Chapter Eight
Eloise jabbed the key in the lock and banged the door open, stamping crossly into the hall. And immediately came face-to-face with Bart. His wary expression ignited the simmer of annoyance into a flare of temper.
“So much for Honeycombe Bay being dead!” she cried.
“There’s a flipping seven-day Christmas Extravaganza going on.
You lured me here under false pretences, and I demand an explanation.
” She knew she was overreacting, but honestly!
It wasn’t so much that she’d landed slap-bang in the middle of a weeklong Christmas Fayre that annoyed her—it was the fact she’d been deceived.
Stupidly, she’d begun to think of Bart as a friend, and it was his betrayal that stung more than her discovery of the event.
Bart’s mouth fell open, but he quickly snapped it shut. Pursing his lips, he shook his head. “I did not lure you. If you recall, you contacted me.”
“And you said, several times if I remember, that nothing is open. Wrong! Every bloody thing is open!” she shouted.
“There’s a sodding ice rink and a German market!
Half of Devon is on the bloody beach!” She knew she was going too far, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
She was so disappointed, and she felt totally deceived and utterly let down.
“What have you got to say for yourself?” she demanded, her voice several octaves higher and twice as loud as normal.
“I didn’t know.”
Eloise let out a derisive snort. “How could you not know?”
Bart opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say, whatever excuse he was trying to come up with, was lost to the ding-dong of the doorbell.
He stared at Eloise and she stared back; then in a voice as stilted as his expression, he said, “Excuse me.”
“This isn’t over,” she hissed as he edged past her to answer the door.
“I didn’t think it was,” he muttered, and Eloise glared furiously at him. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered that he’d sold her a pup.
Bart opened the door to reveal a tall, bearded guy, dressed in biking leathers with a rucksack in one hand and a helmet in the other.
He looked apprehensive; as well he might, Eloise thought, since he’d probably heard her tirade even through the sturdy front door.
Well, she didn’t care what he thought of her; and anyway, he might be raising his own voice when he found out about the festive fiasco taking place in the bay.
He was yet another poor sod who’d been lured here under false pretences.
Would he stay or would he go? Actually, would she stay? Was there any point? The person who’d cancelled had had the right idea, she thought sourly.
“Mr. Hastings?” Bart asked, a welcoming smile on his face.
Eloise scowled, wanting to wipe it off with a few choice words.
“Mitch,” the man said, dropping his rucksack on the tiled floor with a thud and holding out a hand.
Bart shook it. “I’m Bart. Pleased to meet you.”
The man cast a nervous glance at Eloise. “Sorry, have I caught you at a bad time?” he asked in a melodious Welsh accent.
“You could say that,” she snorted, and turned smartly on her heel and marched up the stairs. She was halfway up when she heard the guy say, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset your wife. I couldn’t help overhearing, um, when I rang the bell…” He trailed off.
“We were having a discussion,” Bart said. “And Miss Garrett isn’t my wife. She’s a guest.”
“Oh, right, sorry—”
Eloise didn’t hear the rest. Discussion, indeed!
And she might be a guest now, but she wouldn’t be one for much longer.
She was going to check out first thing in the morning.
It was too late in the day to consider leaving now.
She wanted to be fresh for the journey, and having experienced the heavy traffic on the way here, she didn’t want to drive back through it in the dark along unfamiliar roads.
Divesting herself of her outdoor things, she eased her feet out of her boots and put on her slippers, then filled the kettle. As she waited for the water to boil, she heard Bart showing the newcomer to his room. When she heard the door shut, she hurried onto the landing.
There was no time like the present to inform Bart that she intended to leave in the morning and ask him to get the bill ready. But when she saw his face, it stopped her in her tracks.
He looked sad and worn, and when he caught sight of her in the doorway, his small smile was jaded. “I fully understand if you want to cut your stay short,” he said, before she had a chance to say a word.
It kind of took the wind out of her sails. She’d been expecting a bit of resistance, at the very least.
“I’m sorry,” he said heavily. “I honestly didn’t know about the festive plans. I haven’t been down to the village for a while, and I’m not on social media, so…” He held out his hands, palms up, and shrugged.
“And no one thought to tell you?”
Mutely, he shook his head.
“How does your new guest feel about the festivities? I’m assuming you told him, since the whole point of anyone staying here is to avoid Christmas?”
Bart sighed. “I did. He says he isn’t bothered.”
“He mightn’t be, but I am,” she retorted.
“I wouldn’t expect anything else.” He sounded resigned.
Abruptly, Eloise felt sorry for him. Maybe she’d give him the benefit of the doubt.
After all, she already knew she wouldn’t be able to escape Christmas completely, and she didn’t have to go into the centre of the village if she didn’t want to, not even for an evening meal.
There were loads of pubs and restaurants a short drive away, and the road the guest house was on was quiet and out of the way.
She’d sleep on it, she decided, and if she still wasn’t happy, she could always leave in the morning.
It was mid-afternoon before Eloise ventured downstairs again. The guest lounge was empty, much to her relief, and with a fire blazing merrily in the hearth, it was cosy and inviting.
She fancied a quiet hour with a jigsaw before she made up her mind what to do about dinner later.
There was no question of repeating yesterday evening’s pizza scenario—not with an additional guest on the premises.
Besides, she hadn’t forgiven Bart for his negligence.
Although she no longer thought it was duplicity on his part and she could appreciate he hadn’t been in the loop with the planned events in Honeycombe, he nevertheless shouldn’t have taken it for granted that the resort would be closed up for the winter season. He should have checked.
Hoping all the pieces were present and correct, Eloise selected a jigsaw. It was a two-thousand-five-hundred-piece picture of an English cottage garden, and it would hopefully keep her occupied when she’d had her fill of crosswords, reading, and climbing clifftops.
Then it struck her: The fact she’d selected such an intricate jigsaw meant she had already made her decision. She was staying.
Eloise sat down at a table and opened the box. There was a method to doing jigsaws. A foster carer had shown her once, although she couldn’t remember which one; after her mum had died, there’d been a succession of foster homes, some okay, some quite awful.
Focusing on the jigsaw, she sifted through the pieces to begin the process of building the picture. First find the corners, then find all the flat-sided pieces and join them together to make a frame in which the rest of the puzzle could take shape.
With so many pieces to sort through, it took her a while to find the straight ones, especially since she couldn’t resist trying to fit them together as she went along.
With the radio tuned to a classical music channel (miraculously devoid of Christmas songs) playing in the background, the soothing crackle of the flames, and her mind solely occupied with finding just the right piece, Eloise was content. At peace, almost.
Until that peace was disturbed by Bart’s other guest.
“Do you mind if I put the TV on?” he asked. “Bart said there are more channels on this telly than the ones in the rooms.”
Eloise sent him a sharp look, spiky with disapproval. “I hope you won’t put anything Christmas-themed on.”
His smile was wan. “I’m not really into Hallmark movies.”
“Good.” She returned to her puzzle, wincing when the TV blared into life.
“Oops, sorry.” He quickly turned down the volume. After a dizzying flick through the channels, he settled on rugby. “This won’t disturb you, will it?” he asked.
Eloise narrowed her eyes. At least it wasn’t football. In her opinion rugby was a much more civilised game. “As long as it’s not too loud.”
He turned the volume down even more, and she nodded her approval—he was polite and considerate, and she appreciated that.
Returning to her jigsaw, she studied him out of the corner of her eye.
He looked like he might be a rugby player himself: Well over six feet tall, he was muscular with broad shoulders and had long legs which were currently stretched out in front of him, stockinged feet pointing towards the fire.
She wasn’t usually keen on beards, but his was close-cropped and neat, like his dark brown hair.
He had nice eyes, she noticed. Blue, the same shade as the flannel shirt he was wearing, and ringed with long, dark lashes.
Oh, poo, he’d caught her staring.
“I’m Mitch, Mitch Hastings,” he said with a wry smile.
Eloise pursed her lips in irritation before she replied. “Eloise Garrett. Nice to meet you.”
He smiled and gave her a small nod. She wondered what he was doing here, why he was avoiding Christmas, and what his thoughts were on being misled (albeit not on purpose) about the festivities.
Giving in to her curiosity, she asked, “What do you do, Mitch?”
“I’m a teacher.”
“What do you teach?” With a physique like that she could easily imagine him teaching PE. Mind you, she thought, Bart was rather hunky too, and she idly wondered whether he’d ever played contact sports.
“Maths.”
“Do you enjoy teaching?” Once upon a time she thought she might have liked to have been a teacher, but she’d needed to earn money to support herself. Taking three years out to do a degree hadn’t been an option.
His face lit up. “I do! I know it’s a cliché, but it’s so rewarding—most of the time, anyway. There are occasions when I wish I’d chosen another profession.”
“Like being a rugby player?”
“I wish! I don’t have the talent to be a professional, but I enjoy playing when I can.”
Eloise smiled wryly to herself, happy to have been proved right. However, she was still curious as to why he was spending Christmas in Honeycombe Bay and not with his family. If he had a family—because, as she was all too aware, not everyone did.
She couldn’t ask him outright of course, so she decided to try to sidestep the question and approach it from another angle. “What do you think of the festivities in the village? I, for one, am not pleased. I was hoping to avoid Christmas as much as possible.”
He shrugged, his eyes on the TV. “I’m not overly bothered, to be honest.”
“About Christmas itself, or the fact that so much is planned in the village?”
“Both.”
What sort of answer was that? An unsatisfactory one, clearly. “I contemplated going home when I found out,” she confessed, hoping to draw him out. “But since Bart has assured me there won’t be anything festive happening at the guest house, I decided to stay.”
“How long are you here for?”
“Until the third of January. You?”
“The same.”
“That long?” Her surprise showed in her face and her voice.
His gaze remained fixed on the screen, though Eloise had a feeling he wasn’t watching the match at all. With the conversation at a dead end and unable to delve any further without appearing nosy, Eloise went back to her jigsaw.
“Penny, love, I think I’ve made a real mess of things.” Bart gazed worriedly at the photo of his wife.
Penny gazed serenely back.
The photo had been taken at their son’s wedding, towards the end of the evening. She looked tired, but happy. If he remembered rightly, she’d had a few too many glasses of champagne.
He traced her cheek with his index finger. “He—Mitch—didn’t seem bothered, but Eloise was as mad as a scalded cat. I should have checked. You would have.” Although, if Penny had still been alive, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.
Bart was pretty sure Eloise would leave in the morning, which would be a shame. He really needed the money, especially as his third guest had cancelled. And he felt bad about misleading her—despite it being unintentional.
When he’d gone outside to put some rubbish in the wheelie bin earlier, he’d heard Christmas tunes drifting up the hill on the wind.
Assuming the festive events would spill over into the evening, and guessing Eloise would be unlikely to venture into the village, he wondered what she was doing for food this evening. Should he pop upstairs and ask?
Should he offer to cook her something? But if he did that, he’d have to extend the same courtesy to Mitch—not that it would be a problem as such, because the guy seemed nice-mannered and quiet, just how he liked his guests. But what if she turned him down, and he didn’t? How awkward would that be?
In hindsight, he should have kept his distance from the start and not cooked that shepherd’s pie for her.
And he definitely shouldn’t have shared a pizza with her—although he supposed he could be excused for providing her with the cheese toastie, considering she’d been suffering from a cold at the time.
He and Penny had never got involved with their guests in the past. They’d fed them breakfasts, had serviced the rooms, and had been around to give advice and answer questions, and that was all.
But Bart had enjoyed Eloise’s company, and he’d be very sorry to see her go. Very sorry indeed. “What do you think, Penny? Should I leave them to it? Let them sort themselves out for dinner?”
Sighing loudly, he decided to let his guests get on with it.
They both had keys, so they could come and go as they pleased.
As for himself, he’d warm up some soup, then find a programme to watch on the TV.
And listen to the unfamiliar footsteps of strangers in the house while trying to decide whether he should give in and sell up after all.