Winter Storms
Lucy Oliver
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2013 by Lucy Oliver
Previously published by F+W Media
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle
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eISBN: 9781503967762
This title was previously published by F+W Media; this version has been reproduced from F+W Media archive files.
To my husband, sons and family, with love.
CHAPTER ONE
Clutching her walking cane, Carly Roberts limped to the large front window of her shop with its display of sugar mice, local chutneys, and cheeses all set below a small pine tree draped with handmade ornaments and tiny white lights. Cinnamon sticks scented the air, mingling with orange fragranced candles flickering in glass bowls. In the window, she caught sight of her reflection, a pale face with pulled back hair, usually brown but today dyed bright red. Dark shadows made her green eyes look tired and she rubbed them — then looked down at the mascara smeared over her fingers.
Carly glanced at the clock, which had a piece of green mistletoe stuck above it. Was 4:30 too early to close? It was unlikely she’d get anyone else in; Cornwall in winter was an empty place. Then the door opened, sending a gust of wind into the shop to rattle the shelves, and a thick-set figure marched in, water streaming from his waterproofs and gleaming on the faded blue tattoo stretched across his cheek.
She smiled. “Hello, Mick, didn’t expect to see you in here.”
The tattooed coxswain of the town lifeboat grinned and put his wallet down. “I’m not after your scented candle things, or the twinkly lights, just a gift for my wife. Something she’ll love.”
“Don’t you want to choose it yourself?”
He shook his head. “She wants you to find something, seems she didn’t appreciate the wellies I bought her last year.”
“I did warn you. How much are you spending?”
“A fair amount, she deserves it.”
Carly glanced along the shelves; oil burners, hand-blown glass vases, face creams in expensive pots — none of it right for Mick’s wife. Then she frowned and took a lavender cashmere sweater from a rack. Practical, but warm and luxurious.
“Lovely and soft, nice colour,” he said. “Is that her size?”
“It is, yes. Would you like a matching bracelet?”
“You’re a born saleswoman, and no, I think the jumper will be enough. I imagine it’s a fair price.”
She deftly folded the top and placed it in a cardboard box. “Are you coming to the fundraising meeting this week?” she said.
“No, love. Can’t cope with all the arguing. Sorry to leave you to it, but that Duncan chap does my head in. I’d like to take him out on a lifeboat rescue in our aged boat and see if he carries on complaining about the expense.”
“He’s not a sailor; he can’t understand that when a ship capsizes there isn’t time to get help from Padstow, we must have a lifeboat station here.”
Mick grunted. “I think he watches too many of those helicopter rescue programmes, thinks they travel faster than they do. Anyway, I’m confident you’ll persuade him.”
“He’s telling everyone I’m only raising the money because Liam’s got a job on the fishing trawlers after Christmas.”
“Ignore him, and well done to your brother. It’s difficult work, but you can’t be too choosey in winter.”
She shook her head, ringing up the price of the jumper on her till and handing the gift over. Mick passed her a handful of cash and took the box.
“Don’t leave it too late to get home,” he said, “the harbour’s awash and there’s been reports of flooding on the coastal road.”
“Are you on call?” she said.
“Not today, going to finish my shopping and head for a pint in the sailing club. Good luck tomorrow, all the lads are supporting you — we want that new lifeboat.”
“Goodnight, Mick.” After he went, she returned to the window, peering through the frost-covered glass at the flakes of snow drifting down, glittering under coloured Christmas lights. From the harbour beyond the cobbled street came a flash of white foam as wind lashed the sea, driving a powerful green breaker across the wall. It swept over the pavement and even from inside the shop, she heard its roar. In the distance an orange glow shone, far out to sea, and she stared at it — someone was in trouble, the lifeboat was out. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself, nausea rising from her stomach.
It wouldn’t be an inexperienced tourist this time, they didn’t arrive until summer to excitedly hire dinghies and surf boards. Wandering into the shop, they talked to her about their trips around the harbour, how thrilling it had been, how the boat rocked, how they nearly fell in. They didn’t know the gentle swelling waves could turn into monstrous currents and they talked in nautical terms, assuming she knew nothing of sailing. She never told them the truth; it was none of their business.
A second wave swept across the pavement, dissolving on the cobbles. It was time to go, before the short walk to her car became dangerous. Shuffling back to the shop counter, she glanced in the till. It wasn’t worth cashing up, there was only twenty pounds. Switching off the backroom lights and coffee machine, she picked up her handbag and keys. Holding her cane, she glanced at its grey hospital paint and resolved to colour it a brighter hue.
Outside, sleet rasped her cheeks and she yanked her hood up, looking at the clear, shiny ice covering the pavement. Taking a step, her foot slipped and grabbing a wall for support, she glanced around quickly. Had anyone seen her? Thankfully, the street remained empty and struggling the remaining few yards to her car, she unlocked the door and slumped inside. Switching on the engine, the tiny automatic bumped across the rutted car park, wipers scraping snow from her windscreen. Once home, she’d have a hot bath, followed by a fish and chip supper.
Slowing at the car park exit overlooking the harbour, Carly narrowed her eyes. Was that a dinghy making its way across the sea? The dark shape rose again on the peak of a green wave and she drew a sharp breath as it swooped across the water, canvas straining under the force of the wind. Magnificent sailing, a true professional at the tiller, anyone else would have capsized long ago. Could it make the safety of the jetty? Mouth open, she remembered the exhilaration of riding the waves, the taste of salt water on her lips and the thrill of winning a race.
Then ramming her foot on the accelerator, she shot the car out onto the coastal road. It was a foolish time to sail anyway, dangerous in this weather. Surely no local would be that stupid? A name floated into her head, along with an image of dark grey eyes, but she shook her head. No, not him, he left two years ago, vowing never to return.
• • •
The powerful sea wind hit Daniel Edwards with the force of a gybing boom. Hissing between his teeth, he yanked the wet dinghy painter and cursed as it scraped red burns across his hands. It was tempting to toss the rope away and watch the hated boat bob off into the ocean, but his teammates would never forgive him; the Olympic racing craft was worth a fortune. He never should have brought it out in this weather. Seeing the lifeboat bobbing beside a fishing trawler, waves exploding over the deck, made him realise how stupid and how lucky he’d been.
The mast had snapped when he reached the jetty, another expense he’d have to pay for. Not that he cared very much, when his sponsors discovered he’d risked the boat in a storm, they’d cancel his contract anyway. They already had what they wanted — double Olympic gold medals — now he was superfluous to requirements.
Hauling on the rope, Daniel tied it fast and straightened. Pulling down his waterproof hood, he stared across the harbour at the cluster of shops glowing with Christmas lights; it hadn’t changed much in two years. Turning to look at the black cliffs standing like gateposts on either side of the harbour entrance, he recalled her scream and shuddered. Should he have come back?
But Haven Bay was where he grew up and he couldn’t stay away forever, paying expensive hotel bills for his family to visit him. And after the Olympics, his urge to visit had grown stronger, pictures flashing through his mind like an old-fashioned projector, images of places and people, of a girl he had known.
Imogen, his ex-fiancée, said she’d suspected for months that something wasn’t right. Standing in the hallway of their luxury flat, suitcases at her feet, she looked at him, not in anger, but with something akin to pity.
“There’s a part of you I can’t reach,” she said.
Daniel opened his mouth to protest, but she held her left hand up, showing a white ring of pale skin around her suntanned finger.
“I hoped our relationship would improve after you got the Olympic golds, but it’s worse, I never know what’s going through your mind. I keep expecting to come home to find the wardrobe half-empty and a note on the table telling me you’ve gone.” Putting hands on her hips, she stared at him. “I’m not the person you’re looking for.”
Daniel gazed now at the lights of Haven Bay. Had Imogen been right? A face, pushed for years into the back of his mind, was emerging, growing stronger and less blurry each day.
Two years ago, Carly had broken off their relationship with five hard words.
“I do not love you,” she said.
And, refusing to beg, he left town on the next train. Only later did he wish he’d demanded an explanation, but it was too late by then, his pride wouldn’t let him return. So what if Carly didn’t want to know him? Many other girls did. Until Imogen showed him the truth: that he couldn’t love anyone else.
Slinging a rucksack over his shoulder, he stepped across the floating jetty to the sea wall. A rank odour of dead fish, salt water, and rust hit him, scents he remembered from his childhood. Boats creaked at their moorings and faint music drifted over from a pub. Brick steps led up the harbour wall, slippery with rubbery, rotting seaweed and when he reached the top, he froze, waiting for the bright flash of a camera.
It never came and he smiled, of course, in winter the harbour lay deserted. It was during the summer months that scores of flip-flops struck across the warm cobbled streets, sticky with dropped Cornish ice cream. But he always preferred winter when the pavements were empty and waves hit the harbour walls in powerful green swells.