Chapter Eleven
It Looks Like Rain, Dear
If it was blowing a gale outside, it was nothing to the stormy expression clouding Matt’s features as he snatched up the piece of paper.
‘Where the hell did you get this? I don’t pay you to pry into my business!’
Gemma’s heart was pounding, but she held her ground. She’d hardly expected him to laugh it off.
‘I didn’t pry. It fell out of an envelope when I was sorting the recycling.’
Matt’s expression was closed as he stood, screwing the paper into a ball, and Gemma’s tummy clenched.
What did you expect, idiot?
‘What else have you been snooping into?’
Gemma’s hackles rose as she got to her feet. ‘I don’t snoop ! I can’t help it if something lands in front of my eyes, can I?’
‘I have to have trust, do you understand?’ Matt’s expression was fierce as he glowered at Gemma. ‘I don’t want anyone around me I can’t rely on.’
‘I was worried, Matt, especially when you sped off to London so quickly.’
The old mocking look descended on Matt’s features. ‘How… touching. But you don’t need to worry, and I don’t—’
‘Pay me to do it. I get it. Look, I wish I’d never mentioned finding it. I thought…’ Gemma waved a hand at his pocket. ‘I wanted to help. I can see you’re in tumult over something .’
‘You need to forget you ever saw it.’ Matt stepped over to the log burner, yanking open the door and throwing the ball of paper inside. ‘Should have done that before.’
His back remained turned to Gemma as he stared into the flames, and her heart went out to him again. Matt’s shoulders had slumped and she took a step forward, words jostling for precedence, but before she could spill them he strode from the room without a backward glance.
Gemma heard him pounding up the stairs and she picked up her glass and headed for the kitchen, torn between frustration and concern. She returned what was left of her wine to the bottle and headed to the log burner to close the vents.
The washing up could wait until the morning – assuming she still had a job.
Gemma slept badly, a combination of anxiety over how Matt would be with her after their falling-out and the storm raging outside. Although the creek was somewhat protected, it was surrounded on three sides by wooded hillsides, and the wind howling through the trees, punctuated occasionally by the staccato cracking of branches, had her flinching. Rain lashed against the window in a ceaseless torrent, which would render what remained of the already challenging path up through the woods impassable.
Gemma squinted at her phone. Five a.m. If the rain stopped by mid-morning, as predicted by her weather app, the lights switch-on should be unimpacted. Selecting a Christmas playlist, she popped her earphones on and curled into a ball on her side, weary lids closing over tired eyes.
Should she leave before Matt told her to go? Discomfited at the idea of his not trusting her, Gemma floundered. If her aunt didn’t have this man staying, she’d have been tempted to jump in the boat and head for the house in Potter’s Meadow.
Gemma fell into a deep sleep as dawn broke and the winds lessened, but woke suddenly to the sound of faint but regular thuds from outside. Blinking owlishly, she swung her legs out of bed and padded to the window.
The gate to the path appeared to have blown open, but seemed intact. There were small branches strewn across the part of the lawn she could see from the cottage, and the bottom of the creek – exposed by the receding tide – was scattered with debris from the hillside.
The thudding continued, rhythmic and muffled, and, throwing a coat over her PJs, Gemma hurried to the front door. The garden path was strewn with small branches too and, donning her wellies, she stepped out into a surprisingly mild morning, then squinted at her phone. Ten o’clock! She’d not been there to put breakfast out for Matt – but then again, he was probably perfectly happy not to see her after last night.
The clouds of the previous few days, having wrung themselves dry soaking the landscape, had dispersed, and a weak winter sun shone across the creek from a watercolour sky.
Following the sound of the thuds, Gemma walked round to the shed by the studio entrance, only to fetch up short. Matt, shirtless and oblivious to her presence, wielded an axe with some ferocity as he attempted to chop up a substantial trunk, which appeared to have slid down the hillside onto the lawn.
Gemma’s stomach did a loop-the-loop, the like of which she’d not experienced since crushing on Justin Timberlake as a teen.
Despite being a tad underweight, Matt’s body was lean and well toned, and, from the way he was wielding the axe, his muscular arms had a decent amount of strength.
Squashing the sudden urge to feel those arms round her, Gemma gave herself a mental slap. Matt still hadn’t noticed her, and, as she recalled the PJs stuffed into wellies, and hair tousled from the restless night, she high-tailed it back to the cottage and jumped in the shower.
She turned the dial to ice cold.
As dusk fell, Gemma washed her hair, pleased to note the tenderness had finally receded. Tugging a thick jumper over her favourite shirt and jeans, she put on the new tan boots she’d purchased before heading for Cornwall.
Gemma and Matt had barely exchanged words for most of the day, with Matt keeping to the studio and refusing to come up and eat, saying there was something he had to finish. At least he hadn’t expressed any surprise Gemma was still there – or asked her to go. Frankly, trying as she was not to think of his shirtless performance every time she looked at him, she was thankful he wasn’t around. Despite being relieved at the lack of confrontation, however, she was saddened at heart. They’d been getting on quite well, she’d thought. Certainly, better than she’d ever imagined when she’d taken the job.
Gemma pushed open the door to the sitting room. Matt was sprawled across one of the leather sofas, his head in a book, which he hastily stashed under a cushion as he sat up.
‘I’m heading out now. Are you coming?’
Matt flopped back against the sofa. ‘I’ve got things I need to work on.’
Disappointed, Gemma pretended nonchalance, walking towards the conservatory with the boat key in her hand. ‘Anna will be disappointed if you don’t come. She’s expecting you.’
Matt huffed out a breath. ‘What’s all the fuss about switching on some lights? I don’t get it.’
Eyeing him with some sympathy, Gemma opened the door to the conservatory. ‘I know, but it’s one of the biggest nights of the year in Polkerran and raises a lot of money for charity.’
Matt said nothing, merely holding her gaze with narrowed eyes, his expression unreadable, and Gemma cleared her throat.
‘Right. I’m off. I’ll be back later. There’s plenty of food in the fridge, you won’t starve.’ Matt got to his feet, and Gemma glanced out of the circular window with a sigh as he headed for the hallway, the book now tucked under his arm.
On the boat, she fastened her life-vest, grateful for the relatively sheltered cabin as the wind whipped her hair across her face.
She got that this wasn’t his sort of thing, and Matt would hardly blemish his designer boots by struggling up the almost-impassable-at-present steep hillside to make his own way to Polkerran, but his affection for Anna seemed paramount, and this had been her request.
Still, that was before the falling-out over a piece of paper that Matt claimed meant nothing to him…
Attempting to quash her disappointment – though heaven knew why she wanted him around – Gemma eased the boat away from the jetty, only to hear a shout from behind.
Matt was making his way across the somewhat soggy lawn, and she returned the boat to its mooring, while kindly requesting the leap of happiness at the sight of him to go and take a long hike off a short pier.
It was choppy out on the open water of the river and Gemma, unsettled by her satisfaction over Matt’s presence, didn’t talk to him. He’d taken a seat, and stared ahead, the wind lifting his dark hair from his forehead. She covertly admired his profile for a second before realising they were veering a little too far towards the shoreline. The last thing they needed was to be stranded halfway between two civilisations.
Much to Gemma’s surprise, when they arrived at the jetty Matt held out a hand to her, and she hefted her bag onto her shoulder and grasped it, only to have him not release it when she joined him on the harbourside.
Dusk had already begun to fall, and the light was behind Matt, so she couldn’t read his expression, but he held on to her hand for a moment before letting it go and turning to walk towards the harbour.
Gemma flexed her fingers, stuffing both hands into her coat pockets. Matt’s skin was warm, his grip firm, and her recalcitrant mind immediately fled to the morning’s log-chopping. Tucking her chin into her scarf, she kept her distance from him. The last thing she needed was her stupid imagination wondering how his hands would feel caressing her.
Matt’s phone rang as Gemma followed him along the street and, as there was quite a throng of people making their way to the harbour front, he strolled off to the side, leaning against the wall of the harbour master’s office.
In no humour to wait for him – and Polkerran was hardly a metropolis, he wouldn’t get lost – Gemma headed along Fore Street. Judging by Matt’s guilt-ridden expression and his contrite tone as he tried to reassure someone called Bella, it wasn’t a positive call.
Attempting not to speculate about Matt’s life, Gemma amused herself, peering into the windows of the shops and eating establishments. She ooh-ed and ah-ed along with other passers-by at the miniature scene in a gift shop, peopled with tiny mice dressed in festive red and green, with little bonnets and booties.
Mingled scents drifted on the chill night air, and Gemma cast a glance at the bit of sky visible between the rooftops on either side of the street, and was relieved to see stars and no sign of the previous day’s storm-laden cloud. She inhaled deeply as she passed stalls selling bags of roast chestnuts, cinnamon buns and glühwein. The sound of happy voices – adult and children’s alike – warbled around her as she walked, stopping occasionally to admire the seasonally decorated windows. The elegance of the ribbons and baubles at the interiors shop was a delight, and she eyed up some Christmas-themed gifts in the bookshop too before waving at her aunt. Jean had set up a stall outside the ice cream shop, from where she was serving crêpes and waffles, aided by a tall, striking man Gemma had never seen before – this must be Greg.
Emerging onto the harbour front, Gemma found a space to lean on the railing, her lips curving upwards at the rows of excited children beginning to form as they awaited Santa’s arrival by boat.
Gemma’s heart swelled with delight. Having never been in Polkerran at this time of year before, it was all a big adventure to her.
‘Hey, there you are!’
Anna, with a resigned-looking Oliver in tow, beamed at Gemma, then looked around, her smile fading. ‘Did Matty not come?’
‘Yes, he did,’ Gemma rushed to reassure her. ‘He stopped to take a call. I swear he spends more hours on that phone than breathing!’
‘Oh look. Isn’t that Old Patrick?’
Gemma looked blank, and Anna expanded. ‘He’s a contemporary of your great-aunt and used to help with the gardening when Oliver lived at Harbourwatch.’
‘What on earth is he doing?’ Oliver raised a hand in greeting as the elderly gentleman crossed the street, but Old Patrick’s attention was on managing the stack of buckets he carried.
‘It’s a bit late for odd-jobbing,’ Anna murmured, but Oliver had started forward and both women followed him.
Old Patrick stopped when he saw them approaching, a smile creasing his elderly features. ‘Alright, my lovers? A proper turnout. I’s on me way to drop these off.’
He nodded to where Nicki could be seen with her two sons by the RNLI’s fundraising table, both ringing handbells and calling to passers-by as Tommy the Boat shook a charity collection bucket.
Oliver’s concern was evident. ‘Do you want some help?’
‘Nah, young’un.’ Old Patrick beamed at them. ‘They was askin’ t’other day for bucket donations on the night. Jus’ doin’ me bit.’
‘Wait,’ Anna called, but Old Patrick, proudly intent on making his contribution, had gone, the empty pails wobbling precariously. ‘Oh dear.’
‘There’s Matt.’ Oliver rested a hand on Anna’s shoulder.
Gemma hoped she wasn’t expecting her brother to be the life and soul of the party. From his conflicted features, his mood had worsened since his phone call.