A Will, a Wish...a Proposal

CHAPTER TWO

MAX HADN’T INTENDED to go in all guns blazing. In fact he had entered the bookshop with just two intentions: to pick up the keys to the house his great-aunt had left him and to make it very clear to the domineering Miss Scott that the next step in sorting out his great-aunt’s quixotic will would be at his instigation and in his time frame.

Only he had been wrong-footed at the start. Where was the hearty spinster of his imagination? He certainly hadn’t been expecting this thin, neatly dressed pale girl. She was almost mousy, although there was a delicate beauty in her huge brown eyes, in the neatly brushed sweep of her light brown hair that looked dull at first glance but, he noticed as the sunlight fell on it, was actually a mass of toffee and dark gold.

She didn’t look like a con artist. She looked like the little match girl. Maybe that was the point. Maybe inspiring pity was her weapon. He had thought, assumed, that his co-trustee was an old friend of Great-Aunt Demelza. Not a girl younger than Max himself. Her youth was all too painfully reminiscent of his father’s recent insanity, even if Ellie Scott seemed to be missing some of Mandy’s more obvious attributes.

The silence stretched long, thin, almost unbearable before Ellie broke it. ‘I beg your pardon?’

There was a shakiness in her voice but she stayed her ground, the large eyes fixed on him with painful intensity.

Max was shocked by a rush of guilt. It was like shooting Bambi.

‘I think you heard.’

He was uneasily aware that they had an audience. The angular, tweed-clad old lady he had assumed was Ellie Scott was standing guard by the counter, a duster held threateningly in one hand, her sharp eyes darting expectantly from one to the other like a tennis umpire. He should give her some popcorn and a large soda to help her fully enjoy the show.

‘I was giving you a chance to backtrack or apologise.’

Ellie Scott’s voice had grown stronger, and for the first time he had a chance to notice her pointed chin and firm, straight eyebrows, both suggesting a subtle strength of character.

‘But if you have no intention of doing either than I suggest you leave and come back when you find your manners.’

It was his turn to think he’d misheard. ‘What?’

‘You heard me. Leave. And unless you’re willing to be polite don’t come back.’

Max glared at her, but although there was a slight tremor in her lightly clenched hands Ellie Scott didn’t move. Fine.

He walked back over to the door and wrenched it open. ‘This isn’t over, honey,’ he warned her. ‘I will find out exactly how you manoeuvred your way into my great-aunt’s good graces and I will get back every penny you conned out of her.’

The jaunty bell jangled as he closed the door behind him. Firmly.

The calendar said it was July, but the Cornish weather had obviously decided to play unseasonal and Max, who had left a humid heatwave behind in Connecticut, was hit by a cold gust of wind, shooting straight through the thin cotton of his T-shirt, goose-pimpling his arms and shocking him straight to his bones.

And sweeping the anger clear out of his head.

What on earth had he been thinking? Or, as it turned out, not thinking. Damn. Somehow he had completely misfired.

Max took a deep breath, the salty tang of sea air filling his lungs. He shouldn’t have gone straight into the shop after the long flight and even longer drive from Gatwick airport to this sleepy Cornish corner. Not with the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. Not with the scene with his father still playing through his head.

Who knew what folly his father would commit without Max keeping an eye on him? Where his mother’s anger and sense of betrayal would drag them down to?

But that was their problem. DL Media was his sole concern now.

Max began to wander down the steep, narrow sidewalk. It felt as if he had reached the ends of the earth during the last three hours of his drive through the most western and southern parts of England. A drive that had brought him right here, to the place his great-grandfather had left behind, shaking off his family ties, the blood and memories of the Great War and England, when he had crossed the channel to start a whole new life.

And now Max had ended up back here. Funny how circular life could be...

Pivoting slowly, Max took a moment to see just where ‘here’ was. The briny smell might take him back to holidays spent on the Cape, but Trengarth was as different from the flat dunes of Cape Cod as American football was from soccer.

The small bookshop was one of several higgledy-piggledy terraces on a steep narrow road winding up the cliff. At the top of the cliff, imperiously looking down onto the bay and dominating the smaller houses dotted around it, was a white circular house: his Great-Aunt Demelza’s house. The house she had left to him. A house where hopefully there would be coffee, some food. A bed. A solution.

If he carried on heading down he would reach the seafront and the narrow road running alongside the ocean. Turn left and the old harbour curved out to sea, still filled with fishing boats. All the cruisers and yachts were moored further out. Above the harbour the old fishermen’s cottages were built up the cliff: a riotous mixture of colours and styles.

Turn right and several more shops faced on to the road before it stopped abruptly at the causeway leading to the wide beach where, despite or because of the weather, surfers were bobbing up and down in the waves, looking like small, sleek seals.

Give him an hour and he could join them. He could take a board out...hire a boat. Forget his cares in the cold tang of the ocean.

Max smiled wryly. If only he could. Pretend he was just another American tourist retracing his roots, shrugging off the responsibilities he carried. But, like Atlas, he was never going to be relieved of his heavy burden.

It was a pretty place. And weirdly familiar—although maybe not that weird. After all, his grandfather had had several watercolours of almost exactly this view hanging in his study. Yes, there were definitely worse places to work out a way forward.

Only to do that he needed to get into that large white house. And according to the solicitor he had emailed from the plane, Ellie Scott was holding the keys to that very house. Which meant he was going to have to eat some humble pie. Max was normally quite a fan of pie, but that was not a flavour he enjoyed.

‘Suck it up, Max,’ he muttered to a low-flying seagull, which was eyeing him hopefully. ‘Suck it up.’

He was going to have to go back to the bookshop and start the whole acquaintance again.

* * *

Ellie was doing her best to damp down the dismaying swirl in her stomach and get on with her day.

She hadn’t caved, had she? Hadn’t trembled or wept or tried to pacify him? She had stayed calm and collected and in control. On the outside, at least. Only she knew that right now she wanted nothing more than to sink into the old rocking chair in the corner of the childcare section and indulge in a pathetic bout of tears.

The sneering tone, the cold, scornful expression had triggered far more feelings than she cared to admit. She had spent three years trying to pacify that exact tone, that exact look—and the next three years trying to forget. In just five minutes Max Loveday had brought it all vividly back.

Darn him—and darn her shaky knees and trembling hands, giving away her inner turmoil. She’d thought she was further on than this. Stronger than this.

Ellie had never thought she would be quite so glad for Mrs Trelawney’s presence, but right now the woman was her safety net. While she sat there, busily typing away on her phone, no doubt ensuring that every single person in Trengarth was fully updated on the morning’s events, Ellie had no option but to hold things together.

Instead she switched on the coffee machine and unpacked the cakes she had picked up earlier from the Boat House café on the harbour.

Ellie had always dreamed of a huge bookshop, packed with hidden corners, secret nooks, and supplemented by a welcoming café full of tasty treats. What she had was a shop which, like all the shops in Trengarth, was daintily proportioned. Fitting in all the books she wanted to stock in the snug space was enough of a challenge. A café would be a definite step too far. She had compromised with a long counter by the till heaped with a tempting array of locally made scones and cakes and a state-of-the-art coffee machine. Buying in the cakes meant she didn’t have to sacrifice precious stock space for a kitchen.

It took just a few moments to arrange the flapjacks, Cornish fairing biscuits, brightly coloured cupcakes and scones onto vintage cake stands and cover them with the glass domes she used to keep them fresh.

‘We have walnut, orange and cheese scones.’ She deliberately spoke aloud as she began to chalk up the varieties onto the blackboard she kept propped on the table, hoping Mrs Trelawney would take the hint, stop texting and start working. ‘The cupcakes are vanilla and the big cake is...let me see...yep, carrot and orange.’

‘It’s a bit early for cake...’

The drawling accent made her stop and stiffen.

‘But I’ll take a walnut scone and a coffee. Please.’

The last word was so evidently an afterthought.

Ellie smiled sweetly as she swivelled round. No way was she going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how uncomfortable he’d made her.

‘It’s self-service and pay at the till. You, however, are barred. You’ll have to get your coffee somewhere else.’

‘Look...’ Max Loveday looked meaningfully over at Mrs Trelawney. ‘Can we talk? In private?’

Ellie’s heart began to pick up speed, her pulse hammering. No way was she going anywhere alone with this man. He might be smiling now, but she wasn’t fooled.

‘I don’t think so. You had no problem insulting me in front of my assistant. I’m sure she can’t wait to hear round two.’

He closed his eyes briefly. ‘Fair point.’

‘Oh, good.’ She hadn’t expected him to capitulate so easily. It was an unexpected and unwanted point in his favour. ‘Go on, then. Say whatever it is you have to say.’

‘I was out of line.’

Ellie folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. If Max Loveday thought he was getting away with anything short of a full-on grovel he could think again.

‘Yes...?’ she prompted.

‘And I’m sorry. It’s no excuse, but my family is going through some stuff right now and I’m a little het-up about it.’

‘Tell me, Mr Loveday...’ Ellie deliberately parroted his words back to him. ‘Which is worse? Seducing a family man for his money or conning an old lady out of her cash? And which are you accusing me of?’

As if she didn’t know. Well, if she’d conned the old lady he’d been right there with her; he was joint trustee after all.

‘I think they’re both pretty vile.’ There was a bleakness in his voice, and when his eyes rested on Ellie the hardness in them unnerved her. He hadn’t come back because he was stricken with remorse. He still thought her guilty.

‘So do I.’ The look of surprise on his face gave her courage. ‘I also think making slanderous accusations against strangers and proffering fake apologies in order to get the keys to a house and a cup of coffee is pretty out of order. What do you say to that, Mr Loveday?’

‘I’m prepared to pay for the coffee.’

It wasn’t much of a retort but it was the best he could do when he was firmly in the wrong—as far as manners were concerned—and so tired that the wooden floor was beginning to look more than a little inviting. Flying Sydney to Boston to Hartford and then on to England in just a few days had left him in a grey smog that even first-class sleep pods hadn’t quite been able to dispel.

‘Look, you have to admit my great-aunt’s will is pretty unusual. Leaving her entire fortune in the hands of a virtual stranger.’

The large brown eyes darkened with something that looked very much like scorn. It wasn’t an expression Max was used to seeing in anybody’s eyes and it stung more than he expected.

‘Yes, she said more than once that she wished she knew her great-nephew more. I thought this was her way of trying to include you.’

Damn her, he hadn’t meant himself—and he would bet a much needed good night’s sleep she knew that full well.

‘It was her money to leave as she liked. I didn’t expect to inherit a penny. Nor do I need to. If she wanted to leave it all to charity that’s one thing. But this...? This is craziness. Leaving it to you...to found a festival. I didn’t ask to be involved.’

He just couldn’t comprehend it. What on earth had his great-aunt been thinking? What did he know or care about a little village on the edge of the ocean?

‘She didn’t actually leave the money to me, to you or to us.’

Ellie sounded completely exasperated. Max got the feeling it wasn’t the first time she’d had this conversation.

‘I can’t touch a penny without your say-so and vice versa—and we’re both completely accountable to the executors. There is no fraud here, Mr Loveday, and no coercion. Nothing at all except a slightly odd request made by a whimsical elderly lady. Didn’t you read the will?’

‘I read enough to know that she left you this shop.’

No coercion, indeed. Ellie Scott wasn’t just a trustee she was a beneficiary: inheriting the shop and the flat above it. The flat she already currently resided in, according to the will. It was all very neat.

‘Yes...’ The brightness dimmed from her eyes, and it was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. ‘She was always good to me. She was my godmother. Did you know that? My grandmother’s best friend, and my own good, dear friend. I will always be grateful to her. For everything.’

‘Your godmother?’

Damn, he had come into the whole situation blind and it was completely unlike him. It was sloppy, led to mistakes.

‘Yes. But even more importantly she was your great-aunt. Which is why she wanted you involved in her legacy, why she left you the house. It was the house her father was born in, apparently. And his father was some kind of big deal sea captain. He would have been...what? Your great-great-grandfather?’

‘Yes, although I don’t know anything about him or about anything to do with the English side of the family. A sea captain?’ A reluctant smile curved his lips. He had been in Cornwall all of an hour and had already discovered some unknown family history. ‘My grandfather took me sailing all the time. He had a house on the Cape. Said he always slept best when he could hear the sea. Must be in our blood.’

‘You can hear the sea from every room in The Round House too. Maybe my godmother knew what she was doing when she left the house to you.’

‘Maybe.’

It was a nice idea. But, really? A house? In Cornwall? A seven-hour flight and a tedious long drive from his home. It would have been far simpler if Great-Aunt Demelza had instructed her solicitors to liquefy the whole estate and endowed a wing at her favourite museum or hospital. That was how philanthropy worked. Not this messy, getting involved business.

Although it was kind of cool to find out about his distant Cornish heritage. A sea captain... Maybe there was a photo back at the house.

A voice broke in from the corner and Max jumped. He’d forgotten about their audience.

‘This is all very entertaining. But what I want to know, Ellie, is are you planning to actually start this festival or not?’

Ellie looked at him, her face composed. ‘I don’t think that’s up to me any more, Mrs Trelawney. Well, Mr Loveday? Are you willing to work with me? Or do we need to call the solicitors in and find a way around the trust?’

‘I can’t just drop everything, Miss Scott. I have a very busy job. A job in Connecticut. Across the ocean. I can’t walk away to spend weeks playing benefactor by the sea.’

But even as he spoke the words a chill shivered through him. What did the next few months hold? Could he find a way to make his father toe the line—or was he going to have to force a vote at the board?

He would win. He knew many of the board members shared his misgivings. But then what?

His already fragile relationship with his father would be irrevocably shattered.

It was a price he was willing to pay. And if his great-aunt’s house did hold the key to an easy win then the least he could do was help get her dream started while he was here. His mouth twisted. It wasn’t as easy to walk away from family obligations as he’d thought, even when the family member was a stranger and deceased.

‘I can give you two weeks. Although I’ll be in London some of that time. Take it or leave it.’

Ellie’s cool gaze was fixed on him. As if she could see straight into the heart of him—and see all that was missing.

‘Fine.’

‘So I can set up a meeting?’ asked Mrs Trelawney. ‘I have a lot of ideas and I know many other people do too.’ Ellie’s assistant had given up any pretence of working, her eyes bright as she leaned onto the counter. ‘We could have a theme. Or base it on a genre? A murder mystery with actors? Or should we have it food-related. There could be baking competitions—make your favourite literary cake.’

Your favourite what? Max tried to avoid catching Ellie’s eye but it was impossible to look away. The serious, slightly sad expression had disappeared, to be replaced by a mischievous smile lurking in the deep brown depths of her large eyes.

He could feel an answering gleam in his own eyes, and his mouth wanted to smile in response, to try and coax a grin out of her, but he kept his face as calm and sincere as he could, trying to keep all his focus on Mrs Trelawney.

But he couldn’t stop his gaze sliding across to watch Ellie’s reaction. She was leaning against a bookcase, her arms folded as her face sparkled in amusement.

‘They are excellent ideas,’ he managed, and was rewarded by the quick upturn of her full mouth and the intriguing hint of a dimple in one pale cheek. ‘But we are at a very early stage. I think we need to talk to the solicitors and look at funds before we...ah...appoint a committee. I do hope you can manage to hold on to those ideas for just a little longer?’

‘Well, yes.’ Mrs Trelawney’s cheeks were pink. ‘Of course. I can make a list. I have a lot of ideas.’

‘I for one can believe it.’ Ellie pushed away from the shelves in one graceful movement. ‘I’m expecting a delivery in an hour, Mrs Trelawney, so now would be a good time for you to take your break if that’s convenient?’

‘My break?’ Mrs Trelawney’s eyes moved from Max to Ellie and back again before she reluctantly nodded.

Ellie didn’t speak again until her assistant had collected her bag and left the shop. ‘Poor Mrs T. She’s torn between being the first to spread the gossip and fear of missing out on any more. Still, the arrival of Demelza Loveday’s mysterious American great-nephew should give her enough to be getting on with. And...’ there was a tart note in her voice ‘...you certainly managed to stir things up when you walked into my shop.’

This was his chance to apologise. Max still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Ellie Scott, but what had his grandfather always said? It was much easier to judge from the inside rather than out in the cold. ‘I had my reasons. But they didn’t really have anything to do with you. I’m sorry.’

Ellie pushed back a piece of hair that had fallen out of the clip confining the long tresses. ‘I can’t say that’s okay, because it isn’t. But I’m willing to give you a second chance. It’s going to be hard enough for two incomers to win the support of a place like Trengarth as it is, without being at war ourselves.’

‘You’re an incomer?’ Max wasn’t exactly an expert on British accents and Ellie sounded just as he’d expected her to: like the heroine of one of those awful films where girls wore bonnets and the men tights, all speaking with clipped vowels and clear enunciation.

‘I spent most of my childhood summers here, and I’ve lived here for the last three years, but I’ll still be an incomer in thirty.’ She hesitated. ‘Look, I’ll be honest. I would be more than happy to see you off the premises and never have to deal with you again, but we have to work together for the next two weeks. You must be tired and jetlagged. Why don’t you go and rest now and come back tomorrow? We’ll start again.’

Her words were conciliatory, her voice confident, but there was a wariness in her posture. She was slightly turned away, the slim shoulders a little hunched, and her arms were protectively wrapped around her. She was afraid of something. Afraid of him? Of what he might discover? Maybe she wasn’t as innocent as she appeared.

He’d been putting this off long enough, distracted by his father’s extra-marital shenanigans and the all-consuming pressures of living up to the family legacy. It was time to talk to the solicitors, read the damn will properly and find out just what Ellie Scott was hiding.

‘That is a very generous offer. Thank you.’

Ellie exhaled on a visible sigh of relief.

‘Then I’ll see you back here tomorrow. I’ll telephone the solicitors and see if they can fit us in. Do you know how to get to the house?’

She walked around the counter, crouching down and disappearing from view before handing him a set of keys.

They were old-fashioned iron keys. Heavy and unwieldy. ‘I’ll find my way, thanks. See you later, honey.’

It was both a promise and a threat—and he was pretty sure she knew it.

CHAPTER THREE

THE SHOP HAD been busy. So busy Ellie hadn’t had a moment to dwell on the morning’s encounter. And even though she knew a fair few of her customers had come in to try and prise information about Max Loveday out of her—or out of the far more forthcoming Mrs Trelawney—they had all bought something, even if it was just a coffee.

Slowly Ellie began to tidy up, knowing that she was deliberately putting off the moment when she would head upstairs. She loved her flat, and normally she loved the silence, the space, the solitude. Knowing it was hers to do with as she pleased. But this evening she dreaded the time alone. She knew she would relive every cutting remark, every look, every moment of her bruising encounter with Max Loveday. And that inevitably her thoughts would turn to her ex-fiancé. It wasn’t a place she wanted to go.

And tomorrow she would have to deal with Max all over again.

As always, the ritual of shutting up shop soothed her. From the day she had opened it the shop had been a sanctuary. Her sanctuary. She had planned and designed every feature, every reading nook and display, had painted the walls, hung the pictures, shelved each and every book. Had even chosen the temperamental diva of a coffee machine, which needed twenty minutes of cleaning and wiping before she could put it to bed, and sanded the wood she used for a counter.

She had been able to indulge her love of colour, of posters, of clutter. Nobody expected a bookshop to be tastefully minimalist.

By seven o’clock Ellie could put it off no longer. Every book was in its rightful place. Even the preschool picture books were neatly lined up in alphabetical order. A futile task—it needed just one three-year-old to return the entire rack to chaos.

The shelves were gleaming and dust-free, the cushions on sofas, chairs and benches were shaken out and plumped up, the floor was swept and the leftover cakes had been boxed away. She’d even counted the cash and reconciled the till.

There was literally nothing left to do.

Except leave.

Ellie switched the lights off and stood for a moment, admiring the neatness of the room in the evening light. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. If Demelza Loveday hadn’t encouraged her to follow her dreams, hadn’t rented her the shop, where would Ellie be now?