THIS SUMMER
CHAPTER ONE
Perfume emanates from the purple and white wildflowers growing on the grassy banks and the morning air is crisp and still as I set off to Seaglass, the restaurant-cum-bar on the beach where I work. On either side of me, the hills seem to climb higher and higher as the road cuts down through the valley, and in the far distance, the Atlantic Ocean comes into view, a deep blue where it hits the horizon. I follow the curve of the road past whitewashed cottages, the pub and the Surf Life-Saving Club before Trevaunance Cove appears in full. The tide is halfway in and the curling, clear aquamarine waves are lapping gently against the creamy-white sand.
Summer has landed and Cornwall is radiant. I feel the hope of it in my bones, as though I might finally be ready to step out of the cold shadow that has lingered over me lately.
My new hair is helping too. I’ve worn my dark hair long ever since I can remember, but yesterday I went to the hairdresser and told her to do whatever she wanted.
Now it swings in waves just shy of my shoulders and Iloveit. I feel like a whole new person, which is exactly what I need.
My thoughts turn to Finn and my mood takes a nosedive, but then a breeze catches my hair and blows it back off myface, almost as though Mother Nature herself is reminding me that it’s time for a fresh start.
As I head up the external staircase to Seaglass, my attention is caught by something unusual down on the beach below. The stream that leads to the ocean has carved myriad tracks out of the sand and someone has dug a number of the rivulets deeper by several inches so that now they look like tree branches forking outwards from a trunk.
I pause so I can better study the art etched into the sand. The tree is leafless, which makes me think of winter. I wonder if it’s winter in the artist’s imagination too. What tools did he or she use to create the work? As a sculptor, I’m interested.
A wave collapses onto the shore and licks over the highest branches. It won’t be long before the tide wipes the canvas clean and I hate the thought of something so beautiful being stolen away before others have had time to appreciate it.
An idea comes to me and I take out my phone and click off a few shots, posting the best of them to Seaglass’s Instagram page, along with the caption, ‘How about a little sand art with your brunch?’
I’m an artist, not a wordsmith, so that will have to do.
Checking my email, I see that I have a new message from Tom Thornton:
Hi Liv,
Just dropping you a line on the off chance that the cottage will be available earlier than 4 – I’m already in Cornwall.
Thanks,
Tom
I sigh. My guests are always trying to secure earlier check-ins.
I type back:
Hi Tom,
You’re welcome to park your car on the drive, but I haven’t had time to clean the place yet as my last guests have only just left. I’m at work so I doubt it will be ready before 4.
Cheers,
Liv
I feel guilty when I see that he sent the message two hours ago. The rules are clear on the website, but I’m so grateful that he booked the cottage for the whole month of June after a last-minute cancellation that I’m thinking maybe I should make an exception for him. I was stressed about how I would fill four weeks outside of the school holidays and then this Tom guy swooped in and saved the day.
I decide to duck out at some point this morning and get the place ready early. I owe him that.
The familiar scent of stale beer and sea-damp mustiness washes over me as I enter Seaglass. I’m the first to arrive, but our chefs, bar and waiting staff won’t be far behind. We run food out of the kitchen and restaurant upstairs, the lower-ground floor is the cellar, and this middle level is all about the chilled bar vibe. On the left are French doors that open on to a balcony and face straight out to sea. And on the right is a dark-wood-panelled bar that takes up about half the length of the wall, with space for a winding open staircase and thebathrooms at the far end. A little along from the main door, perpendicular to the bar, is a performance stage.
My stomach pinches as I stare at this small raised platform, and for a moment, I’m back in the past and Finn is at the mic, his lips cocked in a half-smile, his gaze tangled up with mine.
Will he come back this summer?
Enough.
Behind me, the door clangs open, making me jump. I turn around, expecting to see staff, and instead find a stranger: a tall, broad man carrying a large black rucksack, his hands jammed into the pockets of a dark grey hoodie with the hood pulled up over his head.
