He would’ve known Becky anywhere. The woman standing in front of him was simply a taller, comfortingly plump and more mature version of that little girl. The long dark hair that used to reach halfway down her back was cut short and he spotted a few greys. They shared the same slightly long nose as their father, although Gage’s was a little more prominent. Faint lines feathered the edges of her mouth and eyes, but he suspected they were caused by frequent laughter, unlike his own.
‘Oh, my lord.’ Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. ‘Gage? Gage, is it really you?’ She grabbed his arm. ‘Come in, do.’ Becky half dragged him over the step and next thing he knew, she was hugging him so hard he could barely breathe. After loosening her grip, she held him at arm’s length. ‘Where’ve you been all this time, my love?’
Tears stung his eyes and blurred his vision.
‘I’ll put the kettle on, then you can tell me everything.’
‘It’s a long story.’ His gaze swept cautiously around. ‘Are your family home?’ Gage hoped she’d cotton on that he wasn’t up for unburdening himself in front of strangers.
‘No. For once I’ve got the place to myself.’ Becky’s warm chuckle filled the air. ‘Miracles will never cease. My hubby, Paul, got called out on a job and the kiddies are scattered to the winds this afternoon.’
‘How many do you have?’
‘Four,’ she said proudly. ‘Two girls and two boys. Emily’s the oldest — she’s just turned eighteen. Danny is sixteen. Ollie’s fourteen and little Lily is thirteen. They keep me busy!’ A curious look came his way. ‘You got any family of your own?’
Gage shook his head. He nervously ran a hand over his closely cropped hair. After twenty years of regulation haircuts, he hadn’t adjusted to the idea that the sky wouldn’t fall in if he failed to stick to his fortnightly trim.
Another perceptive stare landed his way. ‘Are you hungry? My vultures left enough from our Sunday roast that I could easily make you up a plate.’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
Memories flooded back as he trailed behind Becky and noticed how few changes she’d made to the house. The patterned carpet was a little more faded, but the plain cream walls, while the same colour, appeared to have recently been treated to a fresh coat of paint. The old-fashioned brown furniture, once of decent quality, couldn’t be given away these days. Scattered around was the detritus of family life. Trainers kicked off and left where they fell, and video-game controllers strewn over a scratched coffee table.
‘Sit down and I’ll stick that kettle on.’
Gage suppressed a smile when she opened an old biscuit tin and dumped a pile of scones on a plate, before opening the fridge to pull out a tub of clotted cream and a jar of jam.
‘Help yourself.’ It was an order, not an offer. This didn’t count as making him proper food, this was Cornish hospitality, and if he didn’t eat she’d be offended. ‘You’d better start talking. I don’t know how long we’ll have without being bothered.’ Worry lines furrowed her brow. Her unadulterated pleasure at seeing him again was starting to fray as the possible repercussions of Gage’s arrival sank in.
Chapter Two
Tamara let the heated discussion swirl around her. Tonight, her mind wasn’t onWuthering Heightsbut her own troubles. She had hoped to keep her job crisis to herself for a while yet, especially as Pixie had sworn her to secrecy until the official brewery announcement was made next month. But they hadn’t accounted for Vernon Bull and his network of informants. It irritated the curmudgeonly village shopkeeper no end that his premises were considered the gossip hub of Penworthal, but that didn’t stop him eavesdropping with admirable efficiency. Added to this, he was a member of the parish council, another source of gossip disguised as conscientious service to the local community.
The upcoming changes to The Rusty Anchor were apparently public knowledge. Tamara’s phone had started ringing non-stop once the news had travelled around her friends, until she’d been forced to turn it off to save her sanity.
But she’d had no choice about facing them all tonight. They usually held their book-club meeting on the first Tuesday of every month, but when half the group had been laid low by a nasty bug that had swept through the village, they’d been forced to postpone it for a fortnight. So far tonight, she’d managed to stay brisk and cheerful when anyone raised the subject, but her resolve would melt away if anyone was too sympathetic.
‘If Evelyn catches you daydreaming, you’ll get a rap on the knuckles.’ Laura nudged her elbow.
Their leader (although she bristled when they called her that), Evelyn Taylor, was still every inch the teacher. Both the village primary school and Evelyn were now retired, but the former headteacher’s steely gaze could still put the fear of God in her former pupils.
Melissa, the sole American among them, was the only one who hadn’t grown up in Penworthal, but it didn’t make her any less vulnerable to Evelyn’s expectations. Their seven-strong group had started about two years ago as a way to ease Melissa back into socialising after the death of her first husband. Its tongue-in-cheek name, Back of Beyond, referred to Cornwall’s geographical remoteness, and the group had become even tighter after going through a lot together. Now there was nothing they wouldn’t do for each other.
‘How’s Josephine?’ Tamara asked her friend.
‘She’s walking now and getting into everything. Mum’s already warned me we’ll have to watch her at Christmas or she’ll have the decorations off the tree in no time.’ Laura’s mild exasperation was totally put on. She worshipped her little girl, the miracle baby she’d never thought she’d have. ‘Barry’s ever so good with her. Got the patience of a saint, he has. He’s working all hours so I can stay home with her until she’s a bit older. Hopefully then I’ll get my old job at the nursery school back and things will be easier.’ She yawned. ‘This sofa’s so comfortable I’ll fall asleep in a minute. What’re you going to do when Pixie—’
‘Tamara. Laura. Are the two of you “yeses” or “nos”?’ Evelyn’s piercing stare fixed on them.
A prickle of heat raced up Tamara’s neck and she didn’t need a mirror to know she was bright red. Laura looked equally flustered.
Each year the club picked a theme, and this year it was books that’d been adapted for film or TV but hadn’t been read by many club members. They were discussing the adaptations too, to see how faithful, or not, they were to the book.
‘We didn’t quite catch the question.’
‘You do surprise me. I’m doing a poll to find out who is glad they’ve now readWuthering Heights, or re-read in some cases, and who prefers what I would describe as the more sanitisedversions beloved of cinema and television.’ The neatly phrased question made it clear where her sympathies lay. ‘It’s a mystery to me how they’ve managed to turn Heathcliff, who was a deeply disturbed man, into a romantic hero. An absolute abomination in my opinion.’
‘I thought the book was proper creepy,’ Laura said decisively. ‘I saw it once on the telly and had nightmares for a week. Didn’t make me want to go to those bleak Yorkshire moors either. Kate Bush’s song was good though.’
