Chapter Three
Northampton to Devon was a fair old drive (nearly five hours), and that was without the inevitable roadworks and the necessary comfort-break stops, so it was mid-afternoon by the time Eloise crested the hill to Honeycombe Bay.
Sea View Guest House did what it said on the tin, in that it had what Eloise knew to be a lovely view of the sea—when it wasn’t raining and the mist wasn’t down.
Still, she couldn’t expect the weather to be bright and perky since it was the middle of December and the shortest day was only a week away.
Driving along the narrow lane leading to the guest house, she passed several houses set back off the road and a row of three cute little cottages.
Movement in the window of the last one caught her eye, and she had a brief glimpse of a young woman holding a small child aloft as he placed a glittering star on the top of a shining Christmas tree.
The domestic scene tugged at her heartstrings for a second, but then she was pulling into Sea View’s driveway, and she quickly forgot about it.
From what she could see through the car’s rain-drenched windscreen, the guest house had changed little since she was last here.
It had the same paved parking area and the same green door, the same window boxes and plant pots, although what was in them looked half dead.
But then, it was winter, so it was to be expected they wouldn’t be at their best.
Lights shone from the windows, throwing a warm yellow glow over the bonnet of her car as Eloise clambered out. She was tired, aching, and thirsty, and she needed the loo. Her neck was stiff, her shoulders were up around her ears, and she had the beginnings of a headache.
But despite it all, she was pleased to be here.
And even more pleased there wasn’t a single Christmas tree in sight from where she was standing.
No doubt the residents of Honeycombe Bay would celebrate in the time-honoured fashion, but only a few of the houses she’d passed had switched their lights on.
The beauty of this particular guest house was that it was on the outskirts of the village at the end of a twisty lane.
Most of Honeycombe Bay wasn’t visible, although she could see the lights of the harbour, and The Bumblebee Inn was strung with multicoloured flashing lights which, if she remembered rightly, had been there the last time she’d visited, so there was no cause for alarm on the anti-Christmas radar.
Anyway, realistically she knew she couldn’t avoid it completely; people were going to have trees in their windows and twinkling lights dangling from their fascias, but the beach and the seafront would hopefully be devoid of such annoying festive frippery.
Eloise heaved her suitcase out of the car, grabbed her handbag and thick woollen coat, then rang the bell, a solid ding-dong that sounded deep in the house and was much nicer than a buzzer.
The door opened almost immediately, and on the other side stood an attractive man in his early sixties, wearing a welcoming grin on his face and sporting shadows under his eyes.
“Hello and welcome to Sea View,” he said in his West Country burr, the accent with its drawn-out vowels soothing her journey-shredded nerves. “Come in, come in.”
She stepped into a hallway containing a polished dark wood desk and a table, with a wire rack with leaflets and flyers from various local attractions on top.
A painting of Honeycombe Bay’s pretty harbour hung above it, and there was an umbrella stand in a corner.
A flight of carpet-clad stairs lay directly ahead with a door on either side.
“I might be mistaken, but haven’t you stayed here before?” the man asked, studying her.
“Yes, a few years ago.”
“I thought so! I’m terrible with names, but I never forget a face.”
“Eloise Garrett,” she replied, even though he already knew it because he’d asked for her name when he’d taken her booking. She let go of the handle of her suitcase and held out a hand for him to shake.
He took it. His palm was warm, his handshake firm as he looked her in the eye. “Bartholomew Knott, but everyone calls me Bart. Let me show you to your room. Here, I’ll take your case. I’ve put you in one of the front-facing rooms. It’s got a view of the sea.”
He gestured for her to go ahead of him up the stairs, and she heard his tread behind her, glad she didn’t have to lug her heavy suitcase herself. Hesitating on the landing, she waited for him to point to the relevant door, then stepped into what was to be her home for the next three weeks.
The room was larger than she expected, with a double bed, a wardrobe, a fireplace (no longer in use she surmised from the dried-flower display in the grate), a chest of drawers, and two nightstands.
A small round table sat between two armchairs nestled in the bay window, and there was a private bathroom off to the side, with a loo just visible through the open door.
Bart wheeled her case inside and placed the key on the nearest nightstand.
“You’ll find a hair dryer in the top drawer, and if you need to borrow an iron, just shout.
The breakfast menu is over there.” He pointed to a sheet of paper on the table.
“If you can let me know this evening what time you’ll want it? ”
“Will nine o’clock be too late for you?”
“Not at all. There are tea- and coffee-making facilities in your room, and a small fridge for milk, so help yourself; but if you’d like to pop down to the guest lounge now, I can do you a pot of tea or coffee and a slice of cake.”
“Not Christmas cake, I hope?” she asked with faux sharpness.
“Definitely not. I promised you no Christmas, didn’t I? I’m not a man to go back on his word.”
Eloise returned his smile. “Glad to hear it. Tea, please. I’ll freshen up, then be down in twenty minutes.”
Bart retreated, closing the door behind him, and an abrupt silence descended.
Bliss. Utter bliss.
She sat on the bed, bouncing experimentally, feeling the mattress yield beneath her. Pleased with its softness, the thickness of the duvet, and the plumpness of the pillows, she was already looking forward to snuggling down in it tonight.
Before she closed the curtains, she gazed out of the window, but the rain and the gathering gloom hid most of the bay from view, so she drew them with a determined flick of her wrist. There would be plenty of time to stare at the sea tomorrow; for now, she wanted to unpack and settle in, the journey having taken it out of her.
When she went downstairs, she found the lounge cosy and welcoming.
It was divided into two distinct areas: the breakfast area with tables, and the sitting area, where there was a squashy sofa, a couple of armchairs, and a real fire crackling in the hearth.
The room was lovely and warm, and she could easily envisage herself curling up in one of those chairs after dinner to read her book.
“Is everything okay with your room?” Bart asked, bringing in a tray containing a pot of tea and a slice of cake.
“Lovely, thanks.”
“How was your journey?”
“Long and rainy. I hope it clears up soon. Is there anywhere in particular you can recommend for dinner this evening?”
“The Bumblebee Inn is nice, and so is The Happy Anchor down by the harbour. But do you really want to go back out on such a dismal night? I could rustle up a little something for you here, if you don’t mind shepherd’s pie, peas, and carrots.
I might have some sticky toffee pudding and custard in the cupboard, too. ”
“That’s kind of you, but I don’t want to put you out.” This was a bed-and-breakfast place—dinner wasn’t an option, as far as she knew.
“I’ll be cooking for myself anyway, so doing a bit extra won’t hurt.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” she replied doubtfully.
“I’m sure, but if you’d prefer to try one of the local establishments instead, I won’t be offended.”
“In that case, thank you. I wasn’t looking forward to going back out in this.”
“It’ll be ready at six-thirty,” he told her.
Eloise quite liked shepherd’s pie, although the sticky toffee pudding with custard might be too rich.
She tended not to eat dessert at home, though she was partial to a slice of Victoria sponge now and again, and she had been known to bake one on occasion.
And since she couldn’t eat a whole cake by herself, she used to take it into work to share with the admin staff.
However, she was on holiday, even if it was a cold and rainy one in the depths of an English winter, so she decided to make the most of being catered for and enjoy the sticky toffee pudding.
Besides, a brisk walk along the seafront in the morning—assuming the weather had improved—should work off the extra calories.
As Bart set about depositing the tea things on a side table, she sat in the squishy armchair next to it and took a moment to study him. Clearly he was better with faces than she, because she couldn’t remember him.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, his stomach was flat without any hint of the paunch middle-aged men often developed, and he looked to be in decent shape underneath the cream cable-knit sweater. He was a good-looking guy, with silver streaking his hair, a firm jawline, and kind grey eyes.
There was something about him that commanded her attention, and it took Eloise a minute to realise what it was: She was attracted to him.
Although it wasn’t that which made her ask, “Won’t you join me?” as she picked up the teapot. She fancied some company.
He looked surprised. “Um, okay. I’ll just go fetch another cup.”
“And cake for yourself?”
A small smile was followed by a nod, and he left the room, returning a moment later with a cup and saucer and another slice of cake.
“So,” he said, taking a seat at right angles to hers. “You were last in Honeycombe Bay a few years ago? It hasn’t changed much.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.” She held out a hand for his cup, and when he passed it to her, she poured the tea into it.
“When you’re not escaping Christmas, what do you do?” he asked.