stranger was gone.

I glanced around, checking all directions. Now that he was gone, I regretted looking away, at least without gauging whether he was nice or rude, interested or insulted — made brave by his absence, of course. But no tall, mysterious men were anywhere in sight. He must have gone back inside the café, or else made his way from the railway station to one of the nearby shops.

Oh, well. His destination, no doubt, was somewhere miles away from my own. A peek at my watch showed I would be on the move again soon anyway. The next-to-last stop in my journey to the magnificent Cliffs House. This realization was enough to put the stranger’s good-looks out of my head as I prepared to board the next train.

 

 

***

 

 

"Miss Morgen, I trust?"

The man holding the sign at the railway station in Truro didn't look the part of an English chauffeur, which I had rather stupidly been picturing after falling asleep on the plane from Seattle while reading an old Du Maurier gothic romance that Aimee had given me as a goodbye present.

"That's me," I answered, with a bright smile. I tried to hide the lump of nervousness I was sure was visible in my throat by swallowing. Was this my new boss? A fellow employee at the estate?

"My name is Weatherby," he said. "Geoff, as you may call me, if you like. I'm the estate manager for Lord William, the heir of Cliffs House." He was wearing a damp canvas mackintosh over a tweed coat and wool trousers, a tie perfectly knotted above the neckline of his wool pullover.

Lord William. I hadn't realized the house's owner was titled. "Um, is Lord William living at Cliffs House?" I asked. "Or at a town house in London now?" Vague notions of 'society' and 'the Season' popped into my head from old Regency-era novels from high school.

Mr. Weatherby, or Geoff, laughed. Gently, as if he read my mind and didn’t want to embarrass me too much. "He lives at Cliffs House," he answered. "And he manages it as much or more than I do. If you're imagining something from one of Jane Austen's novels, I hate to disappoint you. Lord William and Lady Amanda are the picture of the modern English country house's heir. Preservers of history, overseers of proper land management, business owners, and promoters of local tourism and trade." He lifted my heaviest bag and produced an umbrella from underneath his arm. “Lord William himself is quite handy at repairing walls and planting trees — and no stranger to the use of a chainsaw."

A chainsaw? I would have to amend the picture in my head of someone in Mr. Darcy's velvet frock coat, sawing through fallen trees amidst an electric buzz and a cloud of petrol smoke.

"A little rain today," he commented. "I hope you're not from the deserts of America, or this place may come as a bit of a shock. Cornwall may have sunnier days than many parts of England, but she has her share of rain, and heavy ones, too."

"I'm from Seattle," I said. "It's sort of like ... America's version of England's drizzly day." I clutched the strap of my second bag, one that held assorted books on event planning and design, and probably several pairs of stiletto heels and sleek sandals. "Pretty much every Seattle resident owns a good umbrella. That is…a brolly,” I added. Thankful I had brushed up on some English slang and hadn’t called it a bumbershoot, say, in an effort to sound quaint, like some character in an old movie.

"Perhaps you're well on your way to understanding Cornwall's weather," Geoff answered, with a smile, one which quickly became a look of concern. "I hope you brought a coat as well," he added. "Cornwall is a warmer part of England in general, but not in the summer, necessarily. You won't encounter the sort of temperatures you're accustomed to in America. It might seem a bit cool to you at times."

"I'm sure I have a coat or two warm enough to fix that," I answered him, thinking of the ones I had packed after reading a quick online guide to Cornwall's weather.

North Cornwall's cool morning had made me wish I'd worn a thicker pullover like the ones I saw tourists buying in a nearby shop as I had my first real cup of English tea. But I got a taste of the kind of cool, rainy day that Geoff had described a moment later, when I felt the wet breeze against my face. I gasped and gulped in the air, almost believing I could taste the salt of the sea even though the Channel wasn't exactly running alongside the station like a stream.

The estate's car that drove me to my new home wasn't a pristine Bentley or Jaguar, but clearly Mr. Weatherby's everyday vehicle, an economy Asian model. But it didn't matter, because the view from the windows was worth it. I had my second glimpse of Cornwall's beauty since my train ride from Newquay to the city. I had been amazed by the quick transition from the metropolitan-esque scenes of Newquay to the surrounding countryside, and here it was no different. As the city of Truro, with its mix of impressive Georgian architecture and sleek, modern businesses, slipped away, I saw the rugged fields and open countryside of rural Cornwall unfold around me.

"How far is the estate?" I asked. "Is it in a town nearby?"

"Ceffylgwyn. A mere dote on the map between here and Falmouth," he answered. "Falmouth's the next village of size in Cornwall, as you no doubt know by now. Although it’s quite popular with tourists now, it's still a quiet place compared to England's more metropolitan counties. But, as the natives will tell you, that's its charm, and they're perfectly right."

"You're not from here?" I asked. I had a feeling that his accent wasn't Cornish vernacular. It sounded too much like broadcasts of the BBC I'd seen at night in my hotel room.

"No. I'm from London," he answered. "I moved here to manage Lord William's estate after his father died — that was six years ago, when he was still at university. The previous land manager retired, and Lord William needed someone who had a more modern view on a 'working' estate, as you might call it."

"Do you like Ceffylgwyn?" I asked, my tongue having a little trouble with the name. "Is Cliffs House a good place to work?"

"I love the charm of Cornwall," he answered. "I used to come here when I was a lad, which was a long time ago," he added, with a chuckle. "They call South Cornwall the 'Cornish Riviera' because of the tourism and the cultural highlights, but to me it's very much about the rugged countryside outside of Truro and Falmouth. And, of course, Mevagissey, which is a lovely place. It's the moors and the cliffs, the snug inlets along the Channel. There's a lovely walk to the cliffs that oversee the shore not far from Cliffs House — that's where it gets its name. In English and in Cornish."

"And the village name?" I asked. I wondered if there was a simpler name to call it than the one that Geoff mentioned.

"It means 'white horse,' in Cornish," he answered. "A little anglicized over the years, but still with the Cornish heart in its name."

As he spoke, he turned the car's wheel and we were swept along a curve that revealed the Channel's water. I caught a glimpse once again of a Cornish beach, and of stone walls cupping a part of the water, where the waves seemed strangely calm as they swept between the stone cracks I imagined lay there. Perhaps this was the kind of view Geoff was talking about on the path somewhere between Cliffs House and the sea.

I definitely knew how I'd be spending my first day off from planning events at the country house. It was like a dream come true, the world I could see on the other side of the windscreen.

I cleared my throat, trying to rid myself of a little of the nervousness still clinging to me. "So, what can you tell me about my job at Cliffs House?" I asked. "Any hints before I meet my boss?" I tried to sound lighthearted as I asked.

"Very little," he answered. "My job is second to Lord William's in managing the grounds and the practical purposes of the land, you see. Conservation, agriculture, and grounds management, that's my task, with Lord William overseeing it, and managing the financial side of the estate. He's also currently the chair of the local business and tourism union in Ceffylgwyn."

"What about the tourism side of Cliffs House?"

"That's Lady Amanda's field," answered Geoff. "She manages the estate's event planning and books guests and clients. She also designs all promotional and public literature for the estate and many of the business union's members. It was her idea to hire a full-time event planner at Cliffs House — there's no local event planners available for the task, you see."

"How much do you know about the wedding that's taking place there?" I asked. I had already reviewed some of the details, of course, but in my excitement over the move they had become slightly muddled. If they were truly celebrities, surely even a tiny village like Ceffylgwyn was abuzz with the latest gossip about it.

"Donald Price-Parker and Petal Borroway," he answered. "He's an English football player, quite successful and quite popular; she's a model of sorts, I've been told, working on the runway recently in the States. It should be quite the fashionable affair."

I'd never heard of either of them — then again, I didn't watch British football or any of those 'how to become a model' shows, much less read Vogue and Vanity Fair outside the dentist's office. "Wow," I said. "That's a big assignment for my first day at work. I hope I don't disappoint." I tried to sound like I was kidding, but I wasn't. I was impressed and nervous, feeling a shiver travel from my spine to the soles of my feet.

"Have you much experience in planning celebrity weddings?"

"None," I answered. Too openly, I realized too late. And was glad I didn't mention anything more, like the fact that I'd never planned a wedding completely on my own. Something that Lady Amanda must surely know, but apparently didn't care about since I was here.

Geoff Weatherby didn't say anything else about my work experience, I noticed. We were both fairly quiet until after we passed a road sign for Falmouth, and one for the turn to Ceffylgwyn and Cliffs House. The car traveled a stately driveway, bordered by neatly-trimmed hedges that still managed to affect a certain freedom and carelessness in their greenery that gave them character and life as they moved in the breezy rain. I glimpsed a large willow tree, and beautiful garden paths bordered by wild and colorful blossoms, untamed and rugged, with stones peeking out in between overgrown blooms and branches. I turned away, and before me was Cliffs House.

Tall and stately. Not imposing, but reserved and dignified with its elegant stone exterior, a color between ivory and yellow, with little adornment except for the carved bowers above its arched windows, and the impressive stone carvings above its vast formal entrance, a set of double doors facing the cobblestone drive of olden days. A soft grey-tiled roof above, and multiple chimneys which signaled any number of gorgeous fireplaces somewhere inside. I fell in love at once, and my friends will tell you that doesn't happen easily — except for a pair of truly exceptional designer stilettos, perhaps.

But this was something grand and hallowed. The closest I had ever seen to this impressive building was my first and only trip to the Guggenheim in New York, which impressed itself on my eight year-old mind and replaced Seattle's Space Needle as the world's most incredible building. I couldn't stop staring, even as I climbed out of Geoff's car and collected my bag from the back seat.

"Welcome to Cliffs House, Miss Morgen," he said.

 

 

***

 

 

"I'm so glad you're here," said Lady Amanda, with a little gasp of relief. "I thought I was going to be buried under fabric swatches and flower books for the rest of my life!"

Lady Amanda definitely wasn't a dignified lady with a stiff upper lip and strings of pearls. She was ginger-haired, tall, and curvy, wearing a rather worn but beautifully-knit Guernsey style sweater and designer jeans. She greeted me like a long-lost school chum mere minutes after our formal introduction as employer and event planner, ushering me into a little sitting room on Cliffs House's main floor that had been converted into her office, where she managed Cliffs House's image as a public attraction.

"I've been planning events on my own these past two years. Me and the kitchen staff," she continued, flopping down on an antique sofa. "It's exhausting how much I've handled, between that and the public relations work, which is every bit as important. But with the size and scale of these events growing every year — and tourism's on the rise again, thanks to television audiences — I can't possibly handle it on my own. So enter you, Julianne Morgen — chief event planner and coordinator to Cliffs House's growing number of guests."

"I'm flattered," I answered. "I can't tell you how much so, actually." It felt surreal, sitting in this room that felt both historic and modern, surrounded by antiques and the soft colors and clean lines of modern decor. From the overstuffed pink armchair and gleaming, carved walnut desk to the silver floor lamps and Warhol prints, it was comfortable, cozy, and unbelievably elegant after the sterile flowers-in-a-frame-and-sentimental-smiling-brides decor of Design a Dream's workspace.

"You must be planning a lot of events to hire someone full-time," I said. Even though I could see plenty of evidence that Lady Amanda was swamped with work — there were piles of half-printed brochures everywhere, and sketches for a printed tour guide to Cliffs House pinned to her design board, a cloth one covered with a soft print of architectural blueprints.

"I want someone to take my place in the process," she answered. "If you haven't guessed already, event planning wasn't my chosen career."

"Interior design?" I guessed, one eyebrow lifting. I had cast my eye over the books in her shelf while I was admiring her office. Several were on fabric, and on furniture history. "Or architecture?" I had seen the books on London city design and Venice's construction, and the well-marked one on historic Cornwallian building methods.

"Clever girl," said Lady Amanda, sounding impressed. "It was interior design at first, but I had a turn for marketing that persuaded me to change my goals. Hence, my role in promoting tourism both for Cliffs House, and then for Ceffylgwyn itself."

She poured a cup of tea from the silver service on the neighboring table, and passed it to me as she lifted her own. "William's as involved as he can be, given how little time he has between managing the estate's adjacent lands and the financial side of running a modern-day estate," she continued. "So it left us with no choice but to find someone to hire on permanently. Someone who could handle all the details big and small — from food to flowers, to emergencies. Everything but the kitchen sink, you might say."

"Everything?" I echoed. "You mean that you — you don't want a hand in the process?"

"Coaxing clients to choose the garden for a reception, or spending days on the telephone with the vicar of the nice little chapel in the neighboring village, trying to coax him into conducting a wedding service for strangers?" said Lady Amanda. "No, thank you. I am content booking events and greeting the clients as the lovely lady of Cliffs House — I have absolutely no interest in knowing what pattern of china they want for their wedding breakfast, or what Vera Wang designer gown they insist on having shipped here for their engagement party. I'm happy to let you worry about all of those things, and hear the juicy details later from the girls downstairs."

My head was floating above my shoulders now. I wasn't sure if I was scared or elated — after all, I was now in charge of every event planned at Cliffs House. I was the person whom brides of any background or nationality would look to for answers. I took a firm grip on my teacup's saucer and steeled myself for it. I knew what I was doing. I'd spent years studying it, practicing it on a smaller scale at Design a Dream, so what could possibly go wrong that I couldn't deal with?

"Why did you hire me?" I asked. "An American? Surely somebody English would make more sense."

"You'd be surprised how many international guests we host now," said Lady Amanda. "I didn't necessarily need local knowledge or the 'stiff upper lip' image, as you would put it. So many of our visitors are American these days, too — that's television's doing, again." She took another sip of tea. "I interviewed several candidates from Exeter, Oxford, even London. But when your name popped up on a list of employees from a U.S. business that planned a wedding of a friend of mine...well, something about it just seemed right."

Maybe it was kismet, I thought, remembering my grandmother's old-fashioned term for destined good luck. Maybe it was karma, as my spirituality-seeking friend Nate back home in Seattle would say. Or maybe it was destiny, as Lady Amanda suggested. Me finding a place of my own after years of languishing at the bottom of Design a Dream's career ladder.

"There's a list of local resources, businesses that cater, florists, musicians, and so on," said Lady Amanda. "As well as ones available from everywhere from Devon to London — anyone you might need to hire, from chamber orchestras to couture designers — although you look like a bright young woman who knows how to use the internet and a mobile to learn things." Here, Lady Amanda's impish smile returned.

"The staff here is capable of handling quite a bit," she continued. "Dinah is our chef, a graduate of a French cooking academy, and Gemma and Pippa assist her in catering any number of events. We have a hothouse and gardening staff, with quite a selection of flowers, with no small thanks to a brilliant horticulturist currently residing in Cornwall."

"It sounds so elegant," I said. "Like a four-star hotel." I pictured escargot and French pastries alongside a perfectly-carved rib roast, and vases brimming with English roses. Cliffs House was not the size of a manor like Pemberley or a castle from Arthurian legend, but it was such a beautiful, romantic spot. Who wouldn't want to have their wedding near the rugged English moors, overlooking a ribbon of water curving along those ancient cliffs?

"I'll see to it that you're settled properly in the office closest to mine. A former morning parlor, in case you're interested — just shove aside whatever antique andirons and stuffed birds are cluttering up the place."

"I'm sure I'll be very comfortable," I answered, with a grin. "Even if I have to rearrange whatever empty suits of armor are taking up my desk's spot." Lady Amanda hid her smile behind her teacup, but her eyes were still twinkling.

"So let's get to it," said Lady Amanda, after she set aside her tea. "The only event of importance in the diary right now is the Price-Parker - Borroway union, of course. The groom-to-be booked us six months ago after announcing his engagement, and now the bride-to-be will be here to finish planning the reception for the next couple of weeks or so. Starting today, actually." She checked her watch, then sprang up from her chair. "I'll introduce you to the staff, then take you to meet them after I change into something a bit more suitable."

I was amazed. Fifteen minutes of chat, and I was already on my way to meet the celebrity couple. Quickly, I set aside my teacup and rose to my feet, smoothing my charcoal pencil skirt, hoping my hair's loosely-pinned style was sensible enough for whatever standards Cliffs House had for its newest representative. Lady Amanda had forgotten to clue me in on how I should dress, speak, and behave when talking to clients, especially since I was from 'across the pond.'

Her glance fell to my feet as I walked with her to the office door. "Lovely shoes," she said. "Are those Valentino?"

"They are," I admitted.

"Divine," she answered. "That's really my only reason to venture into the boutiques of Truro these days — shoe shopping. I always find that slipping on a perfect pair makes me feel as if I could conquer the world. But how did you ever find a pair in such an exquisite color?"

I had a feeling that Lady Amanda's standards, whatever they were, would suit me just fine.

 

 

***

 

 

Bride-to-be Petal Borroway was originally from Southampton, but had spent the last decade modeling in Milan, New York, and a dozen other places, where she was most famous for appearing in an advertisement for chip-resistant nail varnish — and for getting engaged to Donald Price-Parker, who was something of a heartthrob in Great Britain.

Petal exuded glam — I would have declared her a model, or a wannabe model if I hadn't known already. Flawless skin, perfect makeup, delicate bone structure that seemed almost sculpted. Her clothes were casual, yet screamed expensive. As did those of Donald, whose body was a trifle over-muscular beneath his tight t-shirt and summer jacket, his blond hair cut short against his head. He had the powerful brooding-and-sullen stare that makes many women go weak in the knees, but for me it was a little too much. Tarzan in designer clothes, exerting his animal prowess over women.

They were side by side on the velvet sofa in Cliffs House's main drawing room. Petal's hand rested constantly on some part of Donald's body — hand, shoulder, arm, thigh, shifting gradually and possessively every time he moved — and showing off the spectacular diamond on her finger.

"So why choose Cornwall?" I asked, in my best professional voice. "What makes this part of England so special to both of you?"

At Design a Dream, standard operating procedure had been to ask the bride and groom why they chose their wedding location. It helped determine how central to the wedding's theme the marriage or reception site would be — and how much of it would be brushed over or disguised to avoid clashing with said image. Since my job would primarily be coordinating their reception, I needed to know as much about their choice as I could.

"Weekends and what not," said Donald. He had a rather lazy drawl that surprised me. It made him sound as if he wanted to fall asleep. "I've had a place in Cornwall on and off for the past few years. Surfing in Newquay and so on. Weddings in London feel rather hack these days." He looked away from his mobile for the first time since Lady Amanda had introduced us, finally paying some attention now that the topic of his wedding was at hand.

"But you chose Ceffylgwyn," I said. "It must be special to one of you."

"Donald races in St Austell," answered Petal. "A hobby of sorts, now that he's not surfing in Newquay anymore. He was a big fan of the Trelawny Tigers. That's why we're taking a place along the coast in Truro instead of our old one."

Maybe it was my imagination, but I was picking up on signals that Petal wasn't exactly thrilled by this move. Maybe it was just the tiniest arch of her eyebrows as she said it, or the fact that she inspected her nails for a brief second when mentioning Truro — her presumably chip-resistant nail varnish. Nevertheless, she snuggled closer to Donald's body.

"Anyway — here we are," said Donald. "Doing the whole 'Cornish thing' for the big day and so on."

"A traditional Cornish wedding?" I ventured.

I hadn't been anticipating something like this, not so quickly, and I felt a quick patter of panic in my chest. This couple had no idea, of course, that I had only been in Cornwall for a day. I wondered what sort of traditions a Cornish wedding entailed — especially for two people who weren't natives, as they just explained.

"Just a few touches, here and there," said Petal. "We want something to make us feel at home in Cornwall, since we'll be splitting our time between here and London. At least for awhile." She smiled at Donald with a lingering, lovey-dovey glance passing between them, then looked at me with a smile. "And some of my friends will be coming from America, so we want them to have a taste of Cornwall. It's such a chic place right now. Who wouldn't want to show it off a little?"

At first impression, I didn't like her. Maybe it was the bored look in her eyes when her fiancé talked for more than a few sentences, or the way she looked annoyed during Lady Amanda's guided tour of Cliffs House's large music and dining rooms reserved for the wedding, curling a lock of her long hair around one finger at times, and sighing quietly. But her smile for me, inclusive and almost friendly, made me soften a little bit.

"Let's talk about what you want to show off most, then," I said, switching subjects. "You want touches of Cornwall, so that will obviously be part of your wedding theme. A country wedding — or city sophistication, with touches of the country?"

"A city wedding," said Petal at the same time as Donald said, "Country." They exchanged glances. For a moment, I thought Petal looked tense — or upset — but it cleared from her eyes when Donald spoke.

"Whatever. I'll be off at St Austell most of the time. Not as if I care." He shrugged. "Just something that'll look good in the papers. Champagne, expense. So on."

"I think we can manage that," said Petal, looking at me as she spoke. "Donald just wants something elegant...but simple. My dress is couture fashion, the cake is from an exclusive bakery in Newquay — I'll send you the details on them. The ceremony and reception should be just as exclusive ... if a touch dressed down, of course."

"Simple but expensive," clarified Donald, in case I hadn't understood this.

"Besides, I was thinking it would be nice to return to our roots," said Petal. "I've been away from England for several years, and Donald's been traveling the continent. I suppose it makes sense to have a little nod to tradition for this wedding, don't you agree?"

"Absolutely," I said. Country sophistication, a dash of Cornish culture — surely I could do that, with a little help from Cliffs House's knowledgeable, local staff. "I'm sure we can plan an English wedding you both will be proud of."

"But with a few American touches," piped up Petal. "I don't want to completely forget where I've been the last few years. And Donald loves cultural fusion, don't you, darling?" She was sidling close to him, draped effortlessly against his shoulder. The two of them certainly seemed fused together as he rested his cheek against her hair with a soft grunt of agreement — except his eyes hadn't left the digital screen of his phone.

"Cultural fusion," I repeated. "All right. Let's talk details."

The bridal party, including the chief bridesmaid and best man, was due to arrive in Cornwall in less than a week. The engagement celebration would be in Truro, but there would be a champagne lunch at Cliffs House, open to the press, on Saturday two weeks before the big day. The wedding ceremony would take place in Cliffs House's most beautiful formal garden, and the reception would take place in the largest music and drawing rooms, which opened to each other through a series of sliding double doors.

They were elegant rooms, done in pale pink, seafoam green, and antique gilding, the drawing room mostly cream and gold. The bride and groom had brief romantic bickering — followed by a rather long kiss — over which room would host the reception, with the drawing room's muted elegance winning. The wedding colors were cream and black with touches of burgundy and rose, with a hired classical quintet providing music at the ceremony, and a semi-famous pop artist playing for the reception.

Flowers, food, a few ceremony details — these were places where Cornwall's culture was supposed to shine. It would be my job to find a way to include it as I pulled together all the pieces they had chosen, and the ones yet to come. Trying not to sound ignorant, I pressed them both for details about what they loved most about Cornwall. Anything would help.

"Pasties," answered Donald. Who was still interested in texting someone else.

"The sea," said Petal. "I simply love the shore."

She hadn't mentioned any florists or flower arrangements being chosen yet, I noticed. "What about local flowers?" I asked. "Trees or special places?" I thought with a name like 'Petal,' surely she had someone or something in her past that was tied to the English landscape. It might be something I could weave into the wedding plans.

"I have no interest in flowers," she answered. "Anything will do, so long as it doesn't clash with the room." She wrinkled her nose, then laughed. But it wasn't a good-humored laugh — and Petal's smile was a trifle different — or maybe I was mistaken. Not that it mattered. I made a note no favorite flowers in my digital planner's app.

Moving on. "What about the cake?" I asked.

 

 

***

 

 

Dear Aimee,

 

Remember how you thought Cliffs House would be like the Grantham’s home on Downton Abbey? Well, let me tell you, the bedroom I’m staying in would NOT disappoint you. It’s so beautiful I don’t even know where to start. An antique four poster bed, wallpaper with a delicate floral design, an antique wardrobe made out of oak, my very own fireplace and mantle—it’s like waking up on the set of a BBC period drama miniseries! Even the drapes are so beautiful, I’m tempted to pull a Scarlett O’Hara and fashion them into a chic gown for my first big event here. Of course, I would be jailed for the destruction of valuable property but wouldn't it be worth it to make that grand entrance on the staircase?

 

My ridiculous postcard message to Aimee was interrupted by the sound of my mobile phone’s alarm going off. After just two days in my new surroundings, I didn’t trust my internal clock for any appointments, so I was relying on alarms to prompt me. Setting down my pen, I turned off the phone alarm and prepared to go downstairs.

My workspace was almost as nice as the bedroom I was so kindly being allowed to use until I could secure a place in the village. Despite Lady Amanda's laughing advice, there were no stuffed birds or antique andirons cluttering it up. Just a beautiful white mantelpiece and an antique globe that stood beneath my wall chart — I had copied the wedding's timeline from Lady Amanda's file, so I could see step by step each day between now and the ceremony. I had already marked deadlines — flowers chosen by this date, cake arriving by that one — and programmed reminders into my mobile so I wouldn't miss even one.

Just breathe. I inhaled slowly, reminding myself I had planned events before. Not ones like this, true, but they were still real celebrations with real people. I had everything under control. Repeating this one last time, I slipped on my tan sandals, grabbed the sketches from my desk, and went downstairs to talk with Dinah the chef.

Dinah's kitchen was an old-fashioned one transformed into a modern cook's paradise of efficiency. No utensils without hooks, no pots without a place within easy reach of her stove and range. Dinah, Lady Amanda had explained, cooked everything from simple meals for the house's family and staff to French cuisine for visiting dignitaries and businessmen at Cliffs House's galas and conferences.

"This is how I envision the cakes for the Saturday luncheon," I said, showing her a few sketches I had made, as well as some pictures I had copied from my books on formal receptions. "Light saffron and orange flavors sandwiched together with marmalade — Cornish and English flavors," I said. "Covered in fondant stenciled with a Cornish tartan design, and served with chocolate truffles and ginger and orange spiced biscuits."

I was proud of myself. I had spent two days reading up on Cornish cuisine and consulting the menus of several Cornish bakeries. I wanted this first step in the wedding planning to include the Cliffs House staff before I turned to any bakeries, local or not.

"Well, it's not an impossibility," said Dinah, studying the pictures. "And I rather like the idea of saffron and citrus, maybe even with a hint of cinnamon. But with the citrus being the primary one, of course."

"Those are pretty," commented Gemma, who was one of the local girls who assisted Dinah. "Who're they for?"

"For the wedding party," said Dinah.

Her accent, while not as strong as Gemma or Pippa's, was stronger than Geoff Weatherby's, with lots of rich 'r's' — I was guessing that Dinah was native to Cornwall.

"For Donald Price-Parker's wedding?" asked Pippa, sounding awed.

"That's the one," I answered.

Gemma sighed. "Isn't he lovely?" she asked. "I had a poster of him on my wall when I was fifteen. 'My 'ansum' as my mum used to call it — I'd blush roses every time, but his looks was rich enough that I didn't take it down."

Pippa groaned. "I can't imagine ending up with the likes of him. I've seen the model he's marrying, and there was no hope for me." She laughed. "Still, I had dreams of it until he went off to America and met that girl from the nail varnish advertisements."

"Do you think she looks like that other model — the one who's dad isn't a man anymore?" asked Gemma, confidently. She was briskly stirring a pan of melted chocolate as Dinah measured out flour — my mouth was watering, imagining a chocolate cake at the end of this process.

"I think she's not pretty enough for him, since he could've had that actress instead," said Pippa, who was peeling potatoes for tonight's soup. "What do you think?" she asked, glancing at me.

"He's definitely handsome," I answered, since this was the safest choice of words, rather than admitting that he wasn't my type. "In a ... beefcake sort of way."

Do they use ‘beefcake’ to describe a man’s physique in Cornwall? I wondered how much of what I said was basically a foreign language to them, and if I could ever learn enough about their culture to pass muster with the locals.

"I think it's the other way round between the two of them," said Dinah, who cracked an egg against her bowl. "But who am I to know anything? Especially compared to you two, who read every celebrity mag there is and gossip with your besties about it until the wee hours, no doubt, until not a boy in the county could compare with him in your eyes."

The two girls exchanged glances. "No boys in the county look that good in a football jersey," answered Pippa.

"Except for Ross," supplied Gemma, with a saucy grin.

"Ross is no boy," scoffed Dinah. "He's got nearly a decade on you both."

"Besides, he doesn't play football — he's too busy with the dirt and the like," said Pippa. They left me wondering who Ross was, and why it was important that he played — or didn't play — football. English football, I imagined, and found I had a hard time remembering what the uniforms looked like.

Pippa studied the mini cake pictures I had shown Dinah. "That's a proper treat for a to-do," she said. "Did you think it up yourself?"

"I did," I confessed. "That's actually what my old job mostly entailed — me coming up with wedding favors, or bridal shower treats. Nothing big, just something attractive for the serving table."

Pippa blinked. "You mean you didn't plan weddings before now?" She raised her eyebrow.

"No." I realized that making this confession was probably a mistake. Both of the girls exchanged glances, this time with a mixture of surprise and skepticism. That's what I read in the slight uplift of Pippa's eyebrow, and the bemused smile on Gemma's face, which quickly vanished as she busied herself with pouring the chocolate into Dinah's dry ingredients.

"There's a first time for everything," said Dinah. She lifted my sketches and slipped on her eyeglasses. "Hmmm...spice biscuits...truffles in milk chocolate?"

"The bride wants a little touch of the U.S.," I answered. Suddenly, I felt a tiny little doubt spring up inside me, one I tried to quickly crush. Had I taken a leap too big for my abilities? "So both dark and milk chocolate truffles would be served at the luncheon."

I still had sketches to make of possible flower arrangements and a consultation with Lady Amanda about how to rearrange the drawing room for the champagne luncheon, but I thought I would get a breath of air and steady my confidence first. A walk was what I needed. A chance to breathe in some Cornish sea air and refocus my thoughts, reminding myself how long I had waited and prepared for this.

"I'm going out for a walk," I said. "I thought I would take the path to the Channel overlook that Mr. Weatherby suggested. Which way is it?"

"To the right — just past the hedge opening that leads to the formal garden," said Dinah. "It's a view not to be missed. If you've been here two days already and not seen it, that's two days too long."

"Out walking?" said Gemma, looking up from the soup. "In those shoes?" Another funny smile crossed her lips. I glanced down at my tan sandals, and envisioned a steep, rocky path to the cliff and me stumbling down it after breaking a heel on the rocks.

"In these shoes," I said, with a confident smile. I thought I caught a cool, impressed glance in the girl's eyes as I turned to leave, hoping I wasn't heading to my doom along the garden path.

"... maybe she's got 'moxie' as they say in the States," I heard Pippa say before the door closed behind me.

One of Cornwall's milder breezes swept across me as I found my way past the formal hedgerows to the winding little path to the sea. I buttoned my green pea coat as I climbed down, gradually moving from the craggy slate walkway carefully built like a natural stair to the soft, wild grass growing alongside it. I angled my way towards the view of the water below, hearing it surge and crash against the cliff's walls.

The wind rose and batted my hair across my face. I could see the Channel below, washing its way between the shores. I could see the beach, the stones and sand lost along the shallow edge whenever water rushed up from the sea. I sucked in my breath, imagining the power of the waves if I were below, walking along the strip of white foam instead of the soft grass and delicate purplish flowers around me.

That's when I noticed I wasn't alone. A man was kneeling near the edge of the cliff a few yards away at the foot of the stone path, watching the water also. Wind swept his dark, unruly hair back from his brow, and fanned the edges of his worn brown canvas jacket. Between his fingers was a sprig of something dark green, a plant or a leaf of some kind.

Sensing my gaze, he turned towards me. I felt my breath catch. He was attractive. But more than that, he was… familiar.

The handsome stranger from the railway station, his dark good looks even more impressive against the stunning backdrop of the cliffs and water below. A day’s worth of stubble made his well-formed features even more pleasing: features that were accented by eyes that I imagined as dark as coffee beneath those perfect lashes and sculpted brow. For a moment, we stared at each other. Then he spoke.

"Do you mind getting off the heath?" A gruff, commanding voice that was filled with disgust — even though he was practically shouting over the ripple of wind and tide, I could detect that much.

I gaped at him. "What?" I asked. His manners weren’t as pretty as his looks, apparently. I felt a surge of annoyance along with my confusion for the accusation in his voice. Why was he talking this way to a perfect stranger? Who did he think he was anyway? Besides a good-looking…but no. That wasn’t enough to justify the rudeness etched in his perfect face, or the scowl he offered my shoes.

"You're standing on it," he said. "The heath. What are you doing off the footpath? Can't you see you're trampling it with those spiky shoes of yours?"

I looked down and saw that I was standing in the middle of a bright patch of soft, green needles and the purplish flowers I had been admiring before. Quickly, I stepped aside, seeing that my heels had indeed left indentation in the soft earth around the plant.

So? I thought. I was pretty sure I recognized it from a website as a native wild plant here in Cornwall. "Sorry," I said, although my tone was a little annoyed with this apology. "But it's just heath, isn't it? It's not as if I killed it by walking on it."

"That's still no reason for you to crush it, is it?" he retorted. "It's a protected plant, by the way."

"Don't you think you're being a little rude?" I asked. Fed up with this insensitive behavior. He might be gorgeous enough to rival the view of the Channel below, but that didn’t mean he could treat me like a criminal.

"I think I provided a pathway for people to walk on so they wouldn't walk on my plants," he answered, his voice still loud because of the distance between us. "Didn't you see the sign?"

I hadn't, actually. I had walked down the pathway without noticing any posted warnings or requests. "It's a wildflower that will bounce back in no time, I'm sure," I snapped. "There are dozens of patches of it between here and the house —"

"All of which deserve a chance to grow and propagate," he countered.

I had retreated to the stone path now, not sure why he was so angry. What right did he have to order a stranger around over a little plant? "Who are you — the wildflower rescuer of Cornwall?" I asked, sarcastically.

"No," he answered, in the same tone. "I'm the gardener of Cliffs House."

Oh. Well, then. Question answered.

Way to go, Julianne. Putting your foot in it—literally.

I was aware that my cheeks were turning several shades of color equal to the heath along the pathway. "I see," I answered. I sounded lofty, even though my voice had a thousand cracks in it. "Well, that's hardly a great way to greet the guests of Cliffs House, is it?"

With that, I turned and walked quickly back up the path. I thought I heard his voice behind me, and I glanced back. I could see him scrambling to collect something — a tool belt of some sort, I thought — so I turned away and walked as fast as I could towards the house.

I retreated inside before he could catch up with me. I imagined that a pair of legs as long as the ones I'd glimpsed, clad in worn, corduroy trousers could walk fast, too. Safely inside with the door closed, I peered out from behind the lace curtains. I could see a man's shape on the path near the formal garden. He had stopped, gazing all around. Probably trying to spot the tourist woman in the green coat somewhere among the ornamental gardens. The one who went around trampling Cornish beauty beneath her expensive heels.

My cheeks blushed several shades of fire again. The gardener. Would I have to see him often? Or could I never see him again, if I played my cards right while living here at Cliffs House? Maybe I could avoid ever needing table arrangements from his garden. Imagine what he would think when he found out that it was the estate's new event planner who had been out crushing his life’s work. I felt terrible, even though the whole thing was a silly misunderstanding involving a hardy and resilient Cornish weed. At least, according to the website I'd been reading on Cornish facts ... which, come to think of it, might have said something about it being a rare species after all.

"Is that you, Ms. Morgen?" Dinah was in the hall, appearing from the direction of the kitchen with a tea tray.

"Yes. It's me." I forced a smile to my lips.

"Tea's in the main parlor, if you're hungry."

"Sounds great." I hoped that the gardener was not invited to join us. Not until I had time to humble myself to an apology, or think of a better retort than 'don't be rude to tourists.' That made me sound crass and entitled, and definitely wasn't the start I wanted as a newcomer to Cornwall. And for all I knew, Lord William might have a passionate fixation on his valuable heath plants that explained why the gardener hated my intrusion on the open ground.

 

 

***

 

 

For the champagne luncheon, I couldn't avoid flowers, even if I wanted to do it. I had planned simple and elegant centerpieces featuring hothouse lilies. I had been at a loss when choosing local flowers, so I decided to stick with what I knew. I needed more time and research to choose native blossoms on my own, ones that would complement the lightly-Cornish theme Petal wanted.

Dinah had assigned Gemma and Pippa to round up and polish four elegant crystal vases for the table, but I was arranging the flowers myself. This was a task — sometimes monotonous — that Design a Dream's senior planners had delegated to me many times, whenever clients wanted simple and inexpensive arrangements. Since Petal didn't want to be bothered with choosing florists or flowers, it was up to me to decide.

"There's no local florist who would make you a centerpiece as nice as we can arrange from the hothouse flowers," said Lord William. "Marian Jones in the village makes a fine one, but she'd be busy already with local weddings for such short notice."

"Are you sure?" I said. "I don't want to offend the likes of your celebrity guests on my first try." I was half-hoping Lord William would mention another local florist, someone who could send four vases of red roses, even.

"Our flowers are among the finest in this part of Cornwall," he said. "What could they possibly object to?" His smile was equally as disarming as Lady Amanda's, with an absolute lack of pomp and circumstance in his general appearance, one of work-worn denim and a frayed sweater. There were wood chips clinging to his sleeve — I imagined him cutting up broken trees for firewood somewhere on the estate, as Geoff Weatherby had described.

"Nothing at all," I said, shaking my head. I admitted defeat at this point, and asked Pippa to let the gardening staff know that I wanted as many white lilies as the hothouse had available.

"Don't you want to see them yourself?" asked Pippa. "Take a geek at the place and pick them out for your own?"

"She means 'look it over,'" supplied Gemma, who was polishing one of the vases. "But she'll be glad to do it for you if Ross is there."

Pippa didn’t argue with her, glancing back at me. "Well, don't you?" she asked me, trying to banish the traces of a saucy grin which Gemma's words had inspired.

"No need," I answered. "Just white lilies."

I knew that the gardeners would know who wanted them and why, so there was no need to explain. Thankfully, whoever the gardener was who had ordered me off the heath the other day, I hadn't introduced myself as part of the staff. He would imagine me safely gone as a rude tourist.

When the lilies arrived the day before their scheduled arrangement, something else arrived with them, in a white florist's box unlike the lilies' basket. Pippa read the note taped to the top, then handed it to me.

"For you," she announced. "Looks like you've got an admirer already."

"Who?" I asked, with total shock. I opened the box and found a sheet of pale green tissue paper folded around blossoms — roses in a shade of deep, violet-pink.

"Oh, they're gorgeous," said Gemma. "Who're they from?"

I pulled out a card tucked near the blossoms. I apologize for being rude to you. You were correct before — no visitor to Cornwall deserves a welcome less than warm. With my sincere wishes for your success here, Matthew Rose.

I read the words aloud despite the faint blush on my cheeks for the episode in my memory. A little gasp of shock came from Gemma. "Ross sent you flowers?"

"Heavens, did he really?" Even Dinah was listening now, even though she was busy poring over a recipe for tea cakes, a row of spices lined up before her like soldiers.

"What — here four days and you've hooked him already?" said Pippa, with amazement. "Ross never pays any attention to anyone — how on earth did you manage it?"

"Hold on," I said. "Who is 'Ross'? The card says it's from someone named Matthew Rose."

Gemma's jaw dropped. "What, you don't see the resemblance?" she asked. "Everybody sees it when they look at him."

"Sees what?"

"You know, the television programme. Poldark? Ross, the main character?"

"I've never seen it," I answered.

"Never? Not even once?"

"I don't watch PBS?" I said, meekly. Both of the girls exchanged glances once more — this time, of pity for my ignorance.

"Does he really look like this — Ross guy, I take it?"

"Dead ringer," said Pippa. "Why do you think all the women about go a bit soft in the knees whenever he comes by?"

He was handsome. No denying that. And in a way that Donald Price-Parker was not, which was precisely the reason I had found myself staring at him a few days ago in the railway station.

"Why was he apologizing to you?" Gemma asked.

"Oh, that." My blush was back, for reasons besides Matthew Rose — or the mysterious Ross's — good looks. "I, um, sort of ... stepped on his plants the other day."

From her place by the stove, Dinah let out a peal of laughter. "Dear me, I would have loved to have seen that," she said.

"Why?" I asked. "He was completely rude about it. And it wasn't intentional, what I did. Obviously."

"Ross is that way. Part of his charming manners." Pippa flashed me a grin.

"He's not rude," retorted Gemma. "He's nice. Funny and smart, if you know him well enough, I've heard. Trouble is, he's hard to get to know. He's a slave to the dirt, he likes to say, and that's no lie. Hardly ever goes out from that cottage he rents, except to the village to buy groceries."

"Leave him alone," scolded Dinah. "He's a grown man. He knows well enough what he's doing. At least he's not acting silly with his head in the clouds, or mooning about over some personal troubles the way so many others do." A look in her eyes made me curious to know exactly what she meant by this, but I hated to ask.

The grounds were proof of Matthew Rose's devotion to his work, anyway. I had seen both perfection and wild beauty in the tumbling foxglove and periwinkle, and carefully-tended roses, and marveled at whoever produced it. "Looks like his hermitage has paid off for Cliffs House," I remarked.

Maybe this was the sort of fantasy they were writing about in those gothic novels. A mysterious, brooding, dark-eyed gardener in the wilds of Cornwall, tending beauty while living in a tumbledown, ivy-covered cottage —

"I guess I owe Mr. Rose an apology, too," I said. "Maybe I missed the sign he mentioned. And it was my fault his plant got a little crushed. I just thought he could have been nicer about it."

"Sent you flowers, didn't he?" said Dinah. She gave me a look that made me feel self-conscious again — this time for the impossibility of myself paired with this mystery man of a gardener whom half the village was tracing.

I shrugged it off. "I didn't say he doesn't have good apology skills," I answered. My fingers stroked the soft petals of the roses. I hoped he hadn't taken them from one of the estate's rose plants, since I was pretty sure that would get him into trouble.

I put the lilies into a cool, dark closet so they could 'rest' for the hours before they were arranged. I put the roses in a vase on my desk. From my window, I could see Ross — or Matthew Rose — trimming the hedges in the garden. A blue shirt untucked beneath his wool pullover, a pair of faded jeans with hand shears tucked in his back pocket. It was sunny today, so he wasn't carrying the wool cap I had noticed the other day, when it had been slightly rainy in the morning.

A moment later, I crossed the lawn to where Matthew was working. For a moment, he pretended not to see me approaching — I could see it from the way his eyes twitched in my direction, then focused harder than ever on the hedge. But I stood there until he finally looked at me.

"Thanks," I said. "For the flowers."

He gazed at me for a long moment, studying me intently. His eyes were as dark as coffee — almost black, but with little glints of something lighter in them. My knees threatened to tremble ever so slightly, but I resisted by locking them firmly upright. It was silly of me to have that reaction to a stranger.

"You're welcome," he answered. He went back to trimming the hedge.

There was a touch of Cornish in his accent, I could hear that much, only it had softened over the years, and mixed with something else. A little of London, or maybe a little of something closer to home for me. Was it an American accent? New York, maybe?

I tilted my head. "Where are you from?" I asked.

"Here," he answered, snipping away more green branches.

"Yeah, but ... somewhere else, too. Are you from America?"

"Briefly," he answered. "I spent some time there, once."

I hesitated. "Is that why you sent me the roses?" I asked. "Because I'm a fish out of water? A foreigner from familiar shores?"

"No. I sent them to you because I felt you had a point," he said. "If you had been a visitor to Cliffs House, I would have given you a poor impression of its hospitality. If you had been a visitor," he clarified. "And not, let's say, the newest member of the staff. Who should have been able to read the sign by the path, for instance."

"In English or in Cornish?" I asked. This time, I wasn't irritated, but smiling. I wasn't flustered anymore, but bold enough to joke with him a little.

"Both," he answered. For a moment, I thought he wasn't going to smile. At last, however, that serious countenance broke a little with the faintest proof of a smile. "Regardless, I learned my lesson, thanks to you. I'll be nothing but politeness itself to the next rude tourist who wanders off the beaten path."

Victory. I tucked my hands in the pockets of my pea coat. "Well, as the newest member of your staff, I concede your point about the native flowers," I said. "And I hope your heath plant recovers."

"As someone wise pointed out — it is a resilient plant," he said. "Even if it is a protected one. It should be fine, given a day or two." He smiled, this time for real. It was worth the wait for that smile, I decided.

"So why are you cultivating it along the pathway?" I asked. "Doesn't it grow there naturally?"

"Not really. We're trying to introduce it to more regions in Cornwall by propagation, part of a botanical program at work locally. There was an errant cigarette fire along that part of the pathway not long ago and it cost me the first part of my work," he said. “I'm trying to hurry along the recovery process with a few transplants."

"Oh." Now I felt worse about stepping on his plants. "Um, sorry, then."

"Where are you from in America?" he asked. This complete change of subject bumped me from my thoughts back to the present.

"Seattle, Washington," I said. "Before that, Idaho. A very sleepy spot in it called Molehill." My hometown's name tended to garner snickers from anybody who heard it. It hosted a yearly festival that involved whacking moles in carnival games and a puppet that looked like a groundhog popping out of a paper-mache volcano painted green.

Matthew didn't crack a smile, oddly enough. He looked thoughtful. "Did you know there's a village close by called Mousehole?" he asked.

"Mousehole?" I echoed.

"Exactly so." He turned back to his hedge, although he glanced over his shoulder at me. "If you feel homesick, you can visit its road sign." He winked at me. No smile this time, but there was something almost flirtatious about that brief movement of his eyelid, and the expression in his dark eyes.

I felt a little shiver pass through me. "I'll keep that in mind," I said, as I turned back to the house. I couldn't help glancing over my shoulder one more time before I went inside. That glimpse of his good humor, the smile that brought warmth into those dark eyes. That must be the charming side that Gemma had mentioned, and I could see what she was talking about.

"Julianne," I said. "Morgen. That's my name, in case you didn't know it." Lame, since obviously someone on staff had told him about me and described me well enough that he knew I was the woman from the path.

"I know," he answered.

He was completely absorbed by his hedge trimming once again. Since he didn't look at me as he spoke, I went inside and went back to my own work.

 

 

***

 

 

No more thinking about Cliffs House's gorgeous gardener, I had resolved. I had work to do, and only a day before the big champagne luncheon for Donald and Petal's wedding. In a sudden switch, we transformed the main dining hall into a champagne buffet so we could throw open the glass doors to the terrace and garden just outside. Once, the room had been some sort of receiving hall or something like that, I had read in my Guide to Cliffs House, courtesy of Lady Amanda, but it had been transformed by Lord William's grandfather into a beautiful, modern room that still had the original stone archway and buttresses on display. The view was perfect, and so was the dining table, a long, elegant cherry one that I covered with a white linen cloth.

The press would arrive early, no doubt, on the day of the event; the family would be cloistered for privacy until the party begin, in one of the spare bedroom and dressing room suites upstairs: one that felt like a spacious apartment compared to my beloved two-room cracker box when I first graduated from college.

Today we were arranging the flowers while Dinah was putting the finishing touches on the tea cakes, the last item made for the buffet. She had outdone herself — as Geoff Weatherby and Jackson, the apparent head gardener — had declared upon tasting the castoff pieces of sponge when she cut the perfect orange rectangles from it. Now they were lined upon baking sheets, waiting for their platters: ten dozen orange saffron cakes wrapped in Cornish tartan-printed fondant.

"They turned out lovely," she declared. "That was a clever thought you had," she told me, although she was shouting a little over the noise outside the window, where two repairmen had come to make building repairs to the outside wall. "Using the Cornish print to add a bit of local color — especially to saffron-flavored cakes."

"I just don't want my first big clients to be disappointed — in me or in Cliffs House," I answered. I felt a surge of pride for her compliment. Sure, it was only a design for little tea cakes, but it was the first step in a hopefully-successful, elegant wedding that I would coordinate into perfection. "Besides, you're the one who brought them into reality, so they're as much your creation as mine. And I didn't think of that creative geometric twist you put on some of them."

Dinah had altered the Cornish tartan pattern with a pattern of diamonds and stripes in the same colors as the tartan. It was a simpler, lighter design, and provided a visual contrast that made the tartan's lines stand out.

"Touch of a chef, that's all," answered Dinah, mildly, as she checked off the number of spicy ginger-orange snaps she had made, cooling on the platters before her. It was her way of accepting my compliment, I realized, smiling as I lifted the buckets of lilies from their cool storage space.

"So why did you leave Seattle to come to Cornwall?" Gemma asked me. She and Pippa were helping me arrange the flowers in the parlor. Beautiful white lilies peered over the buckets full of cool water and the special preservative secret I remembered from Design a Dream — a dash of carbonated lemon lime soda pop.

I sucked in a quick breath. "I don't know," I said. "There's no one reason. It was just such a great career move, being in charge of coordinating and planning events on my own. I couldn't believe I'd been given the chance, so I just snapped it up."

"And flew all the way across the pond to Ceffylgwyn?" said Pippa, sounding amazed. "Sorry, but I don't think I'd be tempted by a job that dropped me in the middle of some tiny American village with no proper spa or entertainment to speak of."

"Unless you like Troyls," piped up Gemma. They both giggled as Pippa stifled a snort in response. Her shears clipped off the excess greenery at the base of a lily's stem.

"What's 'Troyls'?" I asked. I had a feeling this was definitely a Cornish thing.

"It's a dance," said Gemma. "Old-fashioned. Not like going to a club in London, or the like."

"Folk dancing," added Pippa. "Some people 'round here get dressed up in the tartan or the black kilts to go. Fish wife's costume, even."

"That's more for festival than for Troyls' night," argued Gemma. "Anyway, not exactly rich entertainment unless you like that sort of music."

I imagined bagpipes, then realized this image must be all wrong.

"Ross used to go — I'll bet he wore a proper kilt and everything," said Gemma. "Just imagine," she said to me, and both girls had saucy grins as heat crept into my face.

"I think I'm better off not imagining any of my fellow employees in kilts," I answered, hoping to change the subject. I stepped away from the table, dropping my trimmed leaves and stems into the waste bin.

"Those shoes," gasped Pippa. "Where'd you get them?"

"These?" I glanced down. I was wearing a pair of red Jimmy Choos, the same ones I'd worn to Nancy's office when she lectured me on dressing the part of an underling. "I got them from a Seattle boutique — marked down, but they were still pricey."

"Gorgeous," she moaned. "I've wanted a pair like that ever since I saw that movie about the shoe designer — you know the one. Can I try them on?" she asked.

"Sure." I slipped off my heels, watching as the girl kicked off her clogs and slipped them on. She stood up, wobbling a little as she walked across the carpet in stiletto heels. "How do you wear these all the time?" she asked.

"I got used to it," I answered. "At Design a Dream, wearing silk and heels was all part of the image. Classy was encouraged — only you had to be careful not to dress better than the boss or her favorites."

"Around here, the only person wearing designer clothes for casual is the model whose flowers we're arranging," said Gemma. "I saw the dress she wore when she met with you yesterday. Sells for four hundred pounds in London. I read it online."

"It didn't look like it was worth it," said Pippa over her shoulder, who was walking with more confidence in the heels now.

I had to agree. The dress's impression, like that of Petal herself, fell flat after a moment or two. Without makeup and an artful hairstyle, she looked less glamorous and more like the cute-but-pouting sort. Her smile for everybody at Cliffs House felt like a practiced one, and unless she was surgically attached to her fiancé, she seemed more interested in talking about New York and London than any sort of Cornish traditions for her wedding. Without him, Cornwall apparently held no interest for her.

"What do you think?" Pippa asked, posing dramatically with one hand behind her head. "Do I have a future as stunning as Petal Borroway's in Milan?"

Before either of us could answer, the sound of a tremendous crash and a wail caught our attention — coming from the direction of the kitchen hall. Without a word, we took off running from the parlor, me barefoot and Pippa teetering in my heels.

We halted in the kitchen doorway. There, on the table, was a disaster beyond the proportion of any I could imagine. Shattered glass covered the floor, the table, and the newly-finished tea cakes. What had survived of them, that is — because the ladder which had crashed through the window had landed in the middle of Dinah's creations, creating a pile of sponge and marzipan mush.

"Sorry," said the workman, meekly. Dinah moaned again.

 

 

***

 

 

"Okay," I said, forcing my reeling mind to work. "Okay, we can fix this."

"Ten dozen sponge tea cakes?" Dinah whipped her head to look at me, incredulously.

"We have — what? Twelve hours?" I tried to calculate how soon the tea spread had to be on display — early enough for the press to photograph it, including some journalists from prominent society magazines. "It's not impossible. I can cook — I'll help you mix up new sponge, cut the cakes out —"

"It's the decorating, though," pointed out Gemma, her voice seconds away from a wail of her own. "It took hours to stencil on that Cornish tartan —"

"And that was with mistakes," finished Pippa. "And we've got to make new fondant, because we used the last of what was in the icebox."

I felt cold sweat beneath my cardigan. The sweat of panic, something I hadn't felt since the time one of Design a Dream's clients delightful pond locale for their reception had turned into a mosquito-infested bog the morning of, and I'd been delegated to deal with the bugs.

"All hands on deck, then," I said. Inspiration was striking, and I was seizing it. "Gemma, quick — go get anyone who can be spared. Gardeners, Lady Amanda's assistant, anybody — tell them to be ready to help assemble tea cakes as soon as the sponge cools."

"What?" Gemma said. "Are you quite serious?"

"Yes, I am," I said. "We need anybody who can help us out."

"What about the stenciling? There's no way any of that lot's artistic enough to pull it off."

"We'll just have to go simpler," I said. I tried to ignore my sinking heart at the thought of Dinah's beautiful tartan and geometric designs pushed to the side. "Saffron cakes are still Cornish-inspired. We'll do a simple flower on top or something." I pushed up the sleeves of my cardigan. "So where's the saffron and the flour?"

We worked as fast as we could, me and Dinah mixing batter, with Pippa and Gemma cutting the cakes as they cooled. By the time we were ready for decoration, we had extra help. Geoff spread marmalade between tea cake layers as Pippa and I carefully spread a buttercream frosting over them in place of the fondant. With each smooth glide of my heated knife, I hoped that the final presentation would be even half as elegant as Dinah's poor, smashed creations.

I looked up from my work and caught a pair of dark eyes watching me. Matthew the gardener was seated close by, helping layer the cakes. I hadn't realized that he was here, I'd been so busy with my own work. I couldn't help but notice that Gemma's cheeks were blazing fire red whenever he spoke to her or anybody else at the table. She and Pippa would look at each other and giggle ever so often.

"Less giggling and more working," ordered Dinah. Her stout-as-steel patience was beginning to waver a bit as she removed her latest batch of sponge. She was feeling the pressure every bit as badly as I was — as the chef of Cliffs House, her reputation was at stake if these cakes weren't scrumptious and beautiful by tomorrow morning.

"A pity about the last ones," said Matthew. "I glimpsed them through the window an hour before the disaster. You were doing a beautiful job." He was speaking to Dinah, but he glanced at me at the same time. Dinah merely shook her head.

"Disasters happen," I said, trying to sound confident that this would all work out for the best. "I'm only sorry that no one really had a chance to see that handiwork. But I'm sure these will be just as beautiful, as soon as we put something decorative on top."

"Whose idea was the design? Cornish tartan?" he asked. "Was it yours, Dinah? I liked them better than the ones I've seen in London bakeries."

"Hers," said Dinah, nodding at me. I tried not to blush.

"Really?" He studied me again. That long glance that made me feel like he could see inside me, maybe see what was in my head. I hoped not, because it was the vision inspired by the girls earlier — him in a kilt, a picture that randomly popped into my thoughts in order to embarrass me at this moment.

"I thought it would be a good way to pay tribute to local culture," I said. "A twist on Saffron cakes, draped in Cornish colors."

"You're taking to Cornwall quickly," he said. Another smile, one that made my heart skip a beat. "Or maybe you're simply clever enough to do a quick internet search." In a second, the smile had become a sly, teasing one that infuriated me the way Nate's sometimes did, a friend who was almost like a brother to me. Matthew didn't seem like the brotherly type, I felt. So what was I feeling?

"Maybe Cornwall's colors were already my favorites," I retorted. "And this was all a coincidence." I didn't stick my tongue out at him, but I was tempted to. I wondered what would happen if I did. Would he tease me some more? I was surprised to find that I wanted that to happen.

"What was it for? There's no festival this week. Troyl, maybe?" As he said this, I heard Gemma stifle another giggle. I managed to stuff the image of Matthew Rose in tartan somewhere else in my mind, and was now working hard not to think about those rather strong-looking hands across from my own.

"It's for the wedding," said Pippa. "You know, the smashing Donald Price-Parker who's marrying the model? Petal Borroway, from the nail varnish advertisements?"

"Ah." This sound was somewhere between a growl and a grunt from Matthew's throat. I guessed he wasn't a fan of celebrity gossip.

"You know, she emailed Lady Amanda about the colors for the champagne luncheon," said Pippa, confidentially. "What do you think — odds are she shows up in a matching frock?"

"Bet a quid," said Gemma.

Matthew pushed his chair back from the table. "I have to finish the project I was working on a bit ago," he said to Dinah. "I can't finish helping with these, I'm sorry." He glanced at me. "I wish I could help more, but —"

"Of course," I said. I was startled by how abruptly he was leaving. "Fine. We've got more than enough people to finish these, I'm sure."

"Best of luck," he said. He wasn't looking at any of us, but busy collecting his tool belt, one fitted with spades, rakes, and augers instead of hammer and nails. He lifted a potted plant from beside it, opened the kitchen door and left.

"Why is he going?" Gemma said. "It's just some plant."

"You know how he is," said Pippa. "Well — Julianne here does, anyway."

It was their first time to openly tease me, and even if it happened to be about a sensitive subject like Matthew Rose, I decided to put up with it. "Maybe he's way too busy to spend his whole afternoon assembling tea cakes," I answered.

"Matthew doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want around here," said Dinah to Gemma. "He came as a favor to help. We're lucky to have him, and if he says there's something pressing in the garden, I'm sure Lord William would prefer he finish it than slice cakes in here."

She made Matthew sound privileged for a gardener. It struck me as odd, and I wondered what made his relationship with Cliffs House so unusual. Was Matthew a relative of Lord William? Had he been in some kind of accident and wasn't supposed to be working right now? Any number of weird and wild solutions popped into my head — including a romantic one in which he was the rightful heir to a neighboring estate, and working as a gardener until he could wrest his place from the grip of a scheming relation —

"Last one," announced Dinah. "Now all we need is a decoration for the top."

Nothing came to mind that seemed original or perfect, especially since the original Cornish colors were the only real solution, given the biscuits and chocolates. We mixed up marzipan dough, looked through the kitchen's collection of decorative molds and books on creative cake toppers, but nothing seemed right.

"I suppose we could just do orange roses," began Dinah, with a sigh. A quick knock sounded on the kitchen door, and Gemma ran to answer it. She and Pippa had been splitting an Indian curry takeaway since they were both hours past their usual working shift at Cliffs House.

"These are for you," said Jackson the gardener, handing Dinah a basket. "He said you might find 'em helpful. G'night." He tipped his gardening hat at all of us, and went back out again.

"Who said it?" Dinah wondered aloud as she pulled back the damp cloth over the top. Inside were edible flowers — little delicate white and pink petals, and bright yellow and gold ones that I recognized from my grandmother's flower pots.

"Dearovim, it's lady's smock and marigolds," said Dinah, whose accent slid gently into strong Cornish with these words. "The one's common, though I've not seen any in the garden — and where'd he ever find so many of the lady's smock? So few of them go to seed around here."

"He grows stuff at his cottage, so maybe it's from his own garden," said Pippa. "I've seen it before when passing by — all sorts of stuff grows there."

Pink, white, and gold. It would change the colors slightly, but not enough to matter. And once these were dusted with rock sugar, they would be perfect atop the cakes, and would add the 'Cornish touch' that we were missing.

I had never been so grateful to anybody in my whole career. Not even the shop who sold me the ornamental citronella candles at half price for the bug-infested reception.

 

 

***

 

 

Guests seemed impressed by the Cliffs House champagne luncheon, judging from the 'oohs' and 'aahs' when Dinah's decorative spread was revealed. Antique china trays of cream-colored cakes decorated with sugared flowers in pale pink and bright gold-orange, milk and dark chocolates lightly sprinkled with candied orange, and spicy ginger and cinnamon biscuits with only a hint of citrus in each crisp bite.

Lord William played host briefly, popping the cork on the first bottle of champagne to pour a round for toasting the bride to be. Petal was blushing, but in a way that only enhanced the pink rouge dusted over her flawless cheekbones. As Gemma predicted, her dress was a pale orange-brown print featuring white butterflies, matched with a pair of shoes so expensive I couldn't imagine ever dreaming about them, much less owning them. An engagement present from Donald, she told the girl at her elbow, the American chief bridesmaid Trixie Nelson.

Until now, I hadn't been aware that anybody in the world was still named Trixie, much less anyone as young and supposedly chic as Petal's fellow model. Trixie dabbled in acting, apparently, which she informed a few members of the press as she brushed aside the strands of platinum blond hair swept across her face by the breeze.

"Looks like it's gone off smashingly," whispered Pippa as she passed me, circulating one of the trays of champagne. I smiled, feeling as proud of Cliffs House's success as she did. It was my first big event, and it was going smoothly by all accounts.

I circulated the room, making sure that the cakes remained ornamentally stacked and that the truffles weren't running low. I helped Gemma chill more champagne, then edged closer to a journalist who seemed to be taking a strong interest in Dinah's beautiful citrus saffron cakes.

Only the journalist was really interested in the conversation taking place between Petal and Donald. Who were arguing over something about the wedding.

"And I hate the thought of carrying them down the aisle!" hissed Petal. "It's hideous, and I won't do it, Donald. I want something from the shops in London. Anything. Even a bundle of half-dead roses."

Her beautiful features had twisted into a scowl. I realized, with chagrin, that she was talking about the sketches we had discussed yesterday, the ones for her flower bouquet. I had prided myself on coming up with a Cornish bouquet that would match her wedding colors — a mixture of blooms the color of heath in autumn, paired with orchids and colored daisies — and had mentioned that most of the flowers were available in the manor's hothouse. Apparently, Petal's polite smile for my suggestions had been extremely fake.

"Why? It's a bunch of dead leaves and flowers, love," said Donald, disgustedly. "Toss 'em in the dustbin after it's over."

"You know why I feel that way," she said. "It's uncomfortable, Donald. I simply prefer to bring something down from London the day before and be done with it. Besides, it would go better with the dress. It's a couture gown, Donald. Not some fish wife's costume." She muttered this last part.

Donald rolled his eyes. "This is the Cornish Riviera, love," he said. "Stop moaning because it's not the beach house at Newquay. We were both bored there, and half the crowd's in Truro now for the summer."

"Then why couldn't we get married there?" she said. "Why did you have to pick this shabby little spot in the middle of nowhere where I'm reminded of a past I loathe every time I'm here?"

The color drained from my face, and I burned with indignation on behalf of Cliffs House and the impossible-to-pronounce Ceffylgwyn described as 'shabby.' I wanted to snap at Petal that a place that breathed this much history and local pride was too good for her, but I bit back my words.

I remembered my role at this event, and that this was their party, and they were entitled to their privacy, even if it was privacy for the sake of trash-talking the venue. Even with their voices low, people around them could still hear their argument, and I didn't want that — for both Petal and Donald, and for the sake of Cliffs House's reputation. "Sorry," I said, nudging the listening-in journalist as I passed him. "Oh, did I do that?" I said, as his champagne sloshed over his wrist. "My apologies. Can I get you a towel?"

"Watch where you walk next time!" he snapped. Obviously he was annoyed that he had lost track of their conversation. Petal and Donald had noticed him standing nearby and moved to a more private part of the room. A moment later they were both laughing at the best man's stories, and feeding each other pieces of saffron tea cake.

I retreated through the open glass doors for a breathing moment. I wanted to slip off my heels and relax, but there were still hours to go. But since nothing disastrous was happening at the moment, I took off in the direction of the garden paths where some of the wedding party's guests were wandering.

On the other side of the hedge, I could hear a woman's laugh, a high falsetto one that sounded a little like a yapping dog. Curious, I stepped through the opening, and found Trixie the chief bridesmaid and Matthew Rose the gardener. There were two glasses of champagne present, one in Trixie's hand and one on the lawn beside Matthew.

He had been in the middle of tending the roses, but now Trixie was sitting on his wheelbarrow tilted on its side, her dress's ornamental wrap slipped low enough to bare her shoulders to him. Matthew was laughing, though not as heartily, at whatever had struck them both as funny a moment ago.

"Sorry," I said. I stepped backwards. "I didn't realize anyone was here." Not true, but I said it anyway.

"Oh ... the wedding planner, right?" said Trixie, squinting at me. "Yes, I do remember meeting you earlier." That was all the attention she was willing to give me, turning her attention to Matthew again. "Did you really meet David Bowie?" she said.

"Only once," he said. "And at a party of a friend, who merely wanted me to give him some advice on landscaping. Nothing very exciting, I'm afraid."

"I wanted to hear you tell that story — I've always been jealous when other people get to meet famous people that I wanted to meet." She leaned closer to him. "So how many other famous people have you met?"

Matthew blushed. Her face was much closer to his than before, her whole body sidling towards his. The look in his eyes was strangely conflicted — even confused — but it wasn't the look of someone utterly shocked or repulsed by this bold maneuver.

Two champagne glasses — obviously the two of them had been here for a little while, getting acquainted. I tried not to let my feelings show, those of disappointment and mortification, as I turned and left without bothering with any polite farewells. Obviously I wasn't wanted at this little gathering.

I made myself busy for the next hour or so back at the reception, although blood was thundering in my ears. What was wrong with me? It wasn't as if Matthew ever suggested he was attracted to me. I made it all up in my imagination, based on some silly roses and a couple of glances. He sent those edible flowers to save Dinah's reputation, not mine. And those roses — that was just his way of flirting with the newest female employee on the estate, or maybe his way of flirting with every woman he ever met.

I was pretty sure I wouldn't be fond of seeing roses around for awhile.

More people were strolling around the grounds, and the press was almost finished with 'exclusive interviews' or 'one on one' questions, and beginning to make small talk in the dining hall. I discreetly swept some crumbs off the table and removed an empty truffles platter.

Petal was on the stairs as I passed through the hall to the kitchen. Someone else was with her, and it only took a second before I recognized the platinum blond hair and gold party dress from before.

"... he was just so attractive," said Trixie, who was almost whining. "Don't be such a stick, Pet. There's nothing wrong with me hooking up with him for a few weeks, anyway. It's not as if he's private property, is he?"

"It's inappropriate," said Petal. "I don't want you doing it, Trix."

Automatically, I stepped back against the wall. It was my second time to eavesdrop today — this time intentionally — and I found I didn't want to be seen before this conversation ended.

"Why? Because I'm an American on vacation here?" her friend retorted. "Or is it because —"

There was a crash from the kitchen. "Dearie me, there goes a bucket of ice!" I heard Dinah say, the last threads of patience in her voice wearing out.

"Sorry," squeaked Pippa. "It just slipped." The sound of ice clattering as they swept it up.

Both Petal and Trixie had been listening, too. Trixie tossed her hair. "I don't care what you say," she said. "I want him and that's that." She trotted up the stairs quickly, ignoring Petal's pouting scowl and crossed arms.

I waited until they were both gone to finish walking to the kitchen. Even if Matthew was a flirt and probably deserved someone like her, I still didn't like the idea of her 'hooking' him for a few weeks time. I tried not to think too hard about why as I helped Dinah and Pippa finish cleaning up the spilled ice.

 

 

***

 

 

"We'll put the arbor for the ceremony here, I believe," said Lord William, waving his hand towards a neat square of green lawn in front of a flower bed. "The foxglove will still be in bloom, but I'm afraid those annuals will be spent by then. It'll look rather shabby, but this is by far the best spot."

"We could patch those spots with something else," suggested Geoff, studying it with a frown. "Bit of green, if nothing else."

"I think we should simply bring round some potted flowers from the garden behind the kitchen," Lady Amanda intervened. "There's lovely color in them, and it would fill the gaps nicely without having to plant anything more. Transplant is an art."

Lord William sighed. "Let's ask Matthew's opinion on it," he said. "We want this to be as striking as possible. Maybe he'll have a brilliant thought on what would be ideal."

I didn't offer an opinion as the three of us studied the wedding ceremony site in the garden. Absently, I plucked a few leaves from a vine in a heavy cast-iron urn, blossoms of vinca trailing along its sides. I was still peeved at Matthew — for no good reason, really — and didn't want to venture an opinion that might include his name.

 

Lady Amanda sighed. "This is the part of event planning that always lasts far too long," she said. "Making up one's mind to the details, be it ever so small." She checked her watch. "Fortunately for me, I have an appointment with the boat rental on the port that can't be missed."

"What — leaving now?" Lord William asked. "But we haven't made a decision."

"Their new website is nearly ready and we have to discuss online scheduling." She kissed his cheek, then tucked her handbag under her arm and strolled quickly towards the garden's exit. Over her shoulder, she gave me a conspiratorial smile — the smile of a woman finally escaping to her true calling, and leaving me to mine.

Both of the men present now looked at me. "Then I suppose it's your opinion that will be the final word, Julianne," said Lord William, with a smile. "That, and Matthew's, of course."

"Right," I answered.

Reluctantly, I set off in the direction of the hothouse, where Matthew was busy working, apparently. I picked my way around a pile of broken clay pots and fertilizer, opening the door to a long, glass room which might as well be a conservatory joined to the sunniest side of the house.

Inside, Matthew was busy testing soil in a row of potted plants — at least that's what I assumed he must be doing. He was examining smears between glass lenses, a pile that resembled chemical test strips from my old chem lab days lying on the table in front of him.

"Um, sorry to interrupt," I began, trying hard not to look at him. "But Lord William wants to know if you can do something special for the central bed in the formal garden." I studied the heavy green vines, vinca and flowering peas, which trailed past the windows from the blanket of green covering the glass roof. It was somewhere over Matthew's right shoulder, but far from the direct line to his dark eyes.

Not that he noticed. He was too busy reading whatever sample was in his hand, held up to the sunlight. "I see," he answered.

"If you could just say 'yes' or 'no,' that would be fine," I said.

"Can it wait?" he asked. "Or are you rushing off somewhere?" He looked directly at me now. I gave the little flowers on the vine considerably more study, giving him only a fraction of a glance. I didn't leave, so that seemed like an answer in itself.

He studied the sample a moment longer, then laid it aside. "Are you angry at me?" he asked.

The direct question took me by surprise. "What?" I said. I broke my own rule and looked at him for a moment. He looked amused, and vaguely puzzled. Time to study the flowers again, I reminded myself.

"No," I said. "I'm not angry. What makes you think that?"

"I'm fairly sure I can recognize anger at this point."

"That's a rather stupid question to ask someone," I said. "Whom you hardly know, anyway."

"I thought maybe we were back to the debacle of the heath plant," he said. "Or perhaps you had a problem with the edible flowers."

"No," I said, slightly softened by this mention of the flowers.

"Or perhaps you have a problem with me personally." He studied his project on the table now, but not with any real focus that I could detect. "With something I said or did. You didn't speak to me yesterday, I noticed."

"You were busy enjoying your champagne," I muttered, a little tersely. That was a mistake. I could see from Matthew's face that he figured it out.

"What — with the chief bridesmaid?" he said. "She brought me that glass, you know. I didn't ask her to — I didn't invite anyone into the garden to chat." A deep red blush crept over his face, and suddenly he looked very boyish and embarrassed. "I was polite, but I wasn't ... flirting."

I'd made him uncomfortable, which surprised me. It wasn't a crime for him to notice a woman as gorgeous as Trixie, since he was apparently unattached. And, like I had told myself before, there was nothing between us but my silly little fantasy now and then.

"If you were, there's no law against it," I reminded him, although it cost me a blush — just a little one. "Besides she was very pretty. And thoughtful."

"That's not the point," he muttered. But more to himself than to me. "Anyway, I was being polite in the garden to — to a guest of the house. But not quite as polite as all that." He seemed to have recovered now, offering me a smile. It seemed perfectly friendly, yet sad. I wasn't sure why it struck me this way, but it did.

"Well, as I said before, it's none of my business." My voice softened. "But when you get the chance, if you would give Lord William and Lady Amanda a few ideas on how to make the flower bed more impressive, they would appreciate it." I turned to go.

"Do you still want to make a better acquaintance with Cornish culture?" he asked.

I glanced back. "Sure," I said. I didn't think this was a trick question — although back home, with a friend like Nate or Aimee, this kind of proposal sometimes ended with the kind of mean joke friends play on each other, a cube of ice down the back of my shirt, or a spoonful of salt in my coffee. But me and Matthew weren't close enough for me to worry about that, were we?

"Then come with me to lunch," he said. "If you're not busy with other plans."

"No other plans." The voice that answered him had come from me, yet it was soft and entirely different from my usual one. That was good, because a sudden and quiet astonishment had swept over me when he suggested this.

Ceffylgwyn itself was a place I hadn't thoroughly explored until now — but by Matthew's side, I saw everything anew through the eyes of someone who lived here and clearly loved it. From the harbor port with its strong smell of fish and saltwater, the shacks and wood supports stained grey and black by the water, to the quaint whitewashed and slate structures that reminded you of Old England at every turn. The water was always there, making Cornwall feel like an enchanted island every time I glimpsed the curves of the Channel and the beaches. I peered through the windows of shops, some of them selling tourist souvenirs; others were proof of Cornwall's everyday population, with modern fish and chips and takeaway spots, and tobacco shops and grocery stores.

"How long have you lived here?" I asked Matthew, as we walked.

"Four years," he said. "I was a boy here, though, for most of my life. Long before university, I used to bike along the shore. I worked at a fish and chips shop — my first real job."

"You weren't a gardener then?" I asked.

Matthew laughed. "I'm not a gardener now," he said, sounding amused. "Not in the way you think."

I stopped walking. "What do you mean by that?" I turned to stone. Had Matthew — had everyone — been lying? Playing some elaborate joke? It made no sense — hadn't I met him digging on the grounds at Cliffs House? Defending its plants against clumsy visitors?

"I'm a horticulturist and botanist," he said. "I used to teach those subjects at a university when I was in America. I worked in crossbreeding and hybridization, disease control, preservation of historic plants — that last one was a position I held for some time at a historic garden in Massachusetts. When I came back to England, I did a little of the same, in London and then here in Cornwall. I studied landscaping on the side. Purely a hobby, you might say."

"What — what exactly are you doing at Cliffs House?" I demanded. I crossed my arms as I faced him. "If you're not a gardener just replacing singed heath and potting foxglove, or whatever."

"William is a friend of mine from university. We may have grown up in separate parts of Cornwall, but we both love it...and since I was between positions, he asked me if I would be kind enough to consult on the gardens at Cliffs House."

I considered this as I gazed at the shop across the street. "So you are a gardener," I said. "And you are gardening at Cliffs House."

"Technically, I'm restoring the gardens of Cliffs House to their previous glory," he said. "While solving a few bacterial and disease problems among the roses and some of the shrubbery."

"Hence all the test strips and soil smears this morning," I said. I shook my head. "Why didn't anyone mention what you did?"

"Why does it matter?" he asked. "Does it matter to you whether I'm an undergardener who trims shrubbery, or a former professor who treats its diseases?"

"I guess it doesn't," I admitted. "Still, I wish I had known. I should have been addressing you as Doctor Rose, for one thing." I smiled a little, seeing that I had embarrassed him slightly.

"It's not a title I use right now," he said. "Just Matthew Rose is fine. Matt is better, actually."

"Matt," I repeated. Shyly, to my surprise. Was I in danger of melting again under his good looks and boyish charm? Shaking off the possibility, I told him, "Okay. I'll remember that." I slipped my hands into my coat pockets. "So why did you give up teaching — or your job in Massachusetts, whichever came last?"

Matthew's face dimmed. "I needed a change of scenery," he said. "I needed to come home." A moment later, he smiled at me.

"I'll show you where I grew up, if you don't mind walking a little further," he said. "We'll find something to eat there as well. If you want to taste the best in Cornish pasties, then my childhood haunt is the proper place to go."

"By all means," I said. "Besides, I'm starving. Whether they're the best or not, I'll probably eat two."

When Matt said his childhood home was very different from Lord William's, I hadn't believed him at first. Not until I saw that it was a small house near a part of Cornwall that didn't make the mention in my 'visit Cornwall' research. This was the poorer part of town, reminding me a little of places near my first home in Seattle. There were fewer historic sites here, far fewer tourist havens or boutiques. I noticed a tobacco shop and a chemist's, a fish and chips shop with a neon sign.

"I didn't realize this was what you meant," I said, gazing at the now-empty house. A black iron fence spliced with chain link on the sides kept us from passing through the rickety, ornamental gate to the miniscule lawn on the other side. The old-fashioned shutters were closed upstairs; the whole place needed a new paint job, its white, weathered surface turning grey from years of neglect.

"My father died when I was young," he said. "My mother worked to raise me and my sister, alone. I was bright enough to earn a scholarship, which was how I ended up in public school, then at university."

He was being modest, I thought. When he said 'bright,' he was downplaying his accomplishments. During our walk, I had used my WiFi connection to sneak a few internet searches of his name and discovered words associated with it were a little more glowing. Like 'brilliant,' 'innovative,' 'genius,' paired with terms like 'a leading figure in plant disease research,' and 'the foremost expert in preserving antique plant breeds for the future.' He had been an Ivy League professor, a consultant and landscape architect at the oldest and most pristine rose garden in Massachusetts.

"Then my mother died, and I helped my sister finish school. She wanted to be a nurse and that's what she does now. Only in the military, which wasn't quite what I had in mind for her future." His smile was one of pride and worry.

No noble background, I perceived. Except for that of a hero to his family, and one of the most brilliant minds in modern day botany. And that was so much better than a prince on a white horse.

"Here we are," he said, opening the door to the modern fish and chips shop. "Lunch."

"G'day, m'love," said the woman behind the counter. "Haven't seen you 'round here for a week."

"Too many plants," he answered, with a lopsided smile. "Julianne, this is Charlotte Jones, my former employer and baker of the best Cornish oggies this side of Falmouth. Charlotte, this is Julianne Morgen, the new event planner at Cliffs House."

"Pleasure to meet you," said Charlotte, with a smile. "What'll it be?"

"Two oggies," he answered.

"What's an 'oggy'?" I asked, not exactly sure I wanted to eat it. I lowered my voice for Charlotte's sake as I asked.

"It's the local nickname for a pasty," he said. "Trust me, you'll love it."

I did. At first bite. Beneath the brown, crispy crust was the savory taste of beef, onions, and spices. I practically gobbled mine up in two bites, savoring its taste as I licked my fingers. Matt, who was savoring his, laughed aloud at me. It was the first time I heard him laugh, except for the muffled sounds through the garden shrubbery that fateful afternoon with Trixie. It had a warm, natural sound that made me feel as if I had a pleasant little fire lit deep inside me as I listened. Strangely enough, that made me shiver in response.

"These are delicious," I said to Charlotte. "The best thing I've eaten in the whole county."

She laughed heartily. "Go on now," she said. "Everyone 'round here eats them all the time. Like fish and chips or bangers and mash."

I knew the pasty was an iconic Cornish dish, and I had a few poor American imitations, but not even the meat pie served at my first English hotel stay was this good. Something this sweet and savory from a kitchen in Ceffylgwyn ... didn't it deserve to be served alongside an exclusive baker's cake from Newquay? At an event where some of the most influential English and American socialites might be present?

"Can you make these in a miniature version?" I asked.

Charlotte gave me a puzzled look in response, but after some pleading on my part, she promised to try it. A tray of the 'trial versions' would be sent to Cliffs House for everyone to sample—but with the caveat they wouldn’t be ‘proper oggies’ in miniature size, given the hearty contents of a full-size one. But I was pretty sure they would still taste scrumptious, and with only a few days before the bride, groom, and their party arrived to stay, I needed every last impressive detail to be perfectly in place.

Since Petal had emailed me with a definite rejection of the Cornish flower bouquet I designed, I was left with no choice but to pay tribute to Cornwall through the centerpieces and the food. The days were ticking away, and I clutched at every possible solution I could find. Something like Charlotte's tasty 'oggies' was exactly what I needed.

"You're thinking of something else, aren't you?" Matt asked.

"Who, me? I'm just thinking how lucky it was that I left my good stilettos in the closet today," I answered. I was glad for once that I was wearing a pair of sensible boots, nothing too spiky or delicate. Not the way my legs ached after walking what felt like ten miles between here and Matt's car.

"I thought you were thinking of work," he said.

"This from an accused workaholic?"

Matt grimaced. "I am a little ... too devoted these days," he said. "I've thrown myself into projects these past few years. A good way to fill empty spaces in my life."

Loneliness wasn't something I imagined for him. I had assumed his self-induced exile in Cornwall was for the sake of working hard despite distractions — not the opposite reason. "Are there very many?" I asked him, softly.

"Oh, no more than anyone else has, I suppose," he answered, with a faint smile. "Maybe I was away from Cornwall too long to truly come home again. Or maybe I gave up on other possibilities in my life too soon." For a moment, I thought I heard him sigh after these words.

"For what it's worth, I've enjoyed my tour of Ceffylgwyn," I said. "My first full day of Cornish culture. I owe you for that." I glanced at him with a smile.

"You could do better than a walk through the village and a few pasties," he laughed. "The locals would be happy to take you into their fold. Quiz nights at the pub, euchre circle at the fish and chips shop on Tuesdays, a bout of Cornish wrestling now and then —"

"A night of Troyl?" I suggested. "Complete with Cornish tartan and kilt?" If I was saying any of this incorrectly, he didn't bother to correct me, I noticed. A lesson for another day, maybe.

"Exactly," he said.

We were both quiet again. "Do you ever get a day off?" he asked me.

"I just took two hours off," I answered, with a laugh. "Um...with all the work I have to finish before the big event, I'm not sure."

"If you do," he said, "there's somewhere I'd like to show you. The place I worked before now. Well, consulted, really," he added. "Sort of like for Lord William, only on a slightly bigger scale. It's a beautiful part of Cornwall, one no visitor to our county should go without seeing."

I imagined it must be quite a bit bigger, given Matt's tendency to depict things as less than they actually were. "I'd love to," I said.

"Let me know when you're free," he said.

"What about your time?" I asked him. "When do you have a day off?"

"Whenever I want one," he said. "Remember?"

Right. The whole 'consulting on his own time' thing. So Matt didn't have to be the 'slave to the dirt' that Pippa and Gemma imagined him to be. Well, if it encouraged him to give it up for a few hours to shuttle a newcomer around the county, I would happily oblige. It was the least I could do in return for the edible flowers, wasn't it?

"Do you speak Cornish?" I asked him.

"A little. Why?"

"What's the house's name in Cornish?" I asked. "Cliffs House?"

He thought about this for a minute. "Chei Klegrow," he said, with an impossible pronunciation I could never match. "That's as close as I can come off the top of my tongue, at any rate."

"I think I like it better in English," I said. "But I think the village's name is growing on me."

"That it does," he answered. Whether he was talking about the Cornish name or the village itself, I wasn't sure, but it didn't matter. I agreed with both of them wholeheartedly.

 

 

***

 

 

"So where are we going?" I asked.

I was trying to calm the little cloud of butterflies that took flight in my stomach now and then, ever since I climbed into Matt's car. We were just friends having a day out, I reminded myself. He was being nice, showing me the countryside around Ceffylgwyn. No need to make it into something more.

Nevertheless, I was wearing my cutest casual dress, a soft cotton knit printed with lacy white flowers, and a pair of semi-sensible tan sandals that were a decent imitation of a top designer. Trying to seem more casual, I pulled my hair back in a ponytail, using the excuse of the coastal wind and today's warmer temperatures. It had nothing to do with last-minute guilt making me want to dress down a little, in case Matthew got the wrong message. And not at all about feeling guilty over wishing he'd notice me a little.

"I told you,” Matthew answered. “It’s a place that every visitor to Cornwall should see."

“If it’s Newquay, then I’ve already been there once. My first day in Cornwall,” I added. Hesitating a moment, I told him, “You were there, too, actually. At the railway station. I saw you outside the café.”

His brows lifted in a look of surprise. “You know, I was there recently,” he said, after a moment. “But I would have noticed…that is, I think I would remember if I saw you before,” he told me. The blush creeping over his face proved he meant this as a compliment. It surprised me a little, his reaction.

“Well, it was only for a moment,” I said, trying not to read too much into this and reawaken the butterflies inside me. A moment where he saw the back of your head, most likely, I reminded myself. I was glad he hadn’t noticed me staring at him, at any rate.

“So why were you there?” I asked him, eager for the subject to move forward again. “You don’t seem like the surfing type exactly. Was it the nightclub scene that drew you there? Meeting up with friends for a pub crawl later that evening perhaps?”

He laughed at my teasing suggestions. “Nothing so scandalous, I assure you. I was waiting for a cab to take me to Newquay airport. A colleague of mine was giving a lecture in Edinburgh on behalf of the garden society he serves as chairman for. I was there for moral support and to glean some of his knowledge on plant preservation and propagation. His work is quite similar to what I’m doing for the estate, you see.”

Mmm. So he didn’t have a secret life in Newquay, with a girlfriend and a group of rowdy drinking buddies. Good to know, since I rather liked his image as the hermit of Ceffylgwyn, whose quiet but smoldering good looks were tragically wasted on plants.

“Well, then,” I said. “Back to the subject of where you’re taking me. Is it someplace urban? A burgeoning tourism district lined with shops that cater to your every whim?”

“It’s like no other place you’ve been before,” Matthew said.

He smiled at me. A smile that guaranteed that was the last of his hints.

That 'place' popped up on a road sign after we had driven several miles, talking mostly about the estate, and a little about colleges and universities, now and then brushing against a more personal subject, which made my butterflies a little worse. I saw the Cornish name printed below the English one first.

"'Lowarth Helygen,'" I said, doing my best to pronounce it. "Wow. It has a beautiful name in Cornish." A romantic phrase right out of Arthurian legend, I thought.

"The Lost Gardens of Heligan," he translated, smiling. "One of England's most beautiful historic gardens. I spent a lot of time here when I first returned to Cornwall."

"You mean you worked there," I corrected him with a knowing smile.

"Yes. Correct. I was a consultant," he said. "And it was a place worth every minute of my experience there."

The Lost Gardens had fallen into neglect after World War One, and had only been restored to their former glory in more recent decades. They were part of a family estate, like the gardens at Cliffs House. Only these gardens were a showcase of Victorian English gardening design. Lakes and fountains, antique shrubbery in summer bloom, flower and vegetable gardens carefully planted and tended. As I wandered the grounds beside Matt, I could imagine him loving this place. It was peaceful, alive, and filled with color at every turn.

He showed me the rhododendrons he had helped protect against a fungal infection: beautiful, tall plants whose weathered bark revealed their age. They were antiques, he explained with a smile, cared for and cultivated for decades. I gazed up at one, its shadow falling across me, as soft and cool as I imagined its glossy leaves would be if I touched them.

There was a 'jungle' of fern trees that made me feel like I was lost in the wilds of Borneo; and flower beds filled with European specimens that I had never seen pictures of, much less admired in person. Matt knew nearly everything about this place, so there was no need for a printed guide. He walked me from place to place, pointing out special plants that I would have otherwise missed, and telling me stories about the people he'd met here, and the experience of working in a garden this historic and famous.

We stopped and chatted with a few of the current gardeners, who were tending a less-crowded part of the estate, one of whom recognized Matt and, clearly, had enjoyed working with him. I couldn't help but feel proud, even though we were practically strangers. Something about seeing Matthew in his element was getting to me. Maybe that explained why I couldn't help the urge to move closer to Matt while exploring the jungle, where a sudden childhood fear of monkeys diving down from the trees came over me. Or maybe it was just because he seemed strong and protective.

Not every part of the garden enchanted me — when we reached the pineapple pit, I couldn't help my reaction to his explanation of it. "You mean it's full of manure?" I asked, repulsed.

"Fertilizer, yes. It produces heat, which is what protects the trees from cold, and encourages temperatures for fruit production," said Matthew. "It's just science, Julianne."

"It's manure," I corrected him. "Which, I'm sorry, is really gross where I come from." I tried not to imagine a squishy, smelly floor on the bottom of the pit, and look only at the lush, tropical leaves of the trees themselves.

"Gardeners are used to the idea," he said. "Fertilizer, compost — it's all part of a plant's life. Don't worry — I won't toss you in there to check the pH." A sudden, wicked smile played across his lips with this statement.

"Don't ever suggest something like that again," I said, in mock warning. Just to be safe, I retreated further away, where the garden path traveled elsewhere. "You feel free to stay here and enjoy the scent of compost," I called back over my shoulder.

It took him a moment to catch up with me. "Two more things you have to see," he said.

"Not more pineapple pits full of slimy sludge, I hope?"

"It’s not," he promised. "I have to introduce you to the Giant and the Mud Maid."

They were definitely nothing like the science behind the pineapple pit. Heligan's Mud Maid was a living sculpture of plants, earth, and stone. She reclined on her side, almost smiling dreamily, I felt. Suddenly my playful fight with Matt was entirely forgiven, as I stood there admiring her.

"What do you think?" Matt glanced at me.

"I think she's gorgeous," I answered. "I think someone was incredibly talented and brilliant to think of creating this." I sneaked a glance at him now. "It wasn't you, right?"

He laughed — loudly, and more heartily than I'd ever heard him laugh. "Not at all," he said. "Believe me, I don't possess garden sculpting skills, and it was never my job to look after Heligan's living sculptures in any form, I'm afraid. I just enjoyed visiting them."

We stayed a little longer, visiting the Giant's Head also before we made our way back to the car. We stopped for a late lunch at a restaurant with the view from our table's windows of a little country cottage, where I had my first taste of fresh Cornish sea food.

I was feeling energized, not tired, even though the day had been a long one. I was a little disappointed when the road sign for Ceffylgwyn came into view through the windscreen. Maybe Matt sensed this, because he cleared his throat and looked at me.

"Would you like to see my home?" he asked. "Before I drive you back to the country house?"

"Of course I would," I answered. These past couple of weeks, I had been curious to know more about Matthew's 'reclusive hole' after listening to Gemma and Pippa's remarks. It could be anything from a shack in the woods to a crumbling gothic carriage house, I felt.

But it was none of these things. Matt turned onto a sleepy side street in the village, then parked outside a battered picket gate and fence surrounding a two story cottage covered in white lime wash aged grey in places from the wind, and a slate roof with grey-painted shutters bordering each of its windows. On the lower story, window boxes tumbled forth vinca and pea vines, covered in small summer flowers, while upstairs, I could see a chimney, oddly painted red, peeking from behind the house.

I was struck speechless for a moment, as I had been outside Cliffs House. This was a completely different world, this tiny cottage compared to Cliffs House's size and stateliness ... but there was something enchanting about it. Like something special was hidden in those walls, in the red chimney and the most crookedly-hung shutter on the second floor.

Of course, there were gardens — and maybe that was the source of the magic, Matthew's talent and dedication come to life. They wrapped around the whole cottage, tangled and wild, with plants almost as tall as me, and some so small and delicate they barely brushed against the toes of my shoes. Foxglove, hollyhocks, snapdragons, and delphiniums, mixed with asters and heaths, and tufts of the delicate lady's smock he had sent me, alongside tiny Cornish daisies.

I recognized a lot of these from a website on Cornish flowers I had visited, trying to learn more after accidentally trampling an endangered variety. Even without flowers, I could now spot familiar leaves among some of them, enough to guess what native and domestic flowers Matthew cultivated.

"There's a hothouse behind the cottage," he said, closing the rickety white gate behind us. "I had hoped for a place with a conservatory, but when I couldn't find one affordable, I simply built a greenhouse myself. There's a path along the side of the house — the right one, where the ivy is climbing up."

"The roses you sent me —" I began.

"I grew them," he said. "The roses are in the hothouse. A few antique climbers have the trellis back there ... but most of what you see around you does what it wants. I just helped it along a little."

Inside, the old parlor was furnished with mismatched things, both modern and antique, most of them looking as if they'd been rescued from junk shops or from abandonment on the curb as rubbish. Stuffing popped out of the arms of an old, comfortable club chair, while an antique dining one served as a makeshift side table next to one of Matt's many crowded bookshelves.

"This is my home," he said, pulling open a pair of worn plaid curtains covering the windows — Cornish tartan, I couldn't help but notice. "Where I spend what little time I'm not outdoors."

"You read a lot of books," I said, picking up one from the chair. A volume of poetry, one of English myths. "A folklore fan?" I held up the copy of Cornish Tales and Legends as I spoke.

"I'm a fan of local culture," he said. "And I don't do much reading, really. The books are deceptive." He smiled.

"Here's one in Cornish. You can read Cornish, too, can't you?" I said. "As well as you speak it?"

"If by that you mean 'not well,' then certainly," he said. He took the book from my hand and flipped through it, glancing at its pages as if trying to remember where he'd found it before. "I know a little, of course. The name of the house I could guess, for instance, based on a crude vocabulary of Cornish I've learned over time."

"The name of the gardens today?" I asked.

"Lowarth means 'garden,'" he said. "Heligan's from the Cornish word for 'willow tree.'"

"Willow Tree Gardens," I said. "I like it." I looked out the window, where the late afternoon sunshine played across the petals and leaves in the window boxes. "So what's the name of your garden?"

"It doesn't have a name," he said. "But the cottage is called Rosemoor."

Roses on the moor, I thought, automatically. And realized it probably meant something quite different in Cornish. Maybe I could study the language eventually. Learn enough that I could recognize the meaning of Cornish words on road signs here and there, at least. Leaning against his windowsill, my view to the back of Matthew’s garden, I smiled at him. “Did you pick the cottage because you shared a name?” I asked. “Matthew Rose of Rosemoor Cottage?”

"It's a coincidence," he said. "I picked it because ... well, it's a romantic spot, I suppose. It was close to the estate, and it had room for a garden. What else could I want?"

What else indeed. I could think of something, but I knew better than to say it. When Matthew moved closer, I tried not to tremble, because I felt drawn to him more than ever. He laid the book I'd handed him on the chair once again, his hand resting on its cover. This close, I caught the scent of his skin, and could almost imagine the fabric of his sleeve brushing against my arm. It was mere inches from my skin now, as was the rest of his body.

For a moment, I thought he might kiss me. I thought I might kiss him. Slide my arms around his body, pull him close to find out if it felt as good as I was imagining it right now. When his dark eyes met mine, I felt my legs tremble in response. We were both looking deep into each other’s eyes ; his features softened, his expression growing tender. I could feel my own changing, and wondered what it was telling him. I was afraid it was revealing something even I didn't know, but I felt powerless to stop it. In a way, I didn't want to.

His glance broke from mine after a few seconds — a space of time which felt longer to me. I caught my breath sharply. I hoped he didn't notice.

"Tea?" he asked me. "Or anything else I have on hand?" He had moved a little further away now, snapping on a lamp beside the chair.

"A cup of tea would be nice," I answered. I was developing a taste for it, and I needed something to steady me after feeling that much electricity. It left me feeling alive but exhausted for a moment.

Matthew made tea as I curled up in the ratty club chair and watched the insects buzz around the flowers in his garden. As we drank it, we talked about nothing as dangerous as kissing, only about Ceffylgwyn and other places we'd each lived. Our conversation felt like it lasted only minutes, but it was actually an hour long by the time we finished; time had sped up crazily after those few seconds of looking into his eyes, which had halted the world spinning around us from my point of view.

He drove me back to the estate afterwards, and walked me inside. There was a visitor, I noticed, judging from the car parked near the camellia bed, a sporty, foreign red model. I walked through the main door which Matthew held open for me, waiting for him to follow me inside.

Lady Amanda was emerging from her office, and with her, the bride-to-be from the wedding that was now only days away.

"There you are, Julianne," Lady Amanda said. "Thank heavens, because we have a few last-minute issues that need discussing."

Petal had arrived early, it seemed, with a final list of requests for the big day. As always, she was flawlessly dressed, this time in a blouse that cost three figures, and designer jeans so tight and thin I imagined them permanently bonded to her skin. A pair of oversized designer sunglasses were propped on her head.

The door closed behind me. Matthew had entered, taking a few steps before he stopped short. Petal had seen him enter, and was staring at him as if she, too, were rooted in place.

The color drained from Matthew's face. He looked as if he had seen a ghost. On Petal's face, a mask of complete blankness — but there was something in her eyes that looked like she wanted to turn and walk away as quickly as she could.

"Matthew," she said.

Matthew's lips moved. "Petal," he said. A slight tremor in his voice. No other emotion.

"You look well." I thought these words had been squeezed from her chest, forced into the open.

"So do you." It took him a moment to say this aloud.

Petal was now paying extra attention to the set of keys in her hand. Lady Amanda was looking very uneasy. And as for Matt — he didn't look at me, or anyone else. For a moment, he seemed not to see anything, until he turned to me with the ghost of a smile.

"I'll say goodnight," he said. I had a feeling this was meant for the whole foyer. I thought maybe my eyes were burning, but the confusion I felt was making my head feel too empty to notice that detail.

"See you tomorrow," I said. My voice sounded normal, thankfully, although I could hear my confusion in it, too. Matthew didn't say anything. He was already gone.

A second of awkward silence ticked past, then Lady Amanda seized the situation. "Shall we have Geoff bring in your luggage?" she said to Petal. "And Julianne can show you what she had in mind for the circulating trays at the reception."

"Of course," said Petal. She seemed fully herself now. "I can't wait to hear about it."

 

 

***

 

 

I was trying hard to be in a good mood as I sat in the kitchen, helping Dinah put the finishing touches on the squares of Cornish fudge, each one topped with candied marzipan blossoms resembling a sprig of purplish-red heath, and one of sugared rosemary.

"When's the groom coming?" Gemma asked. She had volunteered to work extra hours in the kitchen today, all in hopes of catching a glimpse of the football heartthrob, I suspected, who was due to arrive with the best man today.

"Never mind Donald Price-Parker," said Dinah. "We've got six dozen more of these to decorate for the catering trays. Unless he's coming to the kitchen to help out, he's of no interest to the three of us."

"Not until after lunch," I answered her, as I placed another finished square of fudge aside. "Don't worry, you won't miss him. Lord William said he's driving here in a racecar, straight from the track at St Austell."

"Imagine," sighed Gemma. "Soon as I'm done with studies, I'm moving somewhere more exciting than Ceffylgwyn."

"Off to Land's End, are we?" quipped Dinah. "St. Ives, perhaps?"

"Sure," said Gemma. "Truro, if nowhere else'll do."

How about Mousehole? I might have suggested this jokingly, now that I knew enough Cornish village names to understand the difference between a port village and the kind of places Gemma wanted to see. But I wasn't in a joking mood, and the memory of Mousehole's name only brought me back to thoughts of Matthew.

I didn't need to be thinking about him. What did it matter if Matt and Petal clearly knew each other at some time or other? Or clearly had a connection that left them both tongue-tied? So what if Matt had clearly been avoiding me and the grounds immediately around Cliffs House for the past twenty-four hours or so since they'd seen each other?

Get your mind back on work, I scolded myself. Only one day was left between now and the big event I was in charge of pulling together. If my stomach wanted to tie itself in knots of confusion, it should be doing it for that reason, and no other.

The clatter of high-heeled shoes sounded in the hall — for once, they weren't mine — and the chief bridesmaid appeared. With a yawn, Trixie surveyed us, sleepily.

"I'm starving," she announced. "Is there anything to eat around here? Pet's being totally dull and didn't send anybody out for breakfast."

"I can make you some toast, if you like," said Dinah. I thought I detected a slight crack in her civil tones.

Trixie wrinkled her nose. "No, thanks," she said. "Got any more chocolate?" she asked. She lifted one of the pieces of fudge from its airtight container and popped it into her mouth.

"Oops — are these for the wedding?" she asked.

"They are," I answered.

"Sorry." But she didn't sound as if she was. "Guess I'll make do with the raw stuff." She lifted a bar of chocolate from the cook's table, one that Dinah had been coarsely chopping to decorate the whortleberry tarts that would be topped with clotted cream. Taking a generous bite out of it, she sat down at the work table where the three of us were decorating the fudge squares.

"Oooh, aren't they cute?" she said. "You're making little flowers to go on top. Isn't that sweet. It looks kind of like Play-doh covered in glitter, doesn't it?" She laughed. "Let me try one. I'm totally bored, with Petal spending hours chatting online with all our friends back in New York."

We exchanged glances. Gemma looked slightly amused, trying to stifle a laugh as she popped a finished piece of fudge into the storage case. Trixie was putting three marzipan heath sprigs on one piece of fudge, making it into an impossible mouthful.

"Just one is fine," I told her, trying to figure out the nicest way to get rid of her. "Guests are meant to notice that it's a sprig of heath and rosemary — two native Cornish plants."

"Oh, the Cornish thing," she said. "Right. Donald's so into that, and Petal's so not. But she'd do anything for him, so I guess that's why she's agreeing. He's got this 'let's be all English country as a couple' and she's all 'let's go back to civilization.' You can imagine." She popped another heath sprig — crookedly — on top of a square of fudge. I tried discreetly to fix it after she placed it in the box.

"Of course, she didn't want to come to Cornwall in the first place, but after she found out her ex was here, she was really mad," continued Trixie. "He's from Cornwall, see, and that's partly why she doesn't like it here. That, and they broke up because she knew she could do better — and now she's marrying a football player who wants to live in the country. Go figure, right?" She plopped two badly-decorated pieces of fudge into the box, and popped one of our perfect ones into her mouth. "He works here, actually, her ex," she continued. "At this place."

Gemma, who had been drinking it all in with a curious and incredulous smile now looked as if she had swallowed a whole chunk of fudge herself. Her eyes were like saucers when they met mine — I wondered if she, too, knew it was Matt.

"I think Cornwall's a great place to live," I said. I was surprised how firm my tone was. "It's beautiful here. And everyone's so friendly. Who wouldn't love it?"

"Pet doesn't," said Trixie. "But she's hooked on Donald, so what can you do?" She shrugged her shoulders, dramatically.

"Donald's totally cute," said Gemma, speaking up at last, since the subject of the football player's looks was a safe one. Plus, I suspected she was dying for more details, the clues that Trixie had carelessly dropped about Petal's old love life. The same clues that were twisting me into knots, and making my fingers too shaky to apply the false heath sprigs properly.

"I thought her ex was hot," said Trixie. "I met him once or twice when they were still together, and she used to talk about him when we were both modeling in New York."

"So she left him ... for Donald Price-Parker?" Gemma hesitated before saying this aloud. From the troubled look in her eyes, I knew she was probably picturing Petal dumping Matt. It hurt too much to think about, so I was trying not to have the same picture pop into my head.

"No, she met Donald later. She just ... broke up with him. Broke his heart into a million pieces," said Trixie. "It was totally scandalous, I thought. She always said he was a bit of a nerd...but he was so totally into her, he'd do anything to make her happy. He even offered to move to New York for her. But it wasn't enough."

Trixie's conversation was pouring gossip into the room like syrup — we were all trapped in it, her words wrapping around us like a sticky mess of tentacles, making me learn about a side of Matt that had been hidden from me until now. Imagining him in America, madly in love, then brokenhearted and back in Cornwall, bitter and alone. Hadn't he said work was filling the empty space in his life? The one that had been Petal's, it would seem.

She leaned towards Gemma. "I'm totally into him. If he didn't spend so much time hiding from Pet, I would be asking him out for a weekend. Have the full English experience before I go home. A girl like me shouldn't let someone like him go to waste, right?"

She was talking about Matt like he was a tempting piece of candy she was planning to steal. My face burned hot. Her words made me angry, and I broke one of the candied stems without meaning to. Quickly, I hid the pieces under a dish towel.

"Maybe you should see if he's hiding on the grounds where Lord William's working, behind the estate," I suggested, sweetly. "There's a path leading towards the woods. It's a little rocky, and the field is probably extra hot today...and there are a few teensy little insects since it's summertime ... but that shouldn't stop you, right?"

Trixie looked at me, a pair of cold eyes boring straight through my innocent look. "I don't do the outdoors unless it's mowed," she said.

"Oops. My mistake," I said, with a shrug. "I guess you can keep helping us. Would you lift that super-heavy pot from the wall behind the stove? Someone has to start melting the chocolate to make another batch of these. We need a few thousand, at least."

"A few thousand?" Trixie froze, a piece of hard chocolate halfway to her lips. I could see Dinah was hiding a smile as she listened.

"Oh, yes," she chimed in. "It's a good thing you've turned up. You don't want your friend's wedding to be anything less than perfect, do you? And we've a long ways to go to finish it all."

"It should only take half the day," Gemma assured her. "Making the fudge itself, I mean. The decorating's just 'til late tonight probably."

"Midnight, at least, I should say," chimed in Dinah. Trixie now looked as if she'd eaten the whole tray of fudge before her.

"The man with the cake's here." Geoff popped his head through the open kitchen window. "We're bringing it in directly."

"Oh, mercy — have I cleaned out a spot in the icebox big enough?" Dinah's attention was momentarily transferred from the fudge to the arrival of the culinary masterpiece from Newquay. I noticed Trixie had completely disappeared by the time the cake's layers were carefully transported into cool storage.

I could see from the picture of the soon-to-be-completed creation that it was a simple ivory-colored tower that resembled a modern building, studded here and there with expensive-looking silver cake decorations. Clearly Petal's metropolitan tastes had trumped Donald's 'let's be English country' ideas this time.

Trixie might have made herself scarce, but her words were still lingering in my head. I found myself wandering in the garden after I finished decorating the marriage bower with its sprigs of greenery and dried heather, leaving room for the fresh flowers to be added early on the wedding morning.

I took the path to the cliff. Maybe with the idea I would find Matt there, even though it seemed unlikely he'd be around. He was probably off in some remote corner of the estate ... I was really being pathetic, wandering around in hopes he was in the gardens close to the house.

Halfway down the garden path to the cliff, I spotted Matt. He was gazing at the water, sitting on one of the rocks arranged close to the edge. I knew for sure that I had been hoping he would come here; that I had sensed that this was a place where he came to think. From the look on his face as he watched the Channel, he was doing a lot of it.

He waited until I came closer to speak. "I'm sorry I left so abruptly," he said. "After I brought you back. It seemed rude. I didn't realize it until later, I'm afraid."

I tucked my hands in the pockets of my green coat. "Why didn't you tell me?" I asked. "That you knew her? That you had broken up with her?" I sighed. "Did anyone know, or was it a secret from everybody?"

"Not a secret," he answered. "Some people knew. But I generally avoided talking about it with anyone."

"Is that why you haven't been around the last few days?" I asked, quietly. "You could have told me you needed some space. You didn't have to avoid me — the house, I mean." I changed this quickly, feeling awkward. Perhaps Matt hadn't really thought of me as someone worth avoiding — only that he'd been rude to a fellow employee of the estate, for instance.

I wasn't sure he heard me over the distant roar of the water, until he answered. "I wasn't avoiding you," he said. "Or anyone. I ... was giving some thought to things. Ones I haven't thought about for some time."

I didn't say anything in reply. I wanted to say that this was fine, and that I understood. And I did...except for the tiny part of me that was hurt by all this, of course.

"Petal and I met here," he said. Matt had finally broken the silence. "As a girl, she came here with her family on holiday. And I ..." He paused. "We met again when I was working in Boston, where she was trying to become a model and give up her job in retail. We reconnected. I fell...very hard. It lasted for three years until she changed her mind." He swallowed. "I was foolish. I made desperate promises I couldn't possibly keep, about myself and everything in our lives — none of it was enough. It couldn't be."

There was so much left unsaid in those words. His voice was calm, yet it was impossible not to see the brief flicker of pain that crossed Matt's face. I imagined him begging her to stay, even promising to go wherever she wanted, be whatever she wanted. My stomach felt sick in response.

"I didn't like her when I first met her," I said, with a forced laugh. "Now I have a good reason for it. She broke your heart. She's still breaking it, I guess."

"I don't love her."

"Doesn't mean she can't hurt you," I said. "I don't think you can pretend that part away, Matt." I swallowed hard, because a lump was forming in my throat. "It's understandable. You don't have to hide it. Not from me, certainly." Me, the understanding friend and almost-stranger, who didn't have anything to lose by listening to him.

That Matt and I had been growing closer in those hours before he and Petal had appeared face to face — that truth was burning a hole in my own heart right now. I had been a second away from kissing him before; it was crazy that I felt this way, but it was as if she had taken away something I hadn't fully realized I wanted.

I wanted a chance with Matt — to have him look at me the way he did that afternoon, only with more than just a little spark of attraction in his eyes. And, somehow, Petal had taken it away with one glance.

"The other day, Julianne," he said. "What might have passed between us..." He looked at me as he stopped speaking. But not the way I had been fantasizing about. "It isn't a rebound, or an attempt to lead you on. Nothing like that."

I didn't want to hear the rest of whatever he planned to say; I didn't want to see the hurt in Matt's eyes become that of someone guilty of hurting me. An apology in those dark eyes would be unbearable on top of everything else.

"Please," he said. "Don't think of it that way."

I didn't answer. I chose to do the only thing I could, which was turn to leave. After taking a few steps, I stopped for a moment and looked back.

"What made you notice me?" I asked him. "What made you ... be nice to me?"

I was fighting hard for control of myself with this question, because it seemed dangerous. The door between us, one side friendship and one side attraction, was swinging between the two. We hadn't defined it, and I didn't want to with my choice of words.

Matt looked at me. "When the sunlight shines through your hair, there are strands of red that shine like fire," he said, gently.

I hadn't been prepared for that answer, and my heart skipped a beat. "Really," I said. Feigning skepticism. Any other time this would be playful, but now it was only that way on the surface; underneath, I was losing control of myself, like his words were part of the tide below.

"It's true." He turned towards the cliffside view again. "But it's not the real reason. It was because I'd never met anyone so bold and brash and confident at first meeting — who could almost convince me I was in the wrong just by the sheer tone of her opinion."

He had been kidding me until now, at least a little; but the seriousness underneath this last answer was threatening to take my breath. It was only the glimpse of sadness in that tender smile that kept things together for me.

"Nice to know it wasn't just my looks," I answered, jokingly — but I was really past being able to joke at this moment, his words had rattled me so. I only hoped he couldn't see it from my smile before I turned around and walked back up the path.

The house came into view when I crested the top of the path, the sun shining against the face of Cliffs House. Any other time, this would make me happy, and put a little more speed in my step as I approached. After all, I was happy here — my dreams had begun to come true, and even though my work was hectic, it was satisfying.

I took a few steps more. Slow ones.

It didn't really matter what I thought right now. It didn't really matter what I felt. All that mattered was the job I was supposed to be doing, making sure Petal and Donald's fairytale wedding fell into place.

It shouldn't matter at all that Matt's heart was still too broken for me to have a place in it. We were practically strangers, barely friends for more than two weeks. It made perfect sense not to fall in love with him, and to accept that he cared about someone from his past.

He still loved her. Big deal. It only hurt to know he was hurting, right? But that wasn't the only reason I felt crushed, and that was the hardest part for me to accept.

Voices and laughter from the house's front drive. I could see a flashy race car painted in neon orange and black parked out front, Donald Price-Parker leaning against it, striking a casual pose as he talked with the best man — no doubt Gemma was watching from behind the house curtains, enjoying a glimpse of the football player's rippling muscles as he lifted the car's bonnet and pointed out something about the motor to his friend.

For the rest of the day, I worked frantically, keeping my mind elsewhere. I wrapped the stems of the flowers for decorating the rest of the ceremony's arch, the delicate white roses and sprigs of fresh heath blooms and rosemary. I checked on the cases of champagne and re-polished half the serving platters and waiters' trays until they gleamed like mirrors.

"Still working?" Pippa was in the doorway of the silver pantry, pulling off her cleaning apron. "You should be ready for a bit of a rest by now. I'm going home to put my feet up and have a curry."

"There's just a few more things to be done," I said, lightly. I made sure to avoid my reflection in the polished silver surface — there was a tiny chance that it showed my cheeks were colorless and my eyes were bloodshot from holding back a few tears whenever I thought too hard about this afternoon.

Pippa was staring at me. I knew it without looking up. "Look, whatever these incomers are saying about Ross," she began.

"Incomers?" I repeated.

"You know. Outsiders like them. Rich snobs what comes around and thinks they're better than everybody else." It was the first time Pippa had ever said anything less than complimentary about a celebrity, so for that reason I couldn't help but look up. "Anyway, Ross is worth twenty of them. I'll bet he's not still thinking about some petty little tart who spends her days on chat shows talking about chipless nail varnish and all."

I stifled a giggle. "She's definitely beneath him," I said. "But I think it's more complicated than that."

"So? I still say he's doesn't care a fig for her." She smiled at me, crookedly. "Or that Trixie person. Otherwise, half the girls in the village would get their hearts broke. Including the likes of us."

I hid my smile for this idea, and applied more vigor to polishing the silver platter as I tried to hold to Pippa's philosophy. But when she was gone, I turned my focus to the next item in need of attention, a champagne tray.

 

 

***

 

 

"Come with me," said Lady Amanda, who found me in the kitchen, wolfing down a quick piece of fried bread before throwing myself back into the fray of setting up the reception rooms.

"What is it?" I asked. I followed her quickly upstairs — not to one of the offices, but to the private suite assigned to the bridal party. Specifically, Petal Borroway.

The bride was on the phone. From the tense and angry look on her face, I sensed that something was wrong. When she hung up a moment later and faced me, however, she forced a tiny smile into place.

"It looks as if we have a teensy little problem," she said. "The flower delivery was late — when I called, it turns out that the London florist lost my order somehow. It seems they can't provide a suitable replacement, and no other florist in the city can send one on time ... so I'll need you to have that bouquet you designed ready by tomorrow morning."

My heart sprang high in my chest, then crashed down just as quickly. "The Cornish bouquet?" I said. The one you hated?

"Donald will love it. It's so traditional," she said. "Such a perfect complement to the wedding's theme, don't you think? Now that there's no possibility of the London florists sending the one I selected." There was a smile on Petal's face, but I was fairly sure the only thing holding its serenity in place was the thought of scoring a few points with Donald due to his recent Cornwall obsession.

"I do," I answered. But my voice didn't reflect the confidence I had felt when I first suggested this. The flowers I had chosen — the manor hothouse might not have enough of them left, to begin with. And at this short notice, where would I ever find enough orchids that resembled the heath-spotted ones along the coast? The only thing that would be easy to find would be actual heath — if I raided Matthew's beloved patches of it, that is.

Matthew. He was the only one who could find half of these things easily, much less pull together a bouquet filled with elegant blossoms and the colors of Cornwall's native flowers. How could I possibly ask him to do it now, given what I knew about him and Petal?

"I'll see what I can do," I said, with my brightest smile. "By tomorrow morning, I'll have a bouquet for you assembled from the best that Cliffs House's gardens can offer." That much of the promise I could keep, although I couldn't promise it would be what Petal envisioned for her wedding day.

As soon as the door closed behind us, I looked at Lady Amanda. "What am I going to do?" I asked her. "She waited until it's nearly impossible — how will I ever find what we need?" I ran a hand through my hair in frustration. "Do you have numbers for all the florists around Ceffylgwyn?"

"I do — and ones in Truro, too," answered Lady Amanda. "Let's hope they have the answer." We hurried off to her desk, where the 'master list' of South Cornwall businesses was stashed in a drawer beside her telephone book.

The garden could provide some flowers the color of heath's blooms, Lord William assured me — not protected flowers, but domestic varieties in a few shades of pink and purple. Maybe not the brightest or most colorful blossoms at this stage, but that was the least of my problems. Cliffs House's greenhouse had only a couple of orchids, only one of them in bloom — and it wasn't the same color as the wild orchid's purple and pink blush. All the other blossoms had been showcased this past week as centerpieces at an afternoon charity tea.

"Hi, Flowers by the Sea? I was wondering if you could provide me with a dozen purple and white orchids..." After I finished explaining all the details, I listened with disappointment as florist after florist told me they had too few blossoms, or the wrong type of orchid. Several of them were handling big orders for other weddings or special occasions, and couldn't meet a request this last minute, not for orchids or for daisies in pink, white, or magenta.

I sighed as I hung up. All I had were lilies, a few white roses, and maybe six orchids if the two florists I had spoken with truly had those in stock. I had no painted daisies to fill the bouquet — there were none planted at Cliffs House currently, I learned, not in any color, much less what I needed. Just a few cultivated wildflower blossoms whose shades might pass as Cornish native ones.

I was sunk — just like a boat ramming against a rock wall, my first big assignment had rammed against the fickle rock of Petal Borroway's wedding tastes. I would have to find a way around this crisis, and the only choice left was to assemble a bouquet from the hothouse's best flowers and give my apologies to Petal tomorrow.

 

***

 

The day of the wedding dawned with a morning drizzle of rain. I watched it through the windows, holding my breath as I waited for it to stop. The arbor in the main garden needed its protective tarp removed and its living decorations added before the photographers arrived, and the chairs hadn't been set up on the open spaces around the main flower bed.

So many details were left, and I felt slightly dizzy at the thought of it all. Stay calm, I told myself. I took a deep breath, trying to tell myself it would be all right. But I had yet to face Petal with her substitute bouquet and explain that the one she had requested at the last minute was simply impossible. Telling someone like Petal Borroway that what they wanted was out of reach — I had a feeling those moments were unpleasant ones for whoever confronted her with the truth.

I could hear Dinah's anxious voice coming from the drawing room, where the cake was being assembled in its modern, skyscraper form, and the sound of guests coming to and from the breakfast room, where a complimentary spread was laid out before the ceremony.

The press would begin taking pictures within an hour. The wedding photographers were scheduled to shoot photos two hours before the wedding, in the main garden. Hopefully, Petal would be over her anger and disappointment by the time she was posing for portraits with the rest of the wedding party.

I didn't have time to listen in when press photographers covering the wedding paid compliments to its simple beauty. A few last-minute questions and issues, a few quick adjustments, and it was time for the bridal party to descend from the suite.

"...and I need to fetch my bouquet," Petal was saying. "Trixie, will you fix my veil, please? It's catching on my dress." Petal was descending the stairs, flanked by her chief bridesmaid, her mother, and a handful of friends.

Her dress was a beautiful, fitted white silk, studded with delicate seed pearls and tiny, glimmering stones, a thin, gauzy veil descending from the tiara crowning her hair. A pair of white and silver sandals studded with semi-precious stones were matched with her wedding dress, shoes I heard whispered were original Prada creations.

No wonder Petal was so eager to have a bouquet as original as her outfit. I sucked in a quick breath, thinking of the simple design of white lilies and garden-variety heath sprigs that I had managed to assemble. It was tucked in the basket beside the door, along with Trixie's smaller bouquet of white roses and sprigs of wild rosemary.

I was steadying myself for this moment, one which had been delayed as long as possible due to all the little tasks I had been hurrying to finish. As Petal approached, I made myself smile, calmly. The bride looked at me expectantly.

"Do you have my flowers?" Petal asked.

"She does." It wasn't my voice speaking, but Matthew's. He had approached behind me, and stood in the open front doors to Cliffs House. No dirt stains, only a neat, clean shirt tucked into his trousers, a corduroy jacket and clean boots. In his hands was a white floral box, tied with a single cord.

"This is yours, I believe." He was speaking to Petal, but looking at me as he placed it in my hands. He smiled at me.

I opened the lid. Inside was the bouquet I had designed — or a creation every bit its equal and better. Large white orchids flecked with pinkish purple and lavender, with bright pink and purplish-hued daisies that resembled the summer blooms and fall foliage of heath and heather. A small, delicate pink daisy interspersed among them, along with baby's breath and soft silvery-white sprigs of the rosemary herb. All bound with a simple pinkish-white ribbon that trailed from the base of its blossoms.

It was stunning. My eyes flew from the blossoms nestled in tissue paper to Matthew's face. He glanced from me to Petal, then back again.

"Best of luck," he said. With that, he left.

I looked at Petal. Her face had turned pale, then her cheeks flushed bright red. She looked as if she was on the verge of saying something — but whatever it was had died on her lips, apparently.

I lifted the bouquet from the box, and held it out to her. "Best of luck," I repeated. With a smile, I handed Trixie her smaller one, and stepped aside for the wedding party to make its way outside for the photographers.

As the wedding party assembled in the garden, I couldn't help glancing around me, seeing the members of Cliffs House staff who were watching discreetly as they finished up the last minute touches before the ceremony. I glimpsed the gardening staff taking away the hand carts that had been used to wheel in stacks of chairs — and among them stood Matt.

I could see his face clearly enough from here. He didn't look angry or hurt as he watched Petal and her husband-to-be pose for the camera. He stood there calmly, turning aside after a moment to answer someone who spoke to him. A second later, he was gone again.

Who had told him about the bouquet? Was it Lady Amanda? Or did one of the girls let it slip that I was struggling to find the flowers for the very bouquet Petal had rejected? One thing I felt very certain of, however, was that he hadn't done it for her. He hadn't raided his greenhouse and clipped blossoms from his carefully-tended plants for the woman who had crushed his heart to pieces years ago.

Maybe that's why two bright spots of pink invaded my own cheeks momentarily. I turned my thoughts somewhere else, to the immediate task of adjusting the front edge of the carpet rolled across the pathway for the bride's aisle.

I stood up and gazed at the carpeted walkway sprinkled with petals, and the beautiful arbor decorated with dried flowers and fresh blooms, reflecting the colors of wild Cornish blossoms. Everything was perfect. Cliffs House could be proud of itself at this moment, and that was what mattered to me.

Thank you, Matt, I whispered inside. I owed him more than I could say for this moment of satisfaction.

 

***

 

The reception's party was in full swing an hour after the ceremony was over. The string quartet had been replaced by the pop singer and a band, and the modern skyscraper of a cake had been dissected for the hundred or so guests of the bride and groom.

Petal and Donald looked happy as the best man toasted them with champagne, and as they posed with friends and family for private photos snapped by mobile phones. Petal seemed especially pleased by how much attention her dress and shoes were garnering from the handful of exclusive feature journalists and photographers who were allowed to stay for the event. As I checked on the progress of the catering staff, I caught a glimpse of her serene smile as she lifted the hem of her long wedding dress to let a photographer take a close up of the glittering designer shoes. For once, it made me glad that I was wearing a pair of plain, unadorned heels.

"Isn't it exciting?" Gemma asked me, under her breath. I could see her cheeks were flushed with excitement, in contrast to her dignified black and white service uniform. In her hands, a nearly-empty tray that had once held Dinah's mini whortleberry pies topped with clotted cream and dark chocolate shavings.

"I think we've pulled it off," I said, forgetting momentarily whether this had the same meaning in English vernacular or not. "That is, it's a success. For all of us. It couldn't have been a better day if we had designed every part of it."

"It's a good thing Dinah made a little extra fudge," Gemma added, in a whisper. "The kitchen's almost out of tarts and pasties."

Charlotte had decorated her mini meat pies beautifully, with elegant crimped edges and a decorative swirl of pastry on each one. I knew she would be proud of how many famous people had declared them the best they'd ever eaten. Even if they weren't the hearty full-size 'oggies' she was famous for in the village.

"Is there still enough champagne?" I asked.

"A crateful," she answered, then slipped back to circulating among the crowd.

I felt Lady Amanda squeeze my arm, briefly. "A smashing success, isn't it?" she said, echoing part of my words from before. She was wearing an elegant dress — her best frock from a London designer, she informed me, which she generally wore to formal events at Cliffs House.

"Are you pleased with today?" I asked, feigning curiosity with this question. "Did I meet your standards for a proper event planner? Because now's your chance to fire me, if not."

"Silly of you," said Lady Amanda, with a no-nonsense look. "Of course we're pleased. And don't think you're going anywhere anytime soon. We have a charity ball for the Tsunami Recovery Foundation and a wedding booked with an American couple in the diary for next month."

"So soon?"

"Not feeling quite up to the job of chief event planner?" Lady Amanda's eyes twinkled.

"I've never felt better about it, actually," I answered. "Now, if you'll pardon me — boss — I think I'll grab a quick bite to eat and make sure Dinah doesn't need an extra hand finishing those caviar canapés." I gave her a smile as I slipped from the room.

A few couples were dancing in the main hall to the strains of music from the reception. A cluster of guests were giggling loudly as they viewed something on the screen of a mobile phone — I was guessing that a few extra rounds of champagne influenced their good spirits. Shrugging my black wrap more securely around my satin party dress, I crossed the room, not to the kitchen but the open main doors of Cliffs House.

Outside, the garden was peaceful, the light soft as the sun moved behind a cloud for a moment. It was my first moment to myself since the wedding began, and I spent it thinking of Matthew. I couldn't help it, partly because the unused bouquet of flowers I had made — the vastly inferior one — was now sitting in a vase on the table close by.

A smile tugged my lips again. This one, a softer, more wistful one than before. I rested my head against the door's frame for a moment, remembering the look in his eyes when he handed me the box of flowers. Had I been imagining it — or was that look —

"Quite all right, Ms. Morgen?" Geoff was behind me.

"Fine," I answered. "Just getting a quick breath of air."

"If you say so." He smiled as he continued on to the kitchen. "And, by the way — congratulations on your first assignment."

"Thanks," I answered. My first congratulations, I thought, in my first moment as a full-fledged event planner. One who knows that everyone who helps you with the smallest of tasks is the real reason you didn't fail.

There was still a couple or two dancing in the main hall by the time the event was over. Donald and Petal Price-Parker had driven away in a sporty foreign car, destined for a private plane and a honeymoon in Rio de Janeiro. Trixie, who had not caught the bouquet, had pouted until the best man and a group of 'fresh young things' from the couple's circle of friends swept her off in a red convertible to some party spot in Truro. The last of the empty trays and glasses had been carted away by the serving staff, the last of the food and drink stored away once more.

I stepped out the hall's main doors, into the cool evening air. The sun was setting, the last of the sunset disappearing on the horizon, transforming the garden into shapes and shadows, even where a couple of guests had requested — and lit — lawn torches along the pathway from the front courtyard to the gardens. I walked in that direction, hugging my wrap around myself, and ignoring my pinched toes from too many hours on my feet in high heels. In my arms, the bouquet of lilies from the vase in the main hall, their water-soaked stems and damp paper carefully wrapped in floral plastic.

I was halfway to the cliff's path when I saw him standing by the shrub-lined walkway outside the main garden. Matthew, only wearing a suit instead of his clean, casual clothes from earlier. He looked handsome, dashing, and as if he was waiting for someone. Seeing him there caught me by surprise.

"Hi," I said, at last.

"Hello," he answered.

I was flustered. The words I should be saying had gotten lost, probably because I hadn't expected to say anything. "I, um, was going to leave these for you," I said. "Along your seat by the cliffs. A way to say 'thank you' for the ones you brought this morning to save me from an apology."

I paused, then kept talking, because Matthew hadn't said anything. "Actually, I owed you an apology anyway," I continued. "Not just for being rude in the beginning, but for not being as understanding as I should be. I was hurt. I had no right to be hurt that you hadn't told me, but I was, and it made me less of a friend ...."

I was babbling now. What was I saying? Matthew was still looking at me, but I imagined he was looking at an insane, flustered woman. I was sure I was blushing, and I was afraid even the growing darkness wouldn't hide it.

I took a deep breath. "So here," I said, holding the flowers out to him. "It's a little weird, I know, but it was the only thing I could think of right now."

"I accept it," he said. "The gift and the apology." He smiled at me. "But I didn't come here for that."

"Oh. Of course not." I was recovering a little now — since I had managed to avoid any physical contact with Matt, I could hide my confusion better the longer I talked. "I'm sure you have plans. I just wanted to leave those for you. There's a card tucked in there, by the way. Just a quick note — but it says things better than I'm saying them now."

"You said them perfectly fine," he answered.

If he didn't stop looking at me, I was going to start crumbling apart again. The heat in my face was spreading everywhere. I had run out of words to say, so we were both going to stand here silently unless Matt had something to add.

"I want you to believe me when I say I'm not in love with Petal anymore," he said. "I won't deny that it hurt to see her. But it was more about my pride than my heart after all these years. I had been avoiding facing her, and when I finally did, I knew for sure that while I might change many things about my past ... I wouldn't change the part where she and I parted ways."

I had stopped breathing as I listened. As I looked into those dark eyes, in what little daylight was left to us. "I believe you," I answered, softly.

"Do you?" he said.

"Of course," I said. "You have a very honest face. I can tell you're not lying to me." I managed to remain serious and not crack a smile with this reply. But I could see Matthew's tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm glad," he said. "I assume that you're not going anywhere — that you're not packing up and leaving Cornwall now that the wedding is over?"

"According to Lady Amanda, I'm indispensable," I answered, with a shrug. "She already has two more events she wants me to plan. So, no, I'm not going anywhere."

"Good," he said. And smiled again.

I stepped closer to him. "I'm sorry," I said. "It's just ... there's something I have to do. Because a bouquet really isn't enough to say thank you —"

I ended this statement short by pressing my lips against Matt's, gently. It was a quick, soft kiss, but enough to tell me that a longer one would be just as good. My hand brushed against his sleeve, the distance between us as close as it was before in the parlor at Rosemoor Cottage.

I drew back, giving myself a moment to catch my breath. "Anyway, that's my thanks," I said. "For everything." I glanced up at his eyes quickly, then looked away. My skin tingled with the electricity of this decision, my brain swept away by the sudden boldness of actually doing this.

Matt stood very still afterwards. The look on his face — the tender one I remembered from the cliffs — gave me hope that this hadn't been something very stupid on my part.

"Why are you here?" I asked. My voice was soft.

"To ask you if you were free this evening," he answered, just as softly. "And if you would like to go for a walk. With me."

"I would love to," I answered.

He held out his hand to me. I took hold of it, feeling my arm tucked protectively beneath his own a moment later as we entered the avenues of the hedge-lined gardens. I glanced back at the lights of Cliffs House before they disappeared from sight, then turned back to the path, and the view of Matt walking beside me.

It was amazing the difference a few words and a single kiss could make. Even with only his arm through mine, I could feel the electricity from crossing the line between friendship and something more.

"Is there a garden on the grounds worth seeing by moonlight?" I asked. Partly joking as dusk enveloped us, deepening the shadows of the rhododendrons around us.

I felt Matthew's laugh even before it escaped his lips. "Funny you should ask," he said.

Even without seeing them, I could imagine the look in his dark eyes. I found it was everything I thought it would be and more. I had my chance, and wouldn't trade it for anything — not a prince in shining armor or a hero brooding in a gothic manor.

And definitely not for a football player with a flashy sports car.

 

 

 

Find the sequels, A CHRISTMAS IN CORNWALL and

A COTTAGE IN CORNWALL from your favorite retailers here