why did they make her feel as if she was home?
As Jonas led Lawrie along the white gravelled path that clung to the side of the graceful old building her sense of discombobulation increased. The formal gardens were in full flower, displaying all their early summer gaudy glory—giant beds filled with gigantic hydrangea bushes, full flowered and opulent—but the gardens as a whole were a lot less manicured, the grass on the front lawns longer than she remembered, with wildflowers daring to peek out amongst the velvety green blades of grass.
And what was that? The rose garden was gone, replaced by a herb garden with small winding paths and six wooden beehives.
‘You’ve replaced your mother’s pride and joy?’ she said, only half in mock horror.
‘Doesn’t it all look terribly untidy?’ Jonas said, his voice prim and faintly scandalised, a perfect parody of his mother.
Lawrie shook her head, too busy looking around to answer him, as they walked up the sandstone steps that led to the large double doors.
The old heavy oak doors were still there, but stripped, varnished—somehow more inviting. The discreet brass plaque had gone. Instead a driftwood sign set onto the wall was engraved with ‘Boat House Hotel’.
‘Come on,’ Jonas said, nudging her forward. ‘I’ll show you around.’
He stood aside and ushered her through the open door. With one last, lingering look at the sun-drenched lawn Lawrie went through into the hotel.
She hadn’t spent much time here before. Jonas had left home the day he turned sixteen—by mutual agreement, he had claimed—and had slept above the bar or in the camper van before they were married. He’d converted the room over the bar into a cosy studio apartment once they were. It had always felt like a royal summons on the few occasions when they were invited over for dinner—the even fewer occasions she had persuaded Jonas to accept.
They had always been formal, faux-intimate family dinners, held on the public stage of the hotel dining room. Jonas’s parents’ priority had clearly been their guests, not their son and his wife. Long, torturous courses of beautifully put together rich food, hours full of polite small talk, filled with a multitude of poisoned, well targeted barbs.
Her memories made the reality even more of a shock as Lawrie walked into the bright, welcoming foyer. The changes outside had been definite, but subtle; the inside, however, was completely, obviously, defiantly different. Inside the large hallway the dark wood panelling, the brocade and velvet, had been stripped away, allowing the graceful lines of the old house to shine through in colours reflecting Jonas’s love of the sea: deep blues and marine greens accentuating the cream décor.
‘It’s all reclaimed local materials—driftwood, recycled glass, re-covered sofas,’ Jonas explained. ‘And everything is Cornish-made—from the pictures on the walls to the glasses behind the bar.’
‘It’s amazing,’ Lawrie said, looking about her at the room at once so familiar and yet so new, feeling a little like Alice falling into Wonderland. ‘I love it. It’s really elegant, isn’t it? But not cold. It feels homely, somehow, despite its size.’
‘That’s the effect I wanted.’ His voice was casual but his eyes blazed blue as he looked at her. ‘You always did get it.’
Lawrie held his gaze for a long moment, the room fading away. That look in his eyes. That approval. Once she’d craved it, looked for it, yearned for it. Like the perfect cup of tea at the perfect temperature. A slab of chocolate exactly the right mixture of bitter and sweet. A chip, crisp and hot and salty on the outside, smooth and fluffy as you bit down.
Of course the only tea she drank nowadays was herbal, and she hadn’t had a chip—not even a hand-cut one—in years.
And she didn’t need anyone’s approval.
‘Some of my clients own hotels,’ she said, injecting as much cool professionalism into her voice as she could. ‘I’ve seen some great examples of décor, and some fairly alarming ones too. This is really lovely, though, Jonas.’
The approval faded, a quizzical gleam taking its place, but all he said was, ‘I’m glad you approve. Let’s hear your professional opinion on the rest of the place. This way.’
And Jonas turned and began to walk along the polished wooden floor towards the archway that led into the main ground floor corridor.
Lawrie heaved a sigh. Of relief, she told herself sternly. Job done—professional relationship back on track.
So why did she feel as if the sun had just disappeared behind a very black cloud?
Lawrie followed Jonas through the foyer and down the corridor, watching him greet both staff and guests with a smile, a quick word, a clap on the shoulder—evident master of his empire. It was odd... He used to be so unhappy here, a stranger in his own home, and now he appeared completely at ease.
Jonas led her into the old dining room. A large, imposing space, dominated by the series of floor-to-ceiling windows along the far wall matched by a parade of pillars reaching up to the high ceiling. This room too had been extensively remodelled, with a similar look and feel to the café on the seafront, all the lace and delicate china replaced with light woods and cheerful tablecloths.
A long table ran along one end, filled with large jugs, chunky earthenware mugs and plates of small cakes and biscuits.
‘Wouldn’t want the guests to get hungry,’ Jonas explained as he grabbed a pair of large mugs and poured coffee from one of the jugs, automatically adding milk to them before handing one to Lawrie.
She opened her mouth to decline but closed it as she breathed in the rich, dark aroma.
Why had she given up coffee? she wondered as she took a cautious sip. It was delicious, and the creamy Cornish milk was a perfect companion to the bitter nectar. Two milky coffees in two days—she was slipping back into bad habits.
The coffee was the least of it.
Jonas carried his cup over to the nearest window, which stood slightly ajar, allowing the slight summer breeze to permeate the room with the sweet promise of fresh warmth. The breeze ruffled his dark blond hair, making him look younger, more approachable.
Like the boy she had married. Was he still there, somewhere inside this ambitious, coolly confident man, that impetuous, eager boy?
Lawrie had promised herself that she wouldn’t probe. The last nine years, Jonas’s life, his business... None of it was relevant. Knowing the details wouldn’t help her with her job. Or with the distance she needed to maintain between them. And yet curiosity was itching through her.
She wandered over to the window and stood next to him, every fibre acutely aware of his proximity. Of the casual way he was leaning against the window frame. The golden hairs on the back of his tanned wrists. The undone button at his neck and the triangle of burnished skin it revealed.
Lawrie swallowed, the hot clench at her stomach reminding her of her vulnerability, of the attraction she didn’t want to acknowledge.
She looked out, following his line of sight as he gazed into the distance. The sea was clearly visible in the distance, calm and unruffled, the smell of it clear on the breeze. And the urge to know more, to know him again, suddenly overwhelmed her.
‘Why
