Follow a Star (14 page)

Fortunately she was almost dressed, unlike Paul, who was still stretched out in bed looking very pleased with himself. ‘Stay there, I’ll go,’ she said, her heart swelled with love and affection. She blew him a kiss and tugged her chocolate jersey shirt over her coral pencil skirt as she went downstairs. He was a lovely man even if he did need to be reminded every so often not to spread himself too thin. He was fun to be around and they made a good team, all they needed was a little more time on their own.

Feeling reckless, for once, and uncaring about her tousled hair, flushed cheeks and the fact that she was probably reeking of sex, she sauntered into reception and stopped dead. The man sprawled in one of the leather bucket chairs, his hands cupping the ends of the arm rests and his legs aggressively spread, regarded her with insolent dark eyes and a wicked smile.

‘Mrs Goodwin, I presume,’ he purred. ‘What a pleasure to meet you. I have a booking, the name’s Cavanagh.’

Instead of reacting, Fiona just stood there, feeling herself quiver as his gaze travelled over every inch of her body from her dishevelled dark hair to the tips of her gold ballet flats. She almost gave him a twirl, except there was something so sensual and intimate about his inspection, she was a bit afraid of what she might be prepared to do next.

‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ she stammered, finding her voice. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d be here until later.’

‘Clearly,’ he said, with a dry amused note in his voice that told her he knew exactly what she’d been doing. And then he stood up and Fiona struggled to hide her surprise. Who would have guessed he was such a pocket rocket? Judging from his voice, she’d conjured up an image of someone dark and handsome, which was certainly true, but she’d been way off in her estimation that he’d also be tall. Well, that had certainly shattered her illusion … which was probably a good thing. For a moment there, Mr Cavanagh had gone straight to her head.

May understood that it was probably a good idea for Bill to concentrate on steering the boat, especially if they were to avoid running aground for a second time, but given the intimacy they’d shared, it would have been nice of him to show a bit more interest in what she was going to do next. Or, more to the point, what they were going to do next.

On another day, she would have been charmed by the meandering course through Campion’s Creek, past shrubby islands tufted with waves of seablite, purslane and studs of sea lavender. But today all she noticed were the palisades and tidal gates, an overgrown tributary leading to an ancient wharf, timbers cracked and patinated with age. All the traces of past efforts to control the dynamic, shape-shifting landscape only served to make her more aware of her own inability to fight a rising tide of emotions.

‘From an age when East Anglian grain and hay for horses were sent by sea to London … and sewage was sent up in return,’ Bill observed, following her gaze.

May pulled a face; perhaps she’d been guilty of dumping on Bill? Perhaps she’d frightened him off? The trouble was she didn’t know herself whether to be glad or sorry that having to wade out to the boat had poured cold water on their moment of passion. Now they were running out of time.

Willow withies marking the shallows gave way to port and starboard buoys and then to a string of yachts jostling on deep water moorings as the tide rushed them to their voyage’s end. The watercourse eventually looped towards a neat spoon-shaped basin where, on one side, a starkly modern restaurant rose above them as they slid past. Huge floor to ceiling glass windows glowing orange in the early evening sunlight and a long expanse of dove-grey decking dotted with seating areas, must have afforded diners both inside and outside with an unrivalled view of the secret waters. Nestled into the opposite curve lay a collection of black-stained weather boarded buildings. Between them, hugging an undulating wooden pontoon, a chattering of colourful boats – some of them classics, some complete misfits – shuffled and swayed on their mooring lines.

‘
Lucille
’s found her natural home,’ May observed as they slipped through the tidal gate. A happy ending for one of them, at least.

‘There’s a much bigger marina up at Great Spitmarsh,’ said Bill, nodding, ‘where they pack all the plastic boats and the motor monstrosities in nice and tight to stop them cluttering up the river and places like this. This is the definitely the best place for
Lucille
.’

May moved forwards to look out for a berth and wait for Bill’s instructions.

‘May?’ he said urgently.

Something in the tone of his voice made her turn to him expectantly, but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a cry from the shore.

‘Bill! Over here, mate!’

A vision in how to do well-worn Levi’s, accompanied by one of the oddest-looking little mongrels she’d ever seen, was waving at them and pointing to an empty berth. In ordinary circumstances, May would have been pleased to draw ever closer to such a fine-looking man, but, filled with a terrible sense of time running out, she wished that
Lucille
handled a bit more like a car, so they could take off for another quick spin. Who would have believed at the start of the voyage that she’d dismiss the bloke on the shore for another few minutes with Bill?

‘What?’ she begged. ‘What did you want to tell me?’

He looked at her then back at the shore. ‘Just take the line and go forward, will you,’ he said, turning his attention back to the boat. ‘Matthew there will catch it and tie us up.’

May shot him a look over her shoulder but, failing to catch his eye, went to kneel at the front of the bow. Looking at the guy waiting was making her nervous. She hoped she wasn’t about to spoil those achingly good looks by chucking a rope in his pretty face. It didn’t help that his scrappy little dog was adding to the confusion by dancing backwards and forwards alternately growling and yapping its head off as
Lucille
wallowed closer. Fortunately the guy on the shore seemed to have a spare hand and managed to catch the line as well as grab the dog just when it was on the point of barking itself off the wobbly pontoon.

‘Well done,’ the man murmured as May let go of the breath she’d been holding and looked at him properly. Hooded, hazel eyes, sleepy and sexy, returned her gaze and May, who’d been about to jump ashore, almost lost her footing. A dimple in his right cheek twinkled as he smiled and offered her his hand, but suddenly Bill was there too, solid and reassuring, and it was him she turned to. Having successfully secured the boat without loss of looks, limb or dog, and the introductions having been made, May stood back whilst the two men talked, wondering when to pack up and go back to … who knew what might be waiting for her?

‘So, Matthew, how come you’re on boatyard duty?’ Bill said, running a hand through his too-long hair.

‘Just holding the fort for Harry – my wife,’ he explained with a grin that flashed that very cute dimple. Harry? What kind of name was that? May wondered. And what kind of wife?

‘She’s all right, is she?’ Bill frowned.

‘Yes, she’s fine.’ Matthew’s smile faded momentarily. ‘Good days and bad days, still.’ He turned to May apologetically and added, ‘Just after Christmas we lost someone who was very dear to us, the old boy who used be Harry’s right-hand man here. He was like a second father to her. We’ve got an apprentice with us at the moment, a young lad who’s doing a boatbuilding course. He’s great but it’s not quite the same … For a start, he can tie proper knots. At least I can walk round the yard without being decked by a load of timber! Although it’s taken some of the danger and excitement out of it too. Mind you, Captain Flint, here, keeps me on my toes, don’t you, Flinty?’

Cocking his ear at the sound of his name, the dog rolled over for a tummy tickle, making May feel quite envious as the delicious Matthew bent over to oblige. Just then a pale blue Volvo estate of a vintage that made every other vehicle around them look brand spanking new lumbered into the yard. Matthew straightened up and turned towards it with an eagerness that suggested he was ready for a tummy tickle too. ‘Here’s Harry now,’ he said, his face lighting up. ‘She needed to pop over to the marina at Great Spitmarsh, so she took our trainee with her to take a look at the competition.’

A mixed race boy in his late teens got out first, then the driver, who at first sight didn’t look much older. A slight woman in a short dungaree dress and vintage blouse with a suitably nautical print, bare brown legs and baseball boots, her short dark hair curling round her face, she waved then reached into the back seat and lifted a squirming toddler on to her hip.

‘And here’s my pride and joy,’ grinned Matthew as the young toddler let out a series of frustrated squeals and started kicking her legs, desperate to get at the dog who was leaping around at Harry’s feet.

‘May, meet my wife Harry. This is Tyler, our valuable assistant. And this bundle of trouble,’ he said to the little girl who was stretching out her arms to him, ‘is Georgia.’

Harry smiled a greeting as she handed the wriggly toddler over to her daddy. Wow! Was this slim, pixie-faced young mum really the woman who ran the boatyard? The same woman who’d talked old misery guts at Jollimarine into lending Bill his Landie. May was impressed; evidently there was a lot of punch in the other woman’s small frame.

She wasn’t what you would call a conventional beauty with her tomboyish looks and wide mouth, May decided rapidly, but her grey eyes were gorgeous and Matthew was beaming at her as if she was the best thing he’d ever seen, so she was doing something right. Looking at their little group, May felt quite wistful for the things she hadn’t got, like an adoring husband and a chubby, adorable baby. It made thinking about what she was going to do next even harder.

‘How did you get on, love?’ asked Matthew.

‘Well, it was bit more lively than usual, wasn’t it, Tyler?’ said the petite Harry stretching up to kiss her husband. ‘Normally nothing ever moves in that marina, so it’s a bit like waking the dead when something happens! Ancient skippers rise from their cabins, looking as if they’ve just heard the Trumpet of Doom.’

‘Or the air turning blue.’ The boy grinned. ‘There was a right scene on this enormous luxury yacht that’s staying up there.’

‘Got in last night,’ Harry interjected, ‘making the acquaintance of a couple of beefy-faced trawler men as it did so, when it nearly took the side of their boat off.’

May and Bill frowned at each other; was it a coincidence? Surely there couldn’t be that many top of the range yachts in this part of the world?

‘Anyway, this grisly old geezer appears on deck and starts chucking women’s clothes over the side, but before he can throw the Louis Vuitton holdall into the water, this woman who looks like some kind of model tries to wrestle it back. She starts yelling at him to calm down and that they can sort it out when a young guy joins in and the old boy starts shouting at him “and you can piss off, an’ all!”’

‘What made it even more entertaining,’ Harry chipped in, ‘was that it was that old rocker guy, Thunder Harwich, you know, the one who did the comeback show at the Palace on the Pier?’

‘You can’t knock Thunder Harwich,’ Matthew said, grinning. ‘The first album I ever bought was one of his. I’ve even got the special edition LP!’

‘Not that that had anything to do with the bosomy woman in a black leather cat suit on the front with a zip you could undo,’ Harry observed. ‘I’m sure you were only interested in the music.’

Bill opened his mouth to speak but Harry, to May’s deep gratitude, pushed forwards to take a closer look at
Lucille.
‘So
this
is what all the fuss was about?’ She laughed. ‘Well, she’s got a lot of charm. I reckon she’ll do nicely here, although there’s been a pickup in interest in these vintage wooden boats recently. Plastic boats may be easier, but some people are beginning to realise that it’s worth putting in a bit of tender loving care for something a bit different. I’ve had a couple of calls this week from potential buyers asking if anything new’s coming on the market. One was a bit of a nuisance actually, behaving as if I could produce boats that weren’t there; I had to tell him the only new boat I was expecting definitely wasn’t for sale! Your uncle will be over the moon when he sees her. What’s the latest on him?’

‘Holding his own. The hospital promised to let me know if there was any change.’

Georgia, in Matthew’s arms, began to grizzle.

‘All right,’ said Harry, taking her back, ‘we know you’re hungry. Come on then, let’s get you fed and ready for bed. Tyler, can you put those new sails away for me? And, May, I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.’

‘And speaking of food,’ said Matthew, ‘if the pair of you want to eat over at Samphire tonight, I’ll see that there’s a table. Don’t worry about the tab, either. It’s on the house.’

‘That’s very generous of you, Matt …’ Bill began, his eyes raking May’s face.

‘The offer’s there, you don’t have to take it up tonight.’ Matthew shrugged, looking from one to the other. ‘You can sleep on it,’ he added thoughtfully.

Grinning, he ran, chased by his dog, to catch up with his wife, and then they were alone again.

When she dared look up, she saw Bill watching her, a frown creasing his brow.

‘This is where life’s supposed to return to normal,’ he said softly. ‘But I’m beginning to wonder if I know what normal is anymore.’

‘Maybe we should ease ourselves in slowly,’ said May, keeping her voice light. ‘Perhaps we should spend another night on the boat?’

Around them the yard fell silent, except for the caress of waves breaking against the boats, then Bill bridged the gap between them and wrapped her in his arms. Sighing contentedly, May closed her eyes and snuggled in to him, felt the beat of his heart as he crushed her against his chest, heard …

‘Bill? Is that your phone?’

The next morning, Fiona was better prepared for the power of her guest’s mesmerising good looks. ‘Good day to you, Mr Cavanagh,’ she said, with hearty cheer. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘I did indeed, Mrs Goodwin. I was exceptionally comfortable in your bed.’ He winked, throwing her off guard again. ‘And yes, I think it’s going to be a grand day.’

Boy, could he turn it on! It was a long time since anyone had made her go that weak at the knees just looking at her. And he really was a handsome devil, no less delicious in the morning light than the previous afternoon; dark curls laced with a distinguished touch of grey at the temples, straight black brows and sensual dark eyes, white, even teeth and a heavy silver hoop in his left ear that gave a roguish edge to his tailored black jacket and crisp white shirt. Cocky with it too, swaggering around Walton House as if he could buy them out with his small change – oh, please, wouldn’t that be a lifesaver? – and the car and luggage to suggest there was real money backing up the expensive façade.

Paul, seeing her turn a bit flushed and flustered when their latest guest took his seat for breakfast, was rather less impressed. ‘Typical short man syndrome,’ he observed, glaring at him through the glass in the kitchen door. ‘He’s got to chuck his weight around because he’s so close to the ground.’

‘Yes but anyone under six foot looks short to you,’ she’d pointed out, secretly delighted that he was a bit cross, ‘and I think a lot of women would say this was one instance when size doesn’t matter.’

Just before she’d swept out to take their guest’s order, Paul noticed one of her shirt buttons was undone. Having newly discovered her breasts, he didn’t seem too keen for someone else to appreciate them, especially one whose height afforded him such a grandstand view. Much as she felt like teasing him by suggesting that their guest could probably blast off her buttons with the force of his smile, she decided it was probably best not to antagonise her husband, who was after all, the person doing the cooking and therefore the one in charge of whatever ended up on Mr Cavanagh’s plate. Standing there in front of her handsome guest, however, it did seem as though her bra was tighter at the mere sight of him as if her breasts were about to unleash themselves of their own free will.