Sunny New Beginnings at Sea Haven House

Chapter 1

One

Painter celebrating the beauty of nature. Loved to paint outdoors. Known for his paintings of flowers and gardens – and so much more. Teaching point: look beyond the cliché.

(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)

Callie lugged her suitcase up the steep path to the cottage and paused for a moment, looking up. Easing her motorway stiffened shoulders, she took in the view.

The house was postcard pretty. Against a brilliantly blue Dorset sky, it was painted the palest pink with a roof of deep grey slate.

Gorgeous. Her painter’s fingers twitched.

She followed the path a little further. Uphill, uneven and pebbly, it made pulling her case extra tricky.

Relief that it was all as advertised, and she’d actually got here tempered the headache which a peak holiday season Saturday on the M5 had caused.

The journey had taken three times as long as it should, and having to squeeze her car next to a battered Fiat hadn’t improved her mood.

The cottage’s tiny parking space was located at the bottom of this track and off the steep Harbour Hill.

‘Stop stressing. You’re here, you’re on holiday and the sun is shining,’ she muttered, wiping her sweaty brow with her T-shirt sleeve. ‘A hot bath and a glass of white and you’ll be fine. Who cares if Frida bailed at the last minute and swanned off to Ibiza instead. Look at what she’s missing!’

Pausing at the cottage’s white gate, she breathed in a sigh of pure happiness at the sight of the garden brimming with purple phlox and snowy Japanese anemones in between soaring palms.

Frida’s choice of holiday still rankled. The last thing Callie had wanted was a solo trip. She’d been looking forward to reconnecting with her daughter; she’d been weirdly distant recently. ‘Oh well, who needs fishbowl cocktails and foam parties?’ she muttered to the gate as she pushed it open.

The cottage’s garden and location were what had drawn her to it.

Available in August too. A miracle. Teachers didn’t have much choice about when they took their holidays so she’d snapped it up.

After the year she’d had, she was desperate for a break.

Frida professed the same – until a mate had offered a spare room in a villa in Playa d’en Bossa.

Close up the house was even prettier, if that were possible.

Stopping at the glossy front door she dug out the raft of paper with the instructions.

Tongue out with concentration, she scanned down, found what she was looking for and entered the number into the key safe.

She feared the worst. Technology had a habit of failing her; it was a long-running gag at school.

Holding her breath, she pressed the button to release the key.

As she did so, the front door swung open.

‘Hello, can I help?’ A man stood framed by the white roses which grew round the front door; they gave off a heady sweet scent.

Shocked, Callie stifled a giggle. He was a tall, dark and good-looking cliché, and about her age.

She liked the touch of silver at his temples.

Very distinguished. This must be the owner, although it was strange; she’d only dealt with a Miss Grosvenor when booking.

‘Hello, I was just opening the key safe to get the key.’

‘No need. I have it here.’ He held it up, dangling from a seashell key ring.

‘Great,’ Callie said with relief and held out her hand to take it. After the journey she’d had she was keen to unpack. The bottle of white wine in the food box still in her car was calling a siren song, although a mug of tea might hit the spot first.

‘Are you the housekeeper?’ he asked. ‘There was no need to come over. The place is immaculate, and I’ve found everything. Thank you for coming though.’

‘Housekeeper? No. I’ve rented the place. For three weeks.’ Callie felt the first stirrings of unease.

‘You’ve rented the cottage?’ A frown flickered across his brow. ‘There must be some mistake. I’ve booked it. I’ve just arrived. You must have the wrong house.’

Callie stiffened. ‘I can assure you I have not.’ Fishing in her handbag she drew out the sheaf of papers again.

Waving them at him, she explained. ‘I booked Sea Haven House with a Miss Grosvenor beginning Saturday the tenth.’ She felt her face grow warm.

‘This is Sea Haven House. It said so on the gate, and it’s most definitely the tenth. ’

The man disappeared into the house and returned with a wodge of paper.

Callie’s heart sank as she recognised the distinctive heading.

Hysteria bubbled up. She might have known something would go wrong.

Had she booked the wrong date? Shoving her sunglasses onto the top of her head she squinted at Miss Grosvenor’s small forest of paperwork.

Definitely booked for the tenth. Anxiety hollowed her stomach.

He flourished his papers at her. ‘You see, booked to J. Starling – that’s me – in the week beginning–’

‘The tenth,’ finished Callie. Her shoulders slumped. ‘This is all I need,’ she wailed. ‘I’ve been driving all day. The traffic on the M5 was terrible.’

‘I know, I came that route too.’ He paused, studying her. ‘Look, come in and we can talk about this.’

‘I’ll do nothing of the sort.’ He didn’t look like an axe murderer but Callie had absolutely no intention of going into a strange house with an unknown man.

She’d watched her fair share of Netflix real life crime.

From Ibiza she could hear Frida laughing and saying, Get yourself in there, Mum. He’s gorg!

He held out a hand. ‘Where are my manners. Let me introduce myself. Jonathan Starling. I live in Stratford, as in Shakespeare. I drive the dilapidated Fiat you probably parked next to. I’m forty-five, currently unattached, have family staying just up the road who will vouch for me being a decent type and am as keen as you to get this mess sorted out. ’

Go on, urged Frida’s voice in her head; she seemed to have a remarkable grasp on the situation from her sunbed over a thousand miles away. What have you got to lose? Live a little.

Callie glimpsed the temptingly cool interior of the cottage.

With her throat begging for a cup of tea and her bladder pleading for relief, she gave in.

Wiping a sweaty hand on her shorts, she shook the one Jonathan held out.

‘Calliope.’ She grimaced, embarrassed as usual about her name. ‘Bit of a mouthful. Callie for short.’

‘Lovely to meet you, Calliope.’ He peered behind her. ‘Is that your case? Let me carry it in. I’ve just put the kettle on. Would you like tea?’

Callie nodded. She followed him along the stone flagged hall into a sunny kitchen-diner-family room.

Jonathan deposited her case at the bottom of a steep set of stairs and began making tea.

He made it the old-fashioned way using a teapot.

For some weird reason, this reassured her a little.

She doubted axe murderers bothered warming the pot first.

‘There’s scones and jam too. Would you like some?’ He nodded towards the wicker basket on the work surface. ‘It’s a pretty impressive welcome pack.’

‘Just tea please.’ She perched on a stool, one foot on the floor, ready to run if necessary. She was hot, tired and irritated. Why should she run? She’d booked the cottage. He should be the one to move out!

Jonathan eyed her. Putting the tea things on the breakfast bar he said kindly, ‘Look, you drink your tea and I’ll phone Miss Grosvenor. I’ll have to go outside though: it’s the only place I can get a decent signal.’

Callie concentrated on pouring tea, ridiculously close to tears. She’d been looking forward to visiting Lullbury Bay for ages.

As she drank, she watched Jonathan in the back garden. With his silvering hair and smooth suntanned skin Frida would declare him a hottie. Her daughter was always on at her to find a man. Callie could hear one or two words of the conversation float through the open French doors.

‘Can you hear me now?’ His voice rose. ‘Yes, the reception is poor. We’ve got a bit of a situation here.’

Judging by his gesticulating the conversation wasn’t going his way.

She wondered who had booked first. Surely that person would have priority.

Hoping it was her, she gazed at Jonathan, regretting that she would have to spoil his holiday.

He seemed okay. Impeccable manners. Kind too.

He didn’t have to take on sorting the mess out.

The tea helped restore her reason. She found a tiny downstairs loo decorated in seaside creams and blues, splashed icy water on her face and dragged a comb through her hair.

Her curls were already frizzing; they always did at the seaside.

She pulled a face at herself reflected in the mirror.

Red hair and freckles didn’t always do heat well.

One reason she avoided places like Ibiza.

The cottage, immaculately decorated, had its walls filled with art prints.

An eclectic mix with no apparent theme, Gauguin mingled with Botticelli and her favourite Georgia O’Keeffe.

It intrigued her. She’d expected the usual but anonymous sea views or cartoon seagulls.

Returning to the kitchen, she felt much more in control by the time Jonathan came in.

He flung himself onto the sand-coloured sofa, drank his tea down in one and looked Callie in the eye, pulling a face. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad?’

She was intrigued to see his hand shook ever so slightly as it gripped his mug. Maybe he was more rattled by the situation than he was letting on? ‘That bad, eh? I’ll take the good first.’ She managed a laugh, warming to him.

‘The good news is Miss Grosvenor is appalled at her mistake and is refunding all our costs.’

‘But?’

‘She has no other cottages available and doubts there is anything else around.’

Callie sank back against her stool. ‘It being August.’

He nodded. ‘Apparently, there’s a huge art festival on, it’s Lifeboat Week and there’s some kind of food event on too. Lullbury Bay is rammed.’

‘One reason I’ve come,’ Callie explained. ‘For the Art Festival. I’m an art teacher.’ She poured them both more tea and took a fresh mug to him. Settling on the opposite sofa, she asked, ‘Why are you here?’

‘My youngest sister lives here. My niece is getting christened tomorrow. Our family have rented a house further up the hill.’

‘No room for you, Jonathan?’ she tried not to sound too hopeful.

He chuckled. ‘Please, it’s Johnny. Jonathan’s a real mouthful.

And, don’t get me wrong, I love my family dearly.

’ He winced. ‘I have four sisters. Between them they have nine children. Plus my parents and assorted aunts and uncles.’ He looked out at the peaceful garden. ‘Thought I’d get more work done here.’

‘Oh, so this isn’t just a holiday for you?’

‘No, I’m staying on after the party tomorrow.’ He shot her a look. ‘Or was hoping to. I write travel articles,’ he added. ‘I’m here to write about the resurgence of the British seaside holiday.’

‘Sounds more exciting than being a teacher.’

‘Judging from my sisters’ children,’ he said, with a grin, ‘I’d say being a teacher is quite exciting enough!’

Callie laughed again, this time more freely. She felt herself begin to relax. Jonathan – Johnny – was nice. An idea was beginning to form. She planned on being out quite a lot. Maybe…

Uncannily he picked up on her thoughts. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve been thinking.

There are two bedrooms upstairs, each with its own en suite.

Instead of us wasting time looking for other accommodation, why don’t we share?

I’ll be at my sister’s so not here much and, as I don’t cook, the kitchen will be yours.

Let me show you upstairs and you’ll see. ’

He hauled Callie’s suitcase up the narrow stairs. Although the cottage was smaller upstairs, there was a wide landing, with two doors facing one another. Johnny flung one open.

‘Yours.’ He dropped the case by the wardrobe and invited her to the window. ‘How could you resist a view like this? My room has the same.’

Callie gazed out and gasped. The cottage looked down over the steep slope to the harbour below.

To her left she could see Lullbury Bay’s long sandy beach, the cliffs which led east and a panorama of sea and sky gleaming an unending blue, stretching out to the horizon.

She couldn’t give up this view. And it seemed unfair to ask Johnny to.

‘Your bathroom’s through there and there are locks on the bedroom doors. You’ll be quite safe.’

Callie didn’t think she needed locks to reassure her, although she supposed it would be sensible to lock herself in.

Johnny Starling was, after all, a complete stranger.

The name flickered across her memory. Something about it was familiar.

Shaking the thought off, she realised he was waiting for her response.

‘Sold,’ she said and turned to him, her eyes shining.

‘It’s all I thought it would be. I’d be mad to try to find something else. ’

He met her grin with a warm one of his own. ‘Deal. You know, somehow, I think we’ll be fine together.’

As she stared up at him and into his vivid grey eyes, sparkling with humour, she heard Frida’s voice again. Mum, he’s such a silver fox!