Cottage on a Cornish Cliff Read online

  COTTAGE ON A CORNISH CLIFF

  Kate Ryder

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About Cottage on a Cornish Cliff

  Returning to the heart of her beloved Cornwall, Kate Ryder weaves another deliciously irresistible tale of desire, jealousy and the search for understanding, set against the stunning backdrop of the glorious Lizard Peninsula.

  Globally renowned actor Oliver Foxley has made the most difficult decision of all and set the love of his life free, in order to try and bring his family back together. But there's a magnetic pull back to both Cara and Cornwall that Oliver can neither deny nor resist…

  Heartbroken for a second time in her short life, single mother Cara knows she has no choice but to pick up the pieces yet again and carry on. Perhaps a complete change of scenery would help her, and her young family? Yet her mind, spirit and heart yearn for the windswept shores of her Cornish Cove…

  Cara and Oliver face the agonising choice between following expectations, or following their hearts. How will their story end…?

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About Cottage on a Cornish Cliff

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Kate Ryder

  Also by Kate Ryder

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  For

  Pamela Marjorie Malone

  Always in our hearts

  There are darknesses in life and there are lights,

  and you are one of the lights,

  the light of all lights.

  Bram Stoker

  One

  Narrowing her eyes against a blast of bitter wind coming in off the sea, Cara pushes the buggy along Harbour Road. In its prominent position at the edge of the ocean, the Bickford Smith Institute is battered by a sudden explosion of surf, and huddled on the surrounding cliffs an assortment of houses jostle with their neighbours – restaurants, pubs, shops, art galleries – as if attempting to gain a modicum of warmth from the other. No defined horizon separates the ocean from the sky; all is grey, except for a herd of white horses cresting the waves. Yet, even portrayed in this drab palette, the little harbour town of Porthleven retains a beauty and charm of its own.

  If this were a Farrow & Ball colour chart, thinks Cara, it would be Purbeck Stone through Mole’s Breath!

  The wind, punishing anyone brave or foolish enough to be out in its force, catches at Cara’s hair, snatching it from her beanie and whipping it across her face before she has a chance to turn into the relative stillness of the courtyard. The gallery lights are on and she sees her mother clearing the last remaining items from the shelves. Turning the buggy in a circle, Cara backs into the doorway and pushes the door open with her bottom.

  ‘Here, let me…’ Carol says, rushing to hold open the door for her daughter.

  ‘That wind,’ exclaims Cara, ‘it’s biting!’ She manoeuvres the pushchair into the warmth of the gallery.

  ‘Roll on spring,’ Carol says, firmly closing the door on the February chill.

  Cara takes off her beanie, freeing her long blonde hair, and removes her jacket. She glances around the empty space. ‘Doesn’t it look spacious?’

  Carol nods. ‘It’s surprisingly large without all the display stands.’ She bends down to release her newest grandson from the constraints of his pushchair. As she lifts him out the toddler’s face breaks into a smile. ‘Good morning, beautiful boy,’ she says, kissing his podgy cheek.

  Cara unhooks a hessian bag hanging from the buggy’s handles and, walking to the sales counter, empties out its contents. She extracts a soft toy and holds it out to her son.

  ‘Well, young Toby, what’s Mummy got there?’ Carol says. Placing the little boy’s feet on the ground, she holds firmly onto his hands and walks him towards his mother and the smiling yellow teddy bear with the smart tartan bow tie.

  He covers the ground surprisingly quickly for someone so chubby, thinks Cara.

  She smiles affectionately at her son. As she hands over the bear, the little boy bounces with excitement.

  Suddenly the entrance door flies open and in rushes Sheila, along with a blast of cold air. Her face is vivid red and the large padded coat only accentuates her small, squat frame.

  ‘Oh my, it’s a bit fresh out today!’ She unbuttons her coat. ‘Hello, my ’ansum,’ she says to Toby. The little boy smiles and holds out his yellow teddy to her. ‘That’s a beaut, but you hold onto it, my lovely.’

  ‘Why are you dressed like that?’ Carol asks, scrutinising her friend’s leopard-skin print, Spandex top and tights.

  ‘New Zumba class in the village hall,’ Sheila says, shaking her booty and striking a pose. Cara stifles a laugh. ‘It’s brill. You ought to come with me.’

  ‘I’ll give that particular experience a miss if you don’t mind. Unlike you, I can’t get away with wearing Spandex these days!’ Carol teases.

  ‘Oh, there are all shapes and sizes. You’d fit right in,’ Sheila says, winking at Cara.

  ‘Well, thank you very much, dear friend,’ says Carol.

  Sheila laughs. ‘You know what I mean!’

  ‘Luckily, I do,’ Carol says with a laugh. ‘However, I think I’ll stick to my yoga classes.’

  Sheila gazes around the empty room. ‘So, where do you want us to start, Cara?’

  ‘There are dust sheets out the back and brushes and rollers, and I’ve bought white emulsion by the truckload! There’s also a stepladder. I’ll just sort out Toby and then get stuck in myself.’

  As Cara peels Toby out of his snowsuit, Carol and Sheila scuttle into the back room.

  ‘Just look at all these lovely toys,’ Cara says, carrying her son to a playpen in the far corner of the gallery. The little boy wriggles. As she places him amongst h
is toys he beams up at her.

  ‘You are one happy little chap, aren’t you? How can we be sad with you around?’ Unable to catch herself in time, Cara thinks back to that long, hot summer when her deeply ingrained, all-encompassing sadness evaporated due to one particular man. Unbidden, Oliver’s handsome face and distinctive voice come to her and, briefly, she allows herself the indulgence of feeling again. But as soon as the moment presents itself she pulls herself up short. She cannot go there. She has to be in the here and now, otherwise she will be lost. Cara blows her son a kiss and turns at the sound of her mother’s and Sheila’s voices. Having peeled herself out of the Spandex, Sheila now wears pristine white painting overalls.

  ‘Very practical, Sheila!’ Cara suppresses another smile as she gathers her hair into a high ponytail and secures it with a scrunchie.

  ‘You know me, dear. I always dress for the occasion!’

  The three women happily set about painting the gallery and time passes quickly in the busy, companionable atmosphere. Some hours later, they stand back to assess their work.

  ‘Well, girls, what do you think?’ Sheila asks.

  ‘A lot fresher,’ says Carol.

  ‘Painting white on white is always tricky, but what a difference,’ Cara says, placing her roller in a paint tray. ‘It always astounds me how grubby the walls get through the season. I mean, it’s not as if it’s dirty work we do here!’

  ‘Must be all those emmets rubbing their greasy palms over the walls after they’ve had fish and chips for lunch,’ comments Sheila.

  ‘Don’t you be saying that,’ says Carol with a laugh. ‘No greasing of palms goes on here.’ Sheila chortles. ‘I’ll prepare lunch,’ continues Carol. ‘What do you want to drink? Coffee or wine?’

  ‘We definitely deserve wine!’ says Sheila. ‘I’ll get the glasses.’

  ‘There’s a bottle of white in the fridge,’ Cara calls out after Sheila’s rapidly disappearing figure, ‘but I’d best stick to juice until Toby’s fully weaned.’ She takes off her painting shirt, hangs it over a stool and walks towards the playpen, where her son contentedly plays with his toys.

  ‘Mama.’ The little boy holds out his arms to her.

  Cara stops in her tracks. This is a milestone!

  Emerging from the kitchen with glasses, wine and juice, Sheila exclaims, ‘Oh my God, Carol! Did you hear that?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Carol. ‘The little man is growing up fast.’ She smiles affectionately at her daughter.

  ‘Time for you to have some lunch too, young Tobias,’ says Cara, lifting him out of the playpen and carrying him to a chair at the back of the gallery. She sits down and raises her sweatshirt. As soon as she offers him a breast Toby latches on.

  ‘You’re lucky to have such an easy babe,’ comments Sheila, pouring wine into a glass. ‘Not a bit teasy.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cara agrees. ‘Beth and Sky were also good.’

  Cara is very lucky to have children with such easy-going natures, because she’s certainly had a tough ride, thinks Carol, as she slices a tomato. Life can be so unfair. Her daughter has faced more heartbreak than most people experience in a lifetime. She stops slicing and glances at her now. How can one person absorb such hurt and yet remain so free-spirited? In awe of her daughter’s capacity to rise above her circumstances, Carol observes Cara and Toby in their quiet moment together before returning to the task in hand.

  ‘Here you go, Carol,’ Sheila says, placing a glass of wine on the countertop. ‘Bottoms up!’

  Having fed Toby, Cara puts him back in the playpen and the little boy settles down to an afternoon nap.

  ‘Help yourselves,’ says Carol, indicating the plates of food she’s prepared. ‘There are baguettes, Brie, ham, salad, and homegrown tomato and bean pickle that Ken made.’

  Cara gently covers Toby with his blanket. He looks so vulnerable lying there amongst his toys. With his dark hair and blue eyes, he has different colouring from her other children. Both Bethany and Sky are brown-eyed and blonde, like her and Christo – her childhood sweetheart who became her husband. She smiles sadly. They’d known each other since they were toddlers and were rarely apart over the next twenty-seven years. His tragic passing is still an enormous shock. Christo had so much life ahead of him and so much to give. Thirty is no age at all. Sighing, Cara turns to join the two older women.

  ‘Here, get this down your throat,’ Sheila says, handing her a glass of apple juice. ‘You can pretend it’s wine!’

  ‘Thanks.’ Cara takes a sip and inspects the lunch her mother has organised. ‘This looks good.’

  ‘It’ll keep us going,’ says Carol.

  A sudden squall sends the rain hammering against the gallery windows.

  ‘Cornwall in February! What the hell are we doing here, girls? We should be in the Caribbean!’ Sheila cries.

  ‘Now you’re talking,’ responds Carol.

  ‘Antigua would be nice. Why don’t we persuade the menfolk to take a couple of weeks off from whatever it is they do all day long and treat their better halves to a holiday over there?’ Sheila suggests.

  ‘What a good idea,’ Carol indulges her friend. ‘I’ve heard the island has a beach for every day of the year.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind trying them all out. Perhaps Bar could be cajoled into staying a little longer!’

  Sitting on the chair again, Cara bites into her baguette and listens to her mother’s and Sheila’s banter. It’s good to have their company. She was dreading painting the gallery on her own. It’s not that she’s shy of the work, it just accentuates her aloneness. Sometimes, in the dead of night she wakes in a sweat, panicking at the enormity of the responsibility she has on her shoulders. Single mother to three children is not something to undertake lightly. Even though her growing success since winning the Threadneedle Prize has eased her concerns over cash flow, it’s still a precarious existence relying on selling her paintings through the gallery and online. She could have accepted Oliver’s offer of financial assistance for Toby, but she chose not to and refused it outright. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so principled. Their intense affair that summer offered her a glimpse of life after Christo and it lifted her out of the abyss she found herself staring into. But now, thinking of the life she and Oliver might have had together only makes her weak, and she can’t allow that. She has to be strong for her children. The only way she can operate effectively is to fool herself into believing that Oliver Foxley never entered her life, even though Toby is a wonderful, daily reminder…

  ‘What do you think, Cara?’

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘I was saying the free-standing shelves would look nice painted white,’ says Carol.

  ‘What a great idea. The gallery would definitely be a blank canvas then.’

  ‘I’m free tomorrow if you want me to come over and give you a hand,’ offers Sheila.

  ‘Are you sure? It’s very generous of you to give up your time.’

  ‘Of course, Cara. I love being involved in your artistic endeavours. It’s exciting knowing a famous artist!’

  Cara snorts. ‘Hardly famous, Sheila.’

  ‘You will be one day,’ Carol says softly.

  ‘How can you not be, with your talent?’ says Sheila.

  ‘Well, perhaps I’d better apply what talent I have to these remaining walls!’ Cara rises from the chair and puts on her painting shirt again.

  ‘Yes, time’s getting on,’ says Carol, stacking empty plates. She abandons the chore when the phone rings. ‘Good afternoon, The Art Shack.’ No response. ‘Hello, can you hear me?’ Still no response. ‘Hello, is there anybody there?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I can hear you,’ says a man’s irritated voice. ‘Is Cara there?’

  Carol turns pale. ‘Who’s calling?’ she asks, though his accent gives him away.

  ‘Greg Latimer-Jones,’ the man imperiously replies.

  Carol hesitates, reluctant to pass the phone to her daughter.

  ‘Who is it, Mum?’ Cara asks, givi
ng Carol a questioning look.

  Covering the mouthpiece with her hand, Carol keeps her voice light. ‘That American mentor of yours.’

  ‘I wonder what he wants?’ Cara says quietly.

  Carol grits her teeth. In her mind, there’s no question.

  Balancing her paintbrush on top of the paint tin, Cara walks across the gallery. As she takes the phone from her mother, she tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

  ‘Hello, Greg, nice to hear from you. How’s everything?’

  ‘Cara.’ Greg’s strangled voice is full of pain. ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘Oh!’ Cara sits on a stool. ‘When?’

  ‘Last night. I suppose I should be grateful she just slipped away.’ As Greg’s voice cracks, Cara allows him to gather his composure. ‘She didn’t know me at the end.’

  ‘I’m so very sorry, Greg, but even if she didn’t know you as her husband I’m sure she would have been aware of your love for her.’ Cara squeezes her eyes tightly shut. So much death.

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself for the time being,’ Greg continues. ‘You are the only person to know of her passing outside her family and the authorities. I have yet to complete all the formalities and alert the press.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do to help,’ says Cara, although she wonders what possible use she could be on the other side of the Atlantic.

  ‘That’s very sweet of you, Cara,’ says Greg. She can hear the sad smile in his voice. ‘Just be here for me.’

  A small frown furrows Cara’s brow. Feeling churlish, she wipes it away. ‘Of course, Greg. You know I’m always here if you ever need someone to talk to.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Greg pauses. ‘I’m coming over in a few weeks for business meetings with people opening a new London gallery. Cara, I’d like you to attend those meetings.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘They want to attract a crowd. They’ve approached me about you being the opening exhibitor.’

  ‘Me!’ Cara says again.

  ‘Yes, you, Cara, tucked away in that little county of yours,’ Greg says, his amused tone making Cara wince. ‘You have yet to realise the impact your art is having on the world beyond Cornwall. Once the funeral arrangements are out of the way I will book a hotel. I’ll let you have the dates as soon as they are confirmed.’