Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles
The Driftwood Inn
Phillipa Ashley

HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

The News Building

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in ebook format by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Phillipa Ashley 2017

Cover illustration © Robyn Neild

Cover design © Alison Groom

Phillipa Ashley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008259792

Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008257309

Version: 2017-08-23

For my wonderful mum and dad

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Author Note: Where Are the ‘Little Cornish Isles’?

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Keep Reading …

Also by Phillipa Ashley

About the Publisher

Author Note: Where are the ‘Little Cornish Isles’?

The Isles of Scilly are one of my favourite places in the world – not that I’ve travelled that much of the world but I’ve been lucky enough to visit a few locations renowned for their stunning coastlines, including Grenada, St Lucia, Sardinia, Corsica and Southern Australia. There are some beautiful beaches in all of these places but I think the white sands and jewel-like seas of St Mary’s, St Martin’s, St Agnes, Tresco and Bryher are equally, if not more, breathtaking than any of those exotic hotspots.

From the moment I first glimpsed Scilly from a tiny Skybus aircraft in September 2014, I was smitten. From the air, the isles look like a necklace of emerald gems fringed by sparkling sands, set in a turquoise, jade and sapphire lagoon. (Just remember that we’re in the chilly Atlantic, thirty miles west of Cornwall and that it can rain and the fog can roll in. Take your wellies, walking boots and umbrella as well as your bikini!)

Within half an hour of setting foot on the ‘Main Island’, St Mary’s, I knew that one day I had to set a novel there. However, if you go looking for Gull Island, St Piran’s, St Saviour’s, Petroc or any of the people, pubs or businesses featured in this series, I’m afraid you won’t find them. They’re all products of my imagination. While I’ve set some of the scenes on St Mary’s, almost all of the organisations mentioned in the series are completely fictional and I’ve had to change aspects of the ‘real’ Scilly to suit my stories.

On saying that, if you visit Scilly I hope you will find stunning landscapes, welcoming pubs and cafés, pretty flower farms and warm, hardworking communities very like the ones you’ll read about in these books. I’ll leave it to you, the reader, to decide where Scilly ends and the Little Cornish Isles begin.

Phillipa x

Prologue

18 October

Maisie Samson was the only living soul on Gull Island. At least, that’s how it felt as she padded over the sand towards the silver-smooth waters of the Petroc channel that morning. Behind her, the Driftwood Inn basked in the first rays of autumn sunlight at the top of the beach. The rising sun brought out the pink in the granite walls of the pub that Maisie had returned home to eight months previously.

A cormorant dried its wings on a sandbar in the middle of the narrow channel that separated Gull Island from its neighbour, Petroc Island. Rubbing her arms to warm herself, Maisie picked her way between the bleached sticks of driftwood that gave the inn its name. In the damp sand, tiny shells glimmered in the sunlight, uncovered by the retreating tide.

Letting the chilly wavelets nibble at her toes, she turned back to look at the inn. The curtains were still drawn in the windows of the flat over the pub. Last night, the bar was rocking with a folk band, and Ray and Hazel Samson were having a well-earned lie-in.

Despite falling into her bed at half-past midnight, Maisie had woken early and decided to go for a swim while she had the beach to herself. Hers were the only footprints leading down the beach and probably the first ones to be made on any beach on the whole of Gull Island today. That was something, wasn’t it? To be alone for a few minutes in a busy overcrowded world? No matter what had happened over the past year, she wouldn’t swap places with anyone this morning.

She poked a toe into the water, took a deep breath and waded in, huffing and cursing. The sea might look like the Caribbean, but this was still the Atlantic. Ignoring the chilly bite of water at her waist, Maisie took a deep breath, splashed water over herself. Bloody hell …

One. Two. Three.

Argh. She couldn’t feel her fingers or toes. Oh God, why did she do this? And why was it always so much colder than she expected?

As the initial shock subsided, Maisie switched from a frantic doggy paddle to a steady breaststroke. She didn’t bother with goggles; she was no Rebecca Adlington, and goggles would have defeated the object of her swim, which was to take in her surroundings. To have a few precious moments of peace before a frantic Saturday running the Driftwood.

It was hard to believe that Christmas was only two months away. How different this one would be: the first in eight years that she’d spend with her family. Relatively relaxed compared to being rushed off her feet running the big chain pub near St Austell where she’d been manager until the start of the year. Not that she’d minded working hard. In fact, she’d always loved her job, but last Christmas Day had been the worst she’d ever known.

Which made Maisie even more determined to enjoy Christmas Day with her own family. Unlike the mainland pub, the Driftwood would be closed on the 25th. Hazel Samson was dying to share the traditional full-on turkey dinner with all the trimmings, and Ray was itching to drag the tree and decorations out of his shed at the back of the pub.

Her parents were treating the coming festive season as if Maisie was fourteen, not coming up for forty, but Maisie didn’t mind. She knew they were eager to give her a proper Samson Christmas after spending nearly a decade with just a snatched phone or Skype call while Maisie lay exhausted in her flat after making everyone else’s day special.

The raw pain of her last Christmas Day had faded a little, but it reared up at unexpected times. She tried to focus on her swim and the good things in her life now … friends and family, the Driftwood and the beautiful place she lived in.

As Maisie swam up and down parallel to the shore, she spotted a young black Labrador romping out of the grassy dunes and onto the sand on the opposite side of the Petroc channel. Even from a hundred metres away, she could tell the excitable hound was Hugo Scorrier’s dog, Basil. Seconds later, Hugo himself appeared, in his trademark green wellies and a waxed jacket. He threw a large stick for the dog and Maisie caught a snatch of him shouting, ‘Fetch, Basil!’ above the gentle swoosh of the waves.

Basil scampered around, obviously having no intention of getting his paws wet. He shot off along the shoreline towards Petroc Island’s tiny harbour where Hugo’s gleaming motor yacht, the Kraken, was berthed alongside the quay. The Samsons kept a motorboat too, an old sixteen-footer that kept them from relying completely on the ferries between the islands. However, the Puffin was nothing like the smart vessels moored off Petroc’s quayside. The quay was lined with chic pastel fishermen’s ‘cottages’ that no real fishermen had lived in for decades. Petroc Island was now a resort run by the Scorrier family and the cottages had long been converted into plush holiday villas, galleries and eateries.

Maisie turned back towards the shore, feeling a current of slightly warmer water pushing against her and the breeze quickening against her face. The Driftwood was opposite her again, with its terrace still in deep shadow. Throughout the spring and summer, gig boat racers, yachties, tourists and locals alike flocked to the isles and the Driftwood itself. Even now, in late October, Gull Island was still buzzing with day-trippers, holidaymakers and bird watchers hoping to catch a glimpse of the rare birds that were often blown off course to Scilly on their way to Africa.

Soon the sun would rise higher and the terrace would be filled with people in shirt-sleeves enjoying their last taste of late-autumn sun before heading back to the mainland and all its pre-Christmas mayhem.

Maisie was still far enough out to see around the small rocky headland to the east of the pub, towards the Gull Island jetty. The sturdy quay had been there for a century and was recently refurbished thanks to a generous donation from Hugo, damn him. Without the two jetties – one near the Driftwood and the other on the far side of the island – the tripper boats and Gull Island ferries wouldn’t be able to land, and as they brought vital customers and supplies to the residents, perhaps she should thank Hugo for that.

The swell lifted her gently and snatches of Basil’s joyful barks reached her ears as she turned again and swam parallel with the shore. A clock chimed from the tiny church on the north side of Gull. Eight-thirty. Maisie was suddenly aware of how cold she was. She’d been out for twenty minutes, which was surely enough for anyone in these chilly waters, even Rebecca Adlington.

She lingered for a moment and trod water, taking one last glance at Petroc and at Basil chasing into the waves to retrieve Hugo’s stick before dropping it at his master’s feet. At least someone loved Hugo …

Basil shook himself and Hugo leapt back as he got a soaking. Maisie smiled to herself. The day had started well and who knew what it had in store. Maybe a tall, dark, handsome stranger might walk into the pub and sweep her off her feet. The trouble was, a tall, dark – or any other type of – handsome stranger was the last person she wanted to walk into her life again.

Chapter 1

‘Another day in paradise, eh? You are so lucky to live here.’

It was almost lunchtime and Maisie’s customer-friendly smile was firmly in place as she handed a large G&T to the customer waiting at the bar. Maisie guessed the woman was in her early fifties, but her designer skinny jeans, Converses and butter-soft leather jacket made her look ten years younger. With her carefully downplayed cut-glass accent and expensive ‘off-duty’ outfit, Maisie could guess where she was staying.

‘Tell me about it,’ she said, pulling a pint of bitter for the woman’s partner, who, she assumed, was enjoying the midday warmth on the Driftwood’s terrace.

The woman let out a sigh of pleasure. ‘Look at that amazing sky, and the colours in the sea are just to die for. Harry and I were only just saying how much Scilly reminds us of Sardinia or Antigua. Honestly, you could absolutely be in the Grenadines and who would possibly believe it was only eight weeks to Christmas?’

‘It is hard to believe,’ said Maisie, stopping the tap at just the right moment when the glass was full and topped with a thin layer of froth.

‘Although I expect it can get terribly claustrophobic if you have to live here full-time.’ The woman lowered her voice. ‘I expect you all know each other’s business.’

Maisie placed the beer on the drip mat next to the G&T and adopted the same conspiratorial tone. ‘That’s so true. There are no secrets on Gull Island, no matter how much we’d like to keep them.’ The posh woman was right: nothing and no one escaped notice in such a small and tight-knit community. People tended to know if you went to the loo before you’d even locked the bathroom door, but Maisie had had this conversation a hundred times before.

With a knowing smile, the woman nodded as if she’d been let in on a secret too and tapped the side of her nose. Maisie deposited notes in the till and handed over some change.

‘Oh, no, keep that,’ the customer protested, waving her G&T airily.

‘Thank you. I’ll add it to the staff tips box. How are you enjoying your break on Petroc?’ Maisie asked.

‘How clever of you to guess we’re on Petroc. Yes, we are enjoying it. It’s half term and we’ve rented the sweetest cottage for our daughter and the grandchildren. Well, I say it’s a cottage but there are five bedrooms.’ She laughed. ‘Hubby and I are on babysitting duty tonight while Phoebe and her husband have dinner in the pub.’ The woman laughed. ‘Not that the Rose and Crab is just a pub these days of course, now it’s been awarded its Michelin star. My husband and I tried it last night. Gosh, it was a-mazing. The turbot was incredible and don’t get me started on that brill. Of course, I don’t mind sharing cheesy pasta with the little ones tonight. It’s just so lovely to spend some quality time together with Saffron and baby Tom. They live so far away.’

Maisie mustered all her patience, aware that a small queue was forming behind the woman. ‘I hope you all have a lovely time,’ she said. ‘You’ll stay for lunch with us hopefully?’

The woman’s eyes widened. ‘You do lunch here?’

‘Yes. We can’t match up to the gourmet food at the Rose and Crab, of course, but we have local lobster salad on special today and we can rustle up some fresh crab sandwiches. You could eat them in the upstairs bistro or outside if it stays warm.’

‘Yum. Local seafood, you say? How lovely. We’ll check out the menu.’ With a happy smile on her face, the holidaymaker picked up the drinks and turned away. Through the open front door, the sunlight danced on the turquoise water of the channel and the white sand flats. The woman sighed dreamily. ‘Gosh, this view is just divine.’

With a polite smile, Maisie turned to her next punter as the woman carried the drinks out to the terrace. He was a bearded sixty-something in a cycling helmet and eye-wateringly tight Lycra shorts. ‘And what can I get you, sir?’ she asked, trying not to laugh, very glad that the counter hid the lower half of his body.

For the next half an hour, Maisie handed over glasses of wine and foamy pints of the local brew, relieved to see the inn so busy this late in the year. She’d taken over the Driftwood in February when her parents had decided to semi-retire. Hazel and Ray Samson could still be found behind the bar sometimes, or helping in the upstairs bistro, but Maisie was now in charge. She made the decisions and did the hiring and firing – mostly hiring, thank God. She set the prices, broke up the arguments (also rare) and presided over the Driftwood with a smile on her face, even when her feet were killing her and her heart was breaking. Always a smile. No one wanted a gloomy hostess; the customers were there to enjoy themselves and enjoy the glorious view, whether they were tourists or locals.

Fewer than a hundred people lived on the island year round and most of them at some time popped into the pub. Some had been born and bred on Scilly, while a few were ‘incomers’ who’d moved to this isolated corner of Britain in search of a more peaceful life.

While she helped to clear glasses and serve drinks, Maisie chatted to Will Godrevy from the Flower Farm on St Saviour’s island who had popped in for a half a Guinness while he was visiting Javid, who ran the Gull Island campsite. Will’s sister, Jess, was Maisie’s best mate, but Jess was busy today, helping her team send out the first crop of narcissi to customers on the mainland. Maisie expected to see Javid at some point when he came to collect his sandwich or pasty from the bistro.

Maisie had already had a quick word with Una and Phyllis Barton, the sisters who owned the aptly named Hell Cove Cottages on the rugged western coast of Gull Island, which was open to the full brunt of the Atlantic storms. They’d sat on the terrace with a coffee while they waited for the island ferry to St Mary’s. Every Saturday morning, come hell or high water, they did their shopping in Hugh Town after they’d finished the breakfast service at Hell Cove.

Then there was Archie Pendower, an elderly artist from St Piran’s island to the north of Gull. If the weather was as good as it was today, and Archie was feeling inspired, he might sail across to the Driftwood. Thinking of the growing gallery of paintings that adorned the first floor bistro, Maisie smiled to herself. Sooner or later, Archie might settle his bill – but not in cash. The Driftwood already had a dozen of his paintings and Maisie reckoned they were worth a lot more, financially and creatively, than a few quid. Such bartering would never have been allowed in the big pub where she used to work, which was another reason why Maisie loved the Driftwood, even if its lax and quirky ways would never make her family rich.

Time flew by while Maisie made her ‘figure of eight’ between the bistro, bar, kitchen and terrace, checking that everything was running smoothly and helping out where needed. With only a handful of seasonal staff compared to the big pub she had managed, she was used to mucking in on any task and loved it despite the long hours.

She was halfway through serving pints to some kayakers when a new customer blocked the doorway, obviously deciding whether he could be bothered to queue up. He shone out from among the khaki-clad twitchers like an exotic toucan among a group of sparrows. Dark-blond hair brushed the collar of his faded blue-and-yellow hooped polo shirt. His navy cargo shorts showed off a pair of muscular calves the colour of tea and he wore olive Goretex hiking boots. The frame of his red rucksack brushed the door lintel and blocked out the view of the terrace and sea completely.

He ducked under the wooden door beam and stepped into the shade of the bar. Maisie’s breath caught in her throat. For a few seconds she couldn’t quite believe her eyes.

Now she was certain.

It was him.

So what was he doing on Gull Island?

Chapter 2

With most people she’d met before, Maisie might have called out a ‘hello’ or waved a greeting. The problem was she didn’t know this man’s name nor did she want to draw attention to herself – she was still flustered and shocked at his appearance in her pub.

She might not know the exotic guy’s name but she could never forget how amazing his lips had felt on hers when they’d shared a passionate kiss outside the Galleon Inn on St Mary’s the previous week. She’d nicknamed him ‘The Blond’ in her mind and tried to forget about him, knowing she’d been tipsy and that she’d never see him again.

Her hands fumbled with the change she’d just taken off the previous customer, but she shut the till drawer and tried to concentrate on serving the person in the queue in front of him.

Who had she been kidding? She hadn’t forgotten about him. How could she? They’d bumped into each other at a food festival being held at the pub. She’d gone along on her own, really to check out how the event was going with a view to running one at the Driftwood. She’d meant to stay for a couple of drinks, make mental notes and then leave, but the Blond had struck up a conversation with her.

Or maybe she’d spoken to him? Her memory of how it had all started was fuzzy, especially as a couple of drinks had turned into more. Somehow, they’d ended up walking away from the pub up the beach. She didn’t remembering exchanging names – bloody hell, she must have been tiddly – but she did know that names hadn’t seemed to matter as they’d wandered away from the pub towards the headland at Porthmellon.

Apart from a brief word about him travelling around the UK on holiday and her working in a bar, neither of them had seemed to care about pasts or futures. They’d sat for a while on the rocks by the headland, watching the sun sinking and making the odd comment about the festival before the conversation had trailed off.

He’d taken her hand and it had happened. She didn’t know who’d instigated the kiss. She only knew that their lips had come together and that it had been amazing.

Too amazing. The feelings it had aroused had scared her. She’d backed away, laughing and mumbling about having had too much to drink. Without a goodbye, she’d almost run back up the beach and joined the tourists in the streets of Hugh Town.

She’d bought a black coffee from the deli-café and found a quiet corner in which to drink it, dreading he’d walk in and find her. She’d sobered up fast. If she’d been herself – watchful and on guard – she’d never have kissed a stranger whose name she didn’t even know … and never have let herself respond so rashly, holding on to his waist, pressing against him, drinking in that kiss.

‘Thanks.’

Smile fixed in place, Maisie watched the customer turn away, pint in hand, and the Blond approach the bar. He shrugged off his backpack, and dug out his phone. Perhaps he hadn’t recognised her. He was next in line after a kayaker who ordered several pints of beer.

Maisie tried to focus on pulling the pints. There was too much head on the last one and the foamy beer overflowed onto the drip tray.

She gave an apologetic grimace at the kayaker. ‘Sorry.’

He sipped the excess froth. ‘No problem.’

She gave him his change and he joined his mates outside.

The Blond was next.

Maisie flashed her customer smile. ‘Good afternoon, sir. What can I get you?’

He smiled back. ‘Coke, please.’

‘Pint or half. Diet or full-fat?’

‘I don’t do diet anything and a pint will do nicely. I’m dry as a drover’s dog.’

That accent. It struck her again, as it had the day at the food festival. He was every bit as sexy as she remembered: and she’d tried very hard to forget him over the past few days.

‘Ice?’ she asked.

‘What do you think?’ His blue eyes, not far off the colour of the deepest part of the Petroc channel, sparkled with amusement and mischief. Maisie could have done with some ice herself to cool her down.

Maisie scooped the cubes into a pint glass. ‘Where’s the accent from? Sydney?’ she teased.

He pulled a face. ‘You have to be joking. Wouldn’t be seen dead within a hundred miles of the place.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Try again.’

‘Adelaide?’ said Maisie, testing him to see how much of their conversation he remembered. She’d joked that her knowledge of Aussie cities was confined to having to listen to endless hours of Test Match Special droning out from her dad’s radio.

He winced. ‘Too hot for me and I’m not impressed by the wine. I’m from Melbourne. Sunshine, penguins and tennis.’

‘And Fosters,’ Maisie shot back.

‘Hey, there has to be a downside to every dream location.’

Maisie rested his glass on the drip mat but he didn’t pick it up. Their eyes met over the top of the bar. The look was at his instigation so she felt duty bound, as the hostess, to return it, even if gazing into those roguish blue eyes had the same effect on her as it had the first time. ‘I bet no one gets the better of you, Maisie Samson,’ he said so quietly that even she could barely hear.

She snapped out of her momentary trance. ‘How do you know my name? Has the Gull Island grapevine been at it again?’ she said, wondering if he’d made enquiries about her after she’d hurried away from him. She knew now why she’d run away. Having him here in the flesh in front of her brought all those emotions flooding back: desire, lust, longing. Those feelings had overwhelmed her. It was too soon to feel so strongly attracted to a man again … Too soon after losing Keegan. Too soon after losing everything.

The Blond was cool as a cucumber. He grinned and flipped his thumb over his shoulder. ‘No grapevine. It’s over the door.’

‘That could have been my mum’s name.’ In fact, her father’s name had hung there until she’d taken over the new licence earlier in the year.

‘What’s your mum’s name?’

‘Hazel.’

‘Nah. You’re no Hazel.’

‘What do you mean, “I’m no Hazel”?’ said Maisie, fascinated despite the fact that a couple of the regulars had started to pay attention to her conversation with the Blond.

Almost as if he sensed they were being watched, he lowered his voice but still made no move to pick up his drink. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Hazel. Sure it’s a very nice name and your mother is a lovely woman, but Maisie … hints at mischief. Trouble.’

Maisie rolled her eyes while her heart thumped. ‘Trouble for you if you keep on with the cheesy lines.’

‘Cheesy?’ He laughed out loud. ‘I’m the customer here. Aren’t I always right?’

‘You’re forgetting the other sign.’

‘And what sign would that be?’

She pointed to a small plaque hanging off a nail on the brickwork next to her. ‘The landlady’s never wrong.’

The smile made his eyes crinkle at the corners. Close up, she could see a few more lines on his face, around the eyes and on his forehead. She reckoned he was about her own age, or a couple of years younger.

Maisie heard the nerves in her laugh, and inwardly cursed herself. What the hell had got into her, flirting with him again and reacting like a schoolgirl? He’d probably be gone in five minutes, five seconds, in fact, when he took the Coke outside onto the terrace. She didn’t dare assume he’d sought her out and she didn’t want him to have come looking for her. She wasn’t interested in a man and definitely not one charming enough to tempt her into a passionate kiss on half an hour’s acquaintance. She felt suddenly embarrassed for appearing to fall for his blarney, so she told him the price of the drink and nodded at the door. ‘I expect you’ll want to take it outside, sir, and enjoy the last of the sunshine while you can.’

She glanced over his shoulder as if she’d seen more customers enter, signalling politely but firmly she wasn’t interested in anything beyond the cash for his Coke – saving herself from rejection, even of the smallest kind, because she’d had it up to here with types like the Blond. She’d met plenty of men like him before, and that included her ex, Keegan.

She didn’t even want to know this one’s name.

The Blond handed over some coins and took his drink. ‘Keep the change,’ he said cheerfully, obviously fine at being passed over for an imaginary customer.

‘Thanks. Enjoy your day, sir.’

Maisie popped the coins in the RNLI tin in full view of him and turned her back to polish some glasses that didn’t need it. The buzz of chatter rose as more customers walked through the front door. She turned back ready to greet them, joking about the late ‘heat wave’ that had hit Scilly.

When she finally made it out onto the terrace again to take a break, the Blond had gone.

The disappointment was like being plunged into cold water on a sweltering day but Maisie told herself to get a grip. She should be relieved he’d walked away this time and that she wouldn’t have to see him again. She wasn’t sure she would be so strong the next time he came across her path.

Fortunately she was kept busy as the pre-ferry rush started. Maisie’s parents and her seasonal barman joined her behind the bar and they served up a constant stream of cold drinks, coffees and teas. Restaurant customers from the bistro ordered after-lunch liqueurs and took them onto the terrace. Maisie was pinned behind the bar, the flood of people never letting up until finally she heard the warning toot of the ferry as it moored at the jetty.

Five minutes later, the Driftwood was as deserted as the Mary Celeste.

Chapter 3

Abandoned glasses, bottles, packets of crisps and dirty plates littered the tables in the bar area. Maisie wiped her forehead. Her feet throbbed and her arms ached. It had been non-stop pretty much all day apart from the few minutes she’d spent sparring with the Blond.

‘I need a breath of air,’ she told Debbie, the Kiwi bistro manager who was setting off on her long journey home later that week now that the season was almost over. Maisie was already wondering how she was going to manage once the staff had all left. It might be the quiet season but there was still a ton of essential maintenance work to get through on top of opening the pub over the weekends and for special events – not to mention Christmas. She’d already resigned herself to being just as busy in the off-season unless she could get some of the locals to lend a hand with the repair work and some shifts behind the bar.

Grabbing a bottle of spring water, she slipped out of the side door for a breather after the rush, and to give herself time to think after her encounter with the Blond. The terrace still held a few people, the odd local and a party of students from the campsite finishing pints and eating their own picnics. A couple of middle-aged yachties and a few clients from a local holiday home lingered over their G&Ts. She recognised some of them and nodded.

She considered having a sneaky fag, as she had every day at around this time since she’d given up ten years before. Then decided, again, that she could manage without one today and walked across the narrow road to the beach in front of the inn. She’d quit long ago but had lapsed back for a few weeks after Keegan had left. She’d got a grip on it again now, fingers crossed.

As the afternoon drew to a close, the sun sank lower over the sea. Rocks glistening with bright green seaweed cast long shadows over the shell-pink sand. Maisie selected a dry perch on her favourite rock, which was tucked away out of sight of the inn but had a great view of the Petroc channel. She kicked off her Skechers and buried her toes in the cool sand. Yachts glided past, or bobbed at anchor over sandbars. On a spring tide, you could wade right across to Petroc Island, where people stood on the battlements of a ruined fort, looking down at the Driftwood.

Petroc had been owned by the Scorrier family for centuries and all of its original buildings had been converted to luxury holiday homes, unlike Gull Island, where most of the buildings were still largely owned by the families who lived there. Most people on Gull just about made enough to get them through the winter, but that was the price of living in paradise, she reminded herself, and the Driftwood provided a living for her and her family, and jobs for a few seasonal staff.

Maisie rested her gaze on the fortified tower across the channel, telling herself to get a grip. She’d accepted that with her fortieth birthday coming up on New Year’s Eve, some things probably weren’t going to happen for her and she should be content with the life she had. She should have known better than to fall for a good-looking smoothie who’d promised her the moon but legged it faster than Usain Bolt just when she needed him.

Her, Maisie Samson, of all people. Streetwise, on-the-ball Maisie who had an answer for everyone and everything. How had she let herself need someone – something – so very badly? How had she been left with a heart that resembled a smashed bag of crisps?

The memories were still painful, even now she’d physically recovered.

On Christmas Day the previous year she’d had everything to look forward to. She was happy living with Keegan, her boyfriend and boss at the brewery, and she was looking forward to the birth of her baby – Little Scrap – in the summer. She’d been thinking about what colour to paint the nursery while she worked in the pub that Christmas Day, and how she could combine her job with looking after the baby once she’d returned from maternity leave. She’d even thought she’d felt him or her kick, though it was too early according to the textbooks.

Within the hour, she was on her way to hospital and, sadly, there had been nothing that could be done to save her baby.

As it was Christmas, her parents hadn’t been able to get a flight over until it was all over. Maisie had told them not to come, and that she’d be fine. Keegan would look after her, she’d told them, thinking that although the pain of grief was agonising, her partner was by her side to comfort her.

A couple of weeks later, Keegan had told her he wanted to end their relationship.

Her parents had been horrified. Her mum had flown in to care for her and her father had immediately asked her to take over at the Driftwood, if she wanted to. They said they would stay on as part-owners and help out when required but Maisie would manage the place and have full responsibility and control of the pub.

Maisie didn’t hesitate to say ‘yes’. She wanted a new start and to leave the unhappy associations behind her, but they hadn’t all been so easy to shake off.

Maybe that was why she’d been so reckless in taking a chance with the Blond on the beach: she’d wanted a moment of escape – a moment of abandon – even if it wasn’t like her.

Who knew?

She stayed a few minutes longer, finishing her water, when she spotted something guaranteed to make her smile. A small and elderly yacht had dropped anchor off shore and a man with a long grey beard was rowing a small RIB towards the shore. Maisie grinned. She’d recognised the yacht as it had sailed into the channel.

She slipped off the rock and hurried forward as the old man reached the shore and jumped into the shallows with a splash. Archie Pendower was as much a part of the landscape of the isles as any rock or tree. He was well over eighty and his work had won a reputation that spread beyond the isles, although you wouldn’t know it to look at the sorry state of the Starfish Studio these days. Like many islanders and many artists, even he found making a living tough. Not that Archie cared about money.

Water soaked the ragged hems of his denim dungarees as Maisie paddled into the water to help him haul out the RIB. He wore a salt-encrusted fisherman’s cap and a chunky jersey with patches on the elbows. Funnily enough, Maisie couldn’t recall ever seeing him wearing any other clothes, although he smelled fresh enough apart from a faint tang of cigars.

‘Hi, Archie. I wasn’t expecting you today,’ she said as they hauled the RIB onto the sand.

Archie grinned. ‘I wasn’t expecting to be here either, but the light is so beautiful. I haven’t painted Petroc from Gull for years and I’m expecting a cracking sunset.’

‘Fen decided to stay at home today?’ Maisie asked, enquiring after Archie’s neighbour and, according to some, ‘lady friend’, although no one had any idea exactly what their relationship was before, during or after Archie’s wife had passed away a decade ago.

‘She’d be bored watching me paint all day and she has a work of her own to complete. She’s giving the bathroom a lick of paint,’ he said with a grin.

‘And have you heard from Jake lately?’

Archie pulled a face. ‘He Skyped me last week from some far-flung place in the south seas. I can’t recall exactly where. Fen’s the one who uses the computer. She came round and set the call up for me.’

‘Do you think he’ll make it home for Christmas?’

‘Who knows? My son and daughter-in-law have asked me to go to them, but I’d rather stay here. Jake wasn’t too sure. He’s not too keen on the isles since that terrible business with his fiancée.’

‘I can understand that,’ said Maisie, reminded of the dreadful day when Jake Pendower – Archie’s grandson – had lost his fiancée in a boating accident off St Piran’s treacherous coast.

‘Awful thing. He’s never got over it, even though it’s been a good few years now. I don’t think he ever will. I’d hoped he’d take over the Starfish Studio from me one day but I don’t hold out much hope of that.’

Archie reached into the boat to lift out his easel and workbox.

‘Will you be setting up on the beach?’ she asked, holding the easel while Archie shrugged a khaki duffel bag onto his lean shoulders.

‘Yes. If I’m not disturbing you.’

‘Oh no. I’d love to stay and watch you paint, but I ought to scoot back to work. Can I get you the usual?’

Archie rubbed his hands together. ‘You know me too well, Maisie. Always oils the creative juices.’

‘I’ll send someone out with a pint.’

‘Put it on my tab,’ said Archie.

Maisie gave a wry smile. Archie’s tab was as old as the hills but he wasn’t such a frequent visitor to the pub these days so she didn’t mind.

‘Are you busy?’ he asked as he set up his easel on a dry patch of sand facing the Petroc channel.

‘For today, yes, but things will be a little quieter after the weekend. I doubt I’ll be able to savour this sunset. I’ll be too busy running the inn and making sure everything’s not going to cock in the restaurant.’

‘You work too hard.’

‘Not as hard as I used to on the mainland. It’s different being your own boss.’

The reminder of the mass exodus of her small but hardworking team made Maisie’s heart sink again. She’d sorely miss Debbie’s energy and enthusiasm. The pot washer, chef and barman were going too, leaving Maisie and her parents plus a couple of locals who might be able to spare the time to help out occasionally over the quiet season. She didn’t need and couldn’t afford to keep all the staff on over the winter.

‘They never stay here these days, the young people,’ said Archie. ‘I was surprised when your mum said you were coming home. Still, some of us old-timers need to stick it out and keep the place limping on, eh?’

‘Yeah. Some of us,’ said Maisie, half amused and half horrified that Archie counted her as an ‘old-timer’. She hadn’t thought of limping on anywhere when she came back to Gull Island; she’d thought of making improvements and securing the future of the Driftwood and helping out her neighbours too, if she could. Archie meant well but he’d added to her wistful mood. Or was it the prospect of winter and dark nights that dampened her spirits? She didn’t like to think it was the tick tick tick of time and her biological clock. Thirty-nine was still young-ish, whatever Archie thought.

She was only human and perhaps a fling with a stranger was exactly what she did need. The lean, rangy figure of the Blond loomed in her mind again, with his tousled hair and laid-back charm. Maisie laughed at herself. He was very likely chatting up some other woman in the pubs of Hugh Town now. Well, good luck to him – and her.

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