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Jenna bit her lip. ‘It seems there is no alternative.’
‘Then shall we shake hands on it?’ He walked towards her, closing the space between them, and she couldn’t retreat because the damned bench was in the way. Could do nothing about the fact that he was now standing right beside her.
He held out his hand, his dark eyes mesmeric, compelling. Then a mischievous gust of wind suddenly lifted her loosened hair and blew it across his face.
Ross gasped and took a step backwards, his hands tearing almost feverishly at the errant strands to free himself.
For a crazy moment she wondered if he was remembering, as she was, the way he’d used to play with her hair when they were in bed together after lovemaking, twining it round his fingers and drawing it across his lips and throat.
And how she would bury her face in his shoulder, luxuriously inhaling the scent of his skin …
Sudden pain wrenched at her uncontrollably. Blood was roaring in her ears. Hands shaking, she raked her hair back from her face and held it captive at the nape of her neck.
She said hoarsely, looking past him, ‘I—I think the weather’s getting worse. I—I’ll see you around—I expect …’
She walked away from him, forcing herself not to hurry, across the short, damp grass.
And if he said her name again as she went the wind carried it away and it was lost for ever. And she could only be thankful for that.
Once safely inside the garden she began to run, stumbling a little as her feet crunched the gravel.
She fell breathlessly through the front door and met Christy, back from her shopping trip to Truro, coming downstairs.
‘Darling,’ Christy’s blue eyes searched her face. ‘Are you all right? Ma was worried about you …’
‘I’m fine,’ Jenna said, eyes fiercely bright, cheeks hectically flushed. ‘And, for good or ill, I’m staying. But on one condition—and it’s not negotiable.’
‘Oh, Jen.’ Christy hugged her. ‘Anything—you know that.’
Jenna took a deep, steadying breath. ‘I’m going into Polcarrow tomorrow—and I’m having my hair cut.’ She paused. ‘All of it.’
CHAPTER TWO (#ua0d46f50-4abf-506a-8244-19ee0b8a0da5)
THE wind dropped during the early hours of the morning. Jenna could have timed it to the minute, if she’d felt inclined, as she’d done little else since she got to bed but lie staring into the darkness and listening to the grandfather clock in the hall below sonorously marking the passage of the night.
If I don’t get some sleep soon I’m going to look and feel like hell in the morning, she told herself, turning on to her stomach and giving her inoffensive pillows a vicious pummelling.
Even so, there was no way she would look as bad as Ross had done yesterday, she realised with a pang of reluctant concern. Any doubts she might have had about the seriousness of his recent illness had shattered after the first glance. Because he’d looked as if the virus he’d picked up abroad had taken him to death’s door and back again.
He had told her she was thinner, but he too had lost an untold amount of weight, and his dark face had been haggard, and sallow, with deep shadows under his eyes. He’d looked older, too, and quieter. And oddly weary. For a moment she had found herself confronted by a stranger.
She could understand now why Thirza had been so worried about him, even if she did not relish the solution that worry had produced.
She sighed, burying her face in the pillow. For a while she’d been seriously tempted to keep quiet about their encounter on the cliff, but she’d soon realised that would be impractical. Besides, the way that she and Ross planned to deal with each other would have a direct bearing on the next few days, and affect her family, so they probably had a right to know.
She’d broken the news of their truce over dinner, keeping her voice light and matter-of-fact.
‘The last thing either of us wants is to make the situation more awkward than it already is.’ She had tried to smile. ‘So, we plan to be—civil.’
There was a silence, then Aunt Grace said, ‘Oh, my dear child, how desperately sad.’ She directed a fulminating stare at her husband, who was placidly eating his portion of chicken casserole. ‘Henry—how long have you known that Ross would be bringing Thirza to the wedding—and why on earth did you agree?’
‘She rang to inform me just this morning.’ Mr Penloe smiled at his wife. ‘And she didn’t ask my permission,’ he added drily.
‘Typical,’ Grace Penloe said hotly. ‘Absolutely typical. If she’d had the least consideration for us all she’d have stayed away herself.’
Jenna laid a placatory hand over her aunt’s. ‘Darling, it’s all right—really. I admit I was upset when I first heard Ross was here, but that was—just me being silly.’ She gave a resolute smile. ‘It could be all for the best,’ she added, with a sideways glance at her uncle. ‘After all, we had to meet again some time.’
‘Probably,’ said Mrs Penloe. ‘But, for preference, not under the Polcarrow microscope. Oh, Betty Fox will make a meal of this,’ she added, stabbing at a mushroom as if it were the lady in question.
‘Betty Fox will have enough to do, criticising what we’re all wearing and finding fault with the decorations in the church hall and the caterers,’ Christy said, pulling a face. ‘Even she can’t make much capital out of a divorced couple being polite to each other.’
‘That’s what you think,’ her mother said tartly. ‘Oh, damn Thirza.’ She paused ominously. ‘And, Jenna, what’s this Christy tells me about you making an appointment at the hairdresser tomorrow to have your hair cut?’
Jenna shrugged. ‘New attitude—new image. I’ve had long hair all my life. It’s time for a change.’
Mrs Penloe gave the smooth chestnut coil at the nape of her niece’s neck an anguished look. ‘Oh, Jenna, don’t do it. At least, not now. Wait until the wedding is over, please.’
Jenna stared at her. ‘Aunt Grace, I’ll be wearing a spray of freesias in my hair. The style won’t make any difference.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of the headdress.’ Mrs Penloe shook her head. ‘Oh, dear.’
‘You’d think,’ Jenna said later, as she gave the condemned hair its final nightly brushing, ‘that I was having my head cut off instead.’
Christy, who was sprawled across the bed, turning over the pages of House and Garden, frowned. ‘Ma did overreact slightly,’ she agreed. ‘I can’t say I’m entranced with the idea myself, but it’s your hair, and your decision.’
She pulled a face. ‘Perhaps the wedding is starting to get to her at last. She’s been amazingly calm and organised so far, until dear Thirza dropped her bombshell, that is. I’ve told Pops that when it’s all over he should take Ma away for a holiday.’
A sharp gust rattled the window, and the girls exchanged wry glances.
‘Preferably somewhere warm and peaceful,’ Jenna said drily, putting down her brush.
‘Thank heavens we decided to have the reception in the church hall, instead of …’ Christy paused awkwardly.
Jenna sent her a composed smile. ‘Instead of a marquee on the lawn as I did?’ she queried. ‘It’s all right. You can mention it without me having hysterics.’ She pulled a face. ‘I suspect I’ll need to grow another skin over the next few days, anyway.’
Christy shut the magazine and sat up. ‘Jen—I’m so awfully sorry you should be put through this.’ She paused. ‘The village rumour mill had Ross totally bedridden and being fed intravenously, of course, so you’d hardly expect him to pop up on Trevarne Head, being civilised.’ She gave Jenna an anxious look. ‘Seeing him again—was it as bad as you feared?’
‘Heavens, no,’ Jenna said lightly. Worse—much worse.
‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Christy shook her head. ‘Not that it lets Thirza off the hook. As a contributor to consideration and family unity, she makes a terrific fabric designer.’
‘Well, she’s certainly that, all right,’ Jenna agreed. ‘In fact, I’ve often thought I’d like to stage an exhibition of her work at the gallery.’
‘You could always suggest it.’
Jenna shook her head. ‘She’d refuse. I was never her favourite person, even before the divorce.’
‘I could never figure that,’ Christy said thoughtfully. ‘After what she went through with her own husband, I’d have said her sympathies would have been with you.’ She paused ruefully. ‘Ouch, my big mouth again. Jen, I’m so sorry …’
‘Don’t be,’ Jenna said briskly as she applied her moisturiser. ‘Now, tell me about the best man instead. He’s supposed to be my perk, isn’t he?’
‘Oh, Tim’s adorable.’ Christy cheered noticeably. ‘He works in the City, too, and he and Adrian have been friends since university. They’re arriving in time for lunch tomorrow.’ She lowered her voice confidentially. ‘And I happen to know Tim’s not seeing anyone just now.’
‘Christy,’ Jenna said gently, ‘be content with your lovely Adrian, and don’t try matchmaking for other people. I was thinking of having a dance with Tim—nothing more.’
‘Why not have two or three dances?’ Christy suggested, unperturbed. She gave a sly smile. ‘He’ll make excellent camouflage, if nothing else.’
‘I’ll think about it.’ Jenna rose from the dressing table. ‘Now, push off, bride, and get some beauty sleep.’
‘There are still three days to go,’ Christy protested as Jenna ushered her inexorably to the door.
‘True, but you need all the help you can get,’ she said wickedly, and closed the door, laughing, on her cousin’s outrage.
Now I’m the one who needs help, she thought drily, as she turned over in bed yet again, trying to relax and failing. This insomnia is probably Christy’s curse on me.
But in her heart she knew that it was not that simple. That her restlessness and unease were really due to Ross’s reappearance in her life and nothing else.
Which was quite ridiculous, she told herself forcefully. Because he wouldn’t be losing a moment’s sleep over her, in Thirza’s slate-roofed cottage on the outskirts of the village.
Once again so near, she thought, yet so far away. Which seemed to sum up the entirety of their brief marriage.
Once before, on the night before their wedding, when she hadn’t been able to sleep because she was too keyed up with joy and excitement, she’d tried to work out exactly what the distance was that separated them from each other, mentally retracing her steps down the drive from Trevarne House to the lane, narrow between its high summer hedges, and down its winding length to the steep sprawl of Polcarrow, counting her paces as she went. Imagining him opening the door of the cottage to smile at her. Holding out his arms to enfold her …
Suddenly Jenna found herself sitting up, gasping for breath. She was shaking all over and her nightdress was clinging to her sweat-dampened body. She fumbled for the switch of the bedside lamp, then poured herself some water from the carafe on the night table, gulping its coolness past the constriction in her throat.
‘Oh, you idiot,’ she whispered to herself. ‘You pathetic fool.’
The phrase ‘don’t even go there’ had never seemed more appropriate, yet she almost had. She’d created a trap for herself and nearly fallen into it. Because she couldn’t afford these memories. They brought too much pain with them.
The ending of her marriage had been a war zone, and she still bore the wounds. And this truce that she’d agreed on with Ross was meaningless, because it would never lead to a lasting peace.
That was impossible, she thought. Too much had happened.
Most of it she’d managed to block out over the past months by working hard and making sure her leisure hours were full, leaving little time for introspection. But now there was a crack in the dam, and she was terrified of what might follow.
She switched off the lamp and lay down again, aware that her stomach was churning and a mass of confused thoughts were jostling for precedence in her tired mind. And, with them, memories as sharp as knives.
Memories that she needed to deal with and forget. As Ross himself, no doubt, had done long ago.
And that, she realised unhappily, was no comfort at all.
‘Are you sure about this?’ said Stella, picking up a length of Jenna’s hair and brandishing it.
She was short, wiry and feisty, with hair that—this week—was the colour of pewter. She was an ‘incomer’ too—someone who’d come to Cornwall on holiday and fallen in love with it, then decided to throw up her job in a top London hairdressing salon and make a new life for herself in Polcarrow.
She’d lost no time in opening her own premises in the village’s steep main street, and her skills had attracted clients from all over the Duchy.
On Saturday she would be bringing two assistants and a friend who was a beautician and manicurist to Trevarne House to attend to the needs of the bride and her family.
In the meantime she’d agreed to squeeze in an appointment for Jenna. But she clearly wasn’t happy about it.
‘What happens if I start and you change your mind?’ she demanded pugnaciously, hands on hips. ‘I can’t stick it back on, you know.’ Her tone changed, became wheedling. ‘Why don’t I just give it a good trim instead?’
‘I’m quite serious.’ Jenna said flatly. ‘I want it short.’ She opened the style book and pointed. ‘Like that.’
‘Hell’s bells,’ said Stella, blinking. ‘All right, then, love. But it’s your funeral.’
Three quarters of an hour later, Jenna found herself regarding a stranger in the mirror. Her chestnut mane had been reduced to little more than a sleek cap, skilfully layered, which emphasised the shape of her head and lay in feathered fronds across her forehead and over her ears.
‘Actually, it works,’ Stella conceded unwillingly. ‘It shows off your cheekbones and that. And on Saturday I can fix your flowers—like this.’ She demonstrated.
Jenna smiled at her. ‘Stella—you’re a genius.’
‘Yeah,’ said Stella, who did not count mock-modesty as a virtue. ‘But I still say it’s a shame. All that lovely hair.’ She paused. ‘Want a bit to keep? Reminder of past glories, eh?’
‘No,’ Jenna said quietly. ‘I don’t think so, thanks.’
Her head felt incredibly light as she emerged into the street, and the sun had come out too—doubtless in honour of her new image.
She had parked her car down by the harbour, and progress back to it was slow. Every few yards, it seemed, people were stopping her to welcome her back, to tell her she looked wonderful, and say that it looked as if the weather might clear up after all for the wedding.
And she smiled back, and thanked them and agreed, saying she would see them on Saturday.
Amid the general euphoria of welcome it took a moment to register that she was being watched with less than warmth from across the street. She glanced up and saw that Ross was standing on the narrow pavement, outside Betty Fox’s general stores. He was still to the point of tension, staring at her, his brows drawn together in thunderous incredulity.
Jenna’s instinct was to make a dash for the car, but instead she made herself smile weakly and lift her hand in a half-greeting.
He moved then, crossing the street, weaving his way between two vans and a bicycle with the long, lithe stride that was so hauntingly familiar.
What a difference a few hours could make, Jenna thought in astonishment as he reached her. Yesterday on the cliff he had looked tired, almost defeated. Today he was clearly incandescent, and her heart began to thud in alarm.
His hand closed, not gently, on her arm. ‘In the name of God,’ he grated, ‘what have you done to yourself?’
‘I’ve had my hair cut.’ She tried unavailingly to free herself from his grasp. ‘It’s not a crime.’
‘That,’ Ross said crushingly, ‘is a matter of opinion.’
‘And, anyway,’ Jenna went on, her own anger sparking into life, ‘it’s none of your damned business what I do.’
‘So, if I see an act of vandalism being committed—a work of art being defaced—I’m to say or do nothing? Or should I stand back and applaud?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped. ‘It’s not the same thing at all, and you know it.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s far worse. It’s a travesty—a sacrilege.’ His eyes held hers. The noise around them—the hum of voices, the stutter of traffic, and the crying of gulls from the harbour—seemed to fade, enclosing them in a strange and potent silence.
Then, over his shoulder, Jenna saw Betty Fox emerge from her shop, ostensibly to rearrange the newspapers in the outside rack, her glance darting avidly towards them, and the spell was sharply broken.
She said tautly, ‘I thought we had a truce. Yet here we are brawling in public, for all the world to see. Now, will you kindly let go of me?’
