Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles: The Driftwood Inn. Phillipa Ashley
talking into the cordless house phone. With one final glance to check the coast was clear, he picked up the cleaning bucket and Marigolds and slipped inside the open studio. The key was on the inside of the door and with a surge of triumph, he closed it behind him and locked himself in.
‘Patrick McKinnon. Are you in there?’
Patrick had only cleaned down the washbasin and had just thrust the brush down the toilet, when Maisie called through the front door. Damn. He’d hoped the conversation would have gone on longer than that.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I was caught short while I was on the patio,’ he called. ‘I thought you wouldn’t mind me using the loo as I’m going to be living here. I won’t be long.’
Silence.
‘OK. I’ll come back when you’ve finished.’
‘I may be a while,’ he shouted, trying to sound embarrassed.
More silence. ‘Um. Right. Sorry to disturb you. I’ll be back in a bit.’
Cruel of him, thought Patrick, but he couldn’t stop the broad smile as he squirted bleach down the loo and started to scrub with the brush. He decided he could get away with a jaunty whistle too, and figured he had at least half an hour before Maisie would dare to return, even if she dared at all. It would be long enough to get the shower room into non-toxic condition and most of the kitchenette. He checked his watch, took a cloth and bathroom spray from the bucket ready to wipe down the cistern and seat. Just in time, he remembered not to flush the loo.
Maisie tapped her foot on the patio. She’d seen a lot while she was managing pubs but asking Patrick McKinnon why he’d spent so long in the loo was possibly one of the most excruciating moments of her career.
‘Patrick. Can you please let us know you’re OK? We’re um … getting slightly concerned about you.’
There was no reply. Maisie was not only worried but seriously pissed off. What the hell had he been doing in the studio for over an hour? She’d tried to peer through the curtains but they’d been drawn tightly. She’d left them closed from earlier but possibly not that tightly closed. Damn, she couldn’t remember. It would be getting dark soon. Oh my God, what if Patrick had come to the other side of the world to do something stupid? She thought back to their conversation and the one she’d just had with Judy Warner at the Fingle Bar.
She tried the handle of the door again. She’d half tried once before, stopped and decided she didn’t want to barge in if Patrick had picked up a bug. Maybe he’d decided to have a shower too or had fallen asleep. Although she had no reason to think he’d done something more unusual or worse than any of those scenarios, she still felt a fluttering of anxiety as she applied more pressure to the handle. It didn’t budge and was obviously locked from the inside.
‘Patrick. Please open the door. We’re worried about you. If you’re not feeling well, we can help.’
She put her ear to the door and thought she could hear noises. Muffled thuds, the sound of a loo flushing. Maisie slumped in relief. He was alive then, and hopefully OK.
Maisie fell on top of Patrick as he pulled open the door. He caught her by the tops of the arms and she glanced up into his smiling face. His tanned, cheerful and very healthy face. Her heart raced. Relief flooded through her closely followed by a strong urge to wring his neck.
‘Whoa. Be careful,’ he said.
She sprang back, away from his chest. Waves of pine-scented disinfectant and furniture polish emanated from the studio.
‘What the bloody hell have you been doing?’
Patrick held up a cloth and a bottle of Cif. ‘Cleaning.’
‘What? I told you not to. I told you I’d get it done. I thought – we thought – something had happened to you or you’d been taken ill.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you after I’d used the loo. I was intent on my work. Would you like to see it?’
He held up his hands in surrender. The Marigolds waggled. ‘Caught me – yellow-handed, boss.’ He held out his upturned wrists. ‘I’ll come quietly if you promise not to punish me too harshly …’
Her skin tingled all over and her throat dried. Patrick was wearing a ripped T-shirt that had shrunk in the wash and stretched across his broad chest and flat stomach. The rubber gloves reached just above his wrists, highlighting the golden hair sprinkled over the golden forearms. She was in massive trouble here. All it would take was for her to turn the key behind her again. The curtains were already closed. Her parents had gone shopping on St Mary’s and were at least two hours away. It was just her and Patrick and a single bed.
No one would know.
With great effort, she shook away the feelings of lust: she’d only known him two days. Thinking that way was ridiculous. ‘I wish you’d do as you’re told,’ she said.
‘And I wish you’d let me help you. That’s why you took me on. You’ve enough to do with the books, and the pub and bistro and God knows what else. Your dad’s not too well, you know …’
‘I know that!’ She hadn’t meant to snap, she was just worried about her dad. ‘I know he isn’t very well but he won’t go to the doctor. I’ve seen him out of breath and sweating and he’s pale and he’s lost a stone since the summer. Mum’s worried sick and so am I.’ Maisie felt her bottom lip trembling. She hadn’t cried for so long; not over Keegan leaving her or the loss of Little Scrap, but she felt perilously close now. Teetering on the edge of losing it totally in front of Patrick because of a row over cleaning the studio.
‘I’m sorry. I’m just worried about Dad and it’s been a long hard season here. I’d forgotten how much there was to do.’
‘I’m not trying to add to your worries, but I noticed he was struggling on Saturday and he probably shouldn’t have been up there fixing the roof.’
‘You try stopping him. There’s so much needs doing around here, as you pointed out. Dad’s a typical male; his leg would have to fall off before he’d go to the doctor and it’s not as if he can toddle down the road to the surgery. Mum and I have tried to persuade him. I worry so much about him.’
‘He’s probably afraid of what he’ll find out if he goes, but it could be something that’s easy to sort. Either way he needs to make sure.’
Maisie’s stomach clenched. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Come in and sit down,’ he said gently. For a split second, Maisie was reminded of Keegan, in the early days, when she’d first thought he was a rock of a man, not a flaky sandcastle who crumbled with the first rough tide. But Patrick McKinnon wasn’t a rock either, she reminded herself: just a drifter with a cleaning fetish.
‘I don’t need a shoulder to cry on,’ she said.
‘I’m not offering one.’ He smiled. ‘You wouldn’t want to get too close anyway, I’ve been hard at work and I need a shower.’
‘Not in that health hazard of a bathroom,’ she said, sniffing the air: a bit of a chemical factory but definitely clean.
‘You could eat your dinner off the floor now,’ he said. ‘Let me wash my hands and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
Maisie glanced at the kitchen. The units, cooker and fridge were basic and old but clean. The stainless steel sink sparkled and the work surfaces gleamed. She hated showing weakness but she was too weary. Hugo had phoned her again and asked her if she’d had time to think over his plans. It had been all she could do to give him a civil answer. He’d said that more residents were ‘seriously thinking’ of selling and although