Chapter Five #2
Turning away from Honeycombe Bay, she looked at the vista on the other side of the headland and squinted at the long beach flanked by sand dunes and backed by tree-covered hillsides.
It was incredibly picturesque, and although she hadn’t intended to walk that far, she found herself trotting down the less-well-defined path to explore the long expanse of beach.
The sand was firm beneath her boots and lined with a black scar of seaweed where the tide had last retreated, and with each step she left a shallow footprint that would vanish without a trace when the sea came in again.
The dunes rose up in soft, undulating hills, clothed with tussocky wheat-yellow grass rippled by the incessant wind, and the beach seemed wide and endless, coloured in a palette of grey, black, and gold, with shafts of winter light glimmering and sparkling on the wet sand.
She had it all to herself—no dog walkers, no children, no surfers or swimmers. Just her, the wind, the sea, and the endless horizon. It was beautiful and majestic—and desolate.
Feeling suddenly lonely, Eloise turned around to make her way back, but when she did so she saw a bank of cloud rolling in and hoped it wasn’t full of rain, as she hadn’t brought an umbrella with her.
Then she barked out a laugh as an image of trying to keep an umbrella up in this wind popped into her head.
It would either blow inside out or be blown away completely, possibly taking her with it, like Mary Poppins.
She wished she had brought it with her though, because when she had to retrace her steps up the steep path she could have used it as a walking pole to help heave herself up the incline.
Thankfully, it was considerably easier going down the hill on the other side than it had been coming up it, but when she eventually reached the promenade, she realised she was hobbling slightly, as her knees protested at the unaccustomed exercise.
As she stepped inside The Honey Pot—the café she’d spied earlier—a wall of welcome warmth hit her, together with the smell of coffee and food. Despite not being hungry (how could she be, after that breakfast?), Eloise sniffed appreciatively.
“That’s the soup you can smell,” a woman in a white apron said, looking up from wiping a table. “Chestnut, honey, and roasted butternut squash, served with a slice of sourdough bread. The chestnut gives it depth and the honey brings out the flavour.”
“It sounds divine.” Eloise’s mouth watered.
Maybe just a small bowl, she conceded, reasoning that breakfast had been hours ago, and she had walked a fair distance—quite a bit of it uphill, and there was more uphill to go when she walked back to the guest house.
“Go on then, you’ve talked me into it. I’ll have a bowl of soup, please. ”
“Can I get you a drink to go with it? We’ve got some specialty coffees today. How about a gingerbread latte or a spiced caramel?”
Rolling her eyes at yet more Christmas reminders, Eloise said, “Do you have normal coffee?”
“Certainly. Take a seat and I’ll bring it over.”
She spied a free table next to the window, and after removing her hat, gloves, and scarf, she shrugged off her coat and plonked herself down in a chair.
Glancing around, she noticed the small Christmas tree in the far corner decorated with the usual assortment of baubles, although some of them appeared to be bumblebees with Santa hats on them.
There was also a garland draped around the front of the counter, and festive bunting hung in swathes from the ceiling.
Eloise turned her attention to the view through the window, her gaze roving along the promenade.
Even that hadn’t managed to escape being Christmasified, because there were stars and snowflake illuminations attached to the Victorian-looking lampposts.
They weren’t lit right now of course, but they would be by five o’clock when it would be blacker than a witch’s cat outside.
She wouldn’t see it though; she’d be safely ensconced in the guest house, doing the crossword in front of the fire or reading her book.
She’d also noticed a shelf in the lounge full of board games and jigsaw puzzles.
The games didn’t interest her, but the jigsaws might.
She hadn’t done one of those since she was a child, and she recalled how she used to love them.
You could lose yourself for hours with a jigsaw.
“Here you go, love, a nice bowl of soup and a coffee.”
Eloise smiled her thanks as a wooden serving platter containing a bowl, a slice of bread, and a ramekin of butter was placed on the table.
It looked delicious and smelt it too. Dipping a spoon in, she closed her eyes as she savoured the first mouthful and congratulated herself on finding this place.
Christmas decorations and festive-themed drinks aside, the food was tasty and wholesome, and the location was perfect. She would happily come here again.
After demolishing the soup, she found she had just enough room for a slice of cake, so she treated herself to a piece of decadent chocolate truffle, then had to have another coffee to wash it down.
The atmosphere in The Honey Pot Café was warm and inviting, so Eloise lingered over her second drink and watched the world outside the window, feeling pleasantly relaxed.
She’d made the right decision in coming away for the duration, she decided, giving herself a pat on the back.
Of course, staying in a bed-and-breakfast for three weeks wasn’t cheap, but she hadn’t been on holiday in a long time and she wasn’t short of a penny or two.
Having always been thrifty (she’d never been frivolous with money), she had a decent enough nest egg to fall back on.
And let’s face it, what else did she have to spend her money on, apart from the bills?
She didn’t eat out much, she didn’t drink much, she didn’t do anything much.
Yes, this little getaway was going to be good for her. She’d go home a new woman, reinvigorated and with a renewed zest for life.
Hopefully.
When Bart’s phone rang and he saw who it was, his heart sank.
He hoped his son wasn’t calling to give him grief.
Ever since he’d told him he was reopening the guest house for the festive season, Ross had been sceptical, and Bart had got the feeling he didn’t think he was up to running it on his own.
“Hi, Dad, just thought I’d ring and see how it’s going. Did you burn the bacon? Incinerate the fried eggs?”
“No, I did not.” See, that’s what he was talking about!
“I wouldn’t blame you if you had. It’s been a while since you did a breakfast shift.”
Bart drew himself up to his full height of five feet eleven inches and scowled. “Anyone would think I hadn’t lifted a frying pan since your mother died.”
“You haven’t, not really.”
“I’ve not starved to death, have I? So I’ve clearly been eating, which means I must have been cooking something in order to eat it. Anyway, making a fried breakfast is second nature after the thousands I’ve cooked over the years.”
“Shoving a ready meal in the microwave isn’t cooking, Dad. Are you sure you won’t change your mind about Christmas? I hate to think of you in that house on your own.”
“Son, haven’t you been listening to me? I won’t be on my own. I’ve got guests booked in.”
“But they’re strangers. Celebrating Christmas with them won’t be the same as celebrating with your family. It won’t be as much fun.”
Ross didn’t get it, did he? Bart wasn’t interested in having fun.
He was interested in keeping this house, and the only way he was going to do that was to generate an income of some description.
If that meant inviting strangers into his home, so be it.
After all, he and Penny had been doing the very same thing for years!
He had to admit to feeling regretful that he wouldn’t be seeing much of Ross, Amy, and the kids over Christmas, but it wasn’t as though he wouldn’t be seeing them at all. He’d pay them a visit on Christmas morning after he’d served breakfast to his guests, and he’d stay for lunch.
Abruptly he wondered what Eloise would do for lunch on Christmas Day.
Had she thought to make a reservation at The Bumblebee—assuming they had any spaces left?
As far as he knew, little else would be open in Honeycombe, so she’d have to go further afield if the pub was fully booked, and even then the chances of booking a table this close to the big day were slim.
It would be the same for dinner reservations. How many places would be open? And would any of them be serving food in the evening anyway?
Oh heck! Bart realised he hadn’t thought this through.
He couldn’t let her go without food until the following morning’s breakfast. That wouldn’t be right.
Despite being clear that the guest house only provided breakfast and it was up to his guests to sort themselves out for lunch and dinner, he felt he should offer something.
But whatever it was, it wouldn’t be a turkey dinner with all the trimmings!
With a groan, Bart remembered it wasn’t just Eloise who would be staying at the guest house over Christmas. Two more people were booked in, and he felt the same sense of responsibility for them as well.
He wondered what Penny would make of this dilemma.
Knowing her, she’d probably insist he offer his guests an evening meal. So that’s what he would do.