Page 3 of Summer at the Cornish Garden Café

‘I wonder what your name is,’ she said softly, as she touched her palms to the cold wire. He stared at her, tilting his head andseeming to assess her threat level. ‘You’re OK, there, boy. I’m not a danger to your ladies.’

Lena stepped away from the run and followed the path as it wound around the gardens. There were rustic benches dotted around, shaded by trees and parasols, a pergola entwined with honeysuckle and roses with a picnic bench under it, and raised beds lush with a variety of herbs and vegetables. There were also potato sacks bursting with green shoots and a variety of large stone pots filled with more herbs, tomatoes and strawberries.

As she walked, she found herself on a slight incline that led to an elevated area of the gardens. A large oak tree stood at the highest point of the elevated area, and in front of it was a bench. While ascending, she looked back at the café, down to the village and harbour, and out to sea. She gazed at the shimmering water, watched as the sunlight made it sparkle as if someone had filled it with golden glitter and given it a good stir. On the horizon, a small white boat bobbed and from the beach she could hear shouts and laughter as people enjoyed the sunshine. Further along from the beach was the harbour, the village square and the many cottages of the village that rose along the hillside like plants growing up a rock face. Lena decided to go and sit on the bench and enjoy the view while she digested her lunch. When she reached it though, she found that someone was already sitting there. She paused, not wanting to disturb the person, but then a sneeze escaped her, and he turned around.

‘Sorry!’ She pulled a tissue from her bag. ‘Must be all the pollen.’

He stood up and stared at her and she recognised him as the man from the café. He held his cane in his right hand, and she could see the knuckles turned white with the effort of leaning on it. Or perhaps it was tension at being disturbed in this peaceful spot.

‘I was just going,’ he said.

‘No, please don’t go. I’ll leave you to enjoy the peace.’

He blinked then rubbed at his left cheek and her eyes were drawn to the scar. It was angry and red, and ran from the corner of his mouth to the end of his eyebrow. When she dragged her gaze away from it, she found herself gazing into the most beautiful brown eyes that were so dark they could have been black like his hair. The curls on his head were as dark and glossy as a raven’s feathers and she wondered if the beautiful curls were natural. The journalist in her never let up with the questions.

‘Don’t go,’ he said gruffly. ‘You don’t need to leave. There’s room on the bench for both of us.’

‘Oh… Uhm… Thanks.’

Lena came around the bench and sat down and the man did too, resting his cane against the wood. The seat was warm beneath her thin dress, and she settled against the back of the bench and crossed her ankles. She was conscious of the man’s large presence at her side, so she tried to concentrate on the view, but her eyes kept sliding his way. Even with long sleeves and baggy trousers, she could tell he was physically fit because she’d analysed enough men in her time. She was used to sizing people up, to evaluating what they did for a living and if they exercised and ate well. This man’s physique suggested he did exactly that and yet the cane made her question what had happened to make him need it. Perhaps he’d always needed it, although the scar suggested that something had happened to him somewhere along the way. However, it didn’t diminish how attractive he was, even though he seemed to wear a permanent scowl.

‘It’s lovely here,’ she said, glancing at his profile.

Silence pulsed between them, enhancing the sound of the sea as it was carried on the salt-laced air and the birdsong that surrounded them like a symphony.

‘I said?—’

‘I heard you!’ He tensed his hands into fists and Lena instinctively tensed too. Her training meant she’d been used to reading body language and to watching for signs that someone might react badly.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to annoy you,’ she said, getting ready to spring up from the bench.

He shook his head. ‘You didn’t annoy me. I apologise. I was just… lost in my thoughts and I didn’t quite register that you were speaking to me.’ He looked around them. ‘But who else would you be speaking to, right? Seeing as how we’re alone here.’

‘Is everything OK?’ she asked.

He turned to her and the line between his brows deepened. ‘OK?’

‘Yes… Well, you know. You said you were lost in your thoughts and so I wondered if you’re OK?’

He laughed wryly then rubbed a hand over his jaw line where it scraped against the stubble. ‘Yeah… I guess I’m OK. If OK is… getting on with things.’

‘You too, huh?’ She bit the inside of her cheek. What was she doing? This man clearly wanted to sit in peace but the journalist in her was conditioned to make conversation even when people didn’t seem to want to talk. But it was more than that, she thought, as she watched a tiny muscle in his square jaw twitching. She knew deep down that something was wrong with this man, and she wanted to help him if she could. Notbecause he was movie-star handsome, or because something about him seemed familiar, but because he was a troubled human being and she had a compassionate heart. It was what had made her less successful than some of her counterparts in the industry. Lena couldn’t be quite cutthroat enough to go for a story regardless of people’s feelings. She couldn’t drill down until people cracked because they’d been pushed to the edge. She always found herself seeing stories from the human-interest angle and wanting to help the people she interviewed if she could. She had thought it made her better at her job, but when she was up against others fighting for an exclusive, it didn’t always seem that way. Some of her colleagues had pushed people to illness and worse and she’d never want to be responsible for breaking another human being. Never.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘Getting on with things. Against the odds. Being strong and facing each day with a heavy heart while trying to practise an attitude of gratitude.’

‘Who are you?’ He frowned at her, his eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘What? Nothing. No… I was just worried about you because you looked so sad.’

‘You’re a journalist,’ he said accusingly as he stood up. He looked around the gardens. ‘Are you alone or are there more of you here?’

‘What? No. I’m alone.’

‘So youarea journalist?’ he said.

‘Yes. No. Well, not anymore.’ Wasn’t she? Had she already made that decision then and was she going to walk away from the career she’d once given her life to?

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