Pippa’s Cornish Dream. Debbie Johnson
their lead and trust her instincts. Use her own judgement – not that of the tabloid press.
She checked in on the kids as she tiptoed down the hallway, avoiding the patches of old wooden floorboard that creaked – they needed replacing, which was coming in at about number ninety-eight on her to-do list. Daisy and Lily were top-to-tail in one bed, as usual, even though they each had their own, and Scotty was crumpled up in his traditional tiny ball of warm flesh. His hair was too long, she thought, seeing it stuck to his forehead in blonde clumps. She lingered an extra moment, the sweetness of the sight filling her heart and chasing away at least some of the strain of the day. Bless him. He was the anti-Patrick – for now at least. With her parenting skills, though, he could be a criminal mastermind by the time he was ten.
Satisfied they were all firmly in the land of nod, she crept downstairs and slipped out of the side door, crossing the cobbles to Honeysuckle, realising it was too chilly for flip-flops. She paused and looked up at the cottage. The light was still on. She wouldn’t be waking him. And even if she was… well, it had to be done, and it pretty much had to be done now.
She knocked lightly as her hair flew around her face in the wind. Not quite gale force, but the waves would be crashing into the cove. She could hear them rolling in already. She hoped Patrick had found somewhere more civilised to bunk for the night, then switched that train of thought off – there was nothing she could do about Patrick. Not right now, probably not ever.
Ben opened the door, interior light flooding around him as he looked down at her. She took a gulp and hoped it wasn’t audible. He was wearing only a battered pair of faded Levis and his hair was damp from the shower he’d obviously just taken. Tiny droplets of water had scattered over broad shoulders and the moonlight played over the smooth, dark skin of his bare chest, even the small movement of holding the door open showing her the ripple of muscle in his arms. A fine line of silky black hair trailed down into the waistband of his jeans, and she tried not to stare at it. She was here for answers, not to lech, she reminded herself.
“Can I come in?” she asked simply, and he moved back, inviting her into the cottage that technically she owned. She sat down on one of the squashy armchairs and noted the open laptop with a screen full of text, a glass of rich amber liquid next to it. At least she hadn’t woken him. Maybe he had badass stun gun-wielding worries in his brain as well.
“Whisky and work,” he said, grabbing a black t-shirt and pulling it on. “The two essentials of my life. Want one?”
He held up the bottle – the label looked Scottish and expensive – and she shook her head. She rarely ever drank, and this didn’t seem like a good time to start.
“What is work now…after, you know…?” she asked.
He settled down opposite her, looking no less attractive for being clothed, but certainly less distracting.
“Why? Are you worried I won’t be able to pay my bill?”
“That’s not what I meant at all…and I didn’t mean to pry, but I’m sure you can imagine I have some questions.”
“Yeah. I can. To answer one of them, I’m writing a book. My second – the first is due out later this year. And no, it’s not about me and what happened – although there were plenty of offers to do just that. It’s a legal thriller. I’ve wanted to do it for years, but never had the time. Now, I have nothing but time, and a three-book publishing deal to keep me occupied. Next?”
She took a breath, wondered if she should have accepted that whisky after all. Time to belly-flop into the deep end – small talk would get them nowhere.
“I didn’t know anything about it,” she said. “Honestly, I didn’t. To me, you were just the boy from the duck pond. The last few years have been…well, busy. I’ve not exactly been keeping up with current events, and I had no idea what Patrick was talking about earlier. But thanks to the magic of the internet, now I do. Or at least one version of it.”
He was silent, waiting for more. Ben had been expecting this all day, from the minute her oik of a brother had recognised him – expecting to get his marching orders, or to be asked for his autograph. He’d known both to happen. When she didn’t continue, he asked, “Okay. So now you know. Why are you here? Have you come to ask me to leave?”
“No,” she replied simply. “I said I know one version of it. Now, I want to know yours.”
He smiled at her, but to Pippa it looked like a bitter, twisted thing, full of frustration and controlled fury. His eyes were downcast, his hair falling across his forehead. Beneath the thin jersey of his shirt, she could see packed muscle bunching and releasing in tension as he breathed hard and fast. His large hands were clenched into fists, and he was biting down on his lower lip, as though he was trying to keep angry words inside. No, McConnell wouldn’t have stood a chance. And neither would she, if he went all Hulk on her right now.
“Why do you want to know?” he finally said, reaching out and snapping the lid of the laptop shut with a dull thud. “And why should I tell you? I’ve kept quiet all this time. The only person I tried to talk to about it…well, she made her feelings quite clear. She left me as soon as I was found guilty. She didn’t want to know the truth and after that I decided there was nobody else important enough to tell. Certainly not reporters or complete strangers, even one I threw in a duck pond once upon a time. Why should I tell you?”
Pippa leaned towards him, which was harder than it looked in the squashy chair. She stared him in the eye, wanting him to know that she wasn’t going to give up.
“I want to know because you’re living here, with us,” she said. “With my family. With people I love, people it’s my job to protect. That’s the only reason. Believe me, I’ve no interest in the dirty details, or sharing anything with the rest of the world. As I think we’ve already established, I’m not exactly plugged into the rest of the world. I just need to know that I can trust you. My instinct says I can, but I need to hear it from you before I can relax and allow you to remain here with us.
“I’m sorry you were hurt, but that was nothing to do with me, and that’s not my burden to carry. My responsibility to the kids is. So I need you to tell me why you did it. That simple.”
He looked up, surprised at her choice of words. Simple? Nothing about it was simple, he thought. She sat there, swamped in that stupidly chintzy chair, dressed like a homeless teenager, hair falling over her shoulders and back like a yellow waterfall. One flip-flop dangling half off her foot. Her eyes were direct and clear, her expression calm and still. She was waiting for him to reassure her, to tell her his version of events. Wanting him to back up her instincts, but wary. A tigress looking out for her cubs.
Not simple at all – but at least, he supposed, she was giving him a chance. She hadn’t made up her mind, not like Johanna and her family. And, he realised, he believed her when she said she wasn’t looking for the dirty details. She wasn’t prying – she was safeguarding her territory. Could he blame her for that? Wasn’t that what any decent mother would do? It was certainly a better motivation than pure nosiness.
He raked his hands through his hair, reminded himself that he needed to get it cut. Without the need to head into an office every day, these things had a tendency to slip. He sipped the whisky, grimaced as it burned down his throat.
Finally, he looked up. Met the cornflower-blue gaze, glanced at the determined tilt of her head, the stubborn set of her full lips. A child, really. That’s all she was – and yet she was having the strangest effect on him, making him feel calm and settled at the same time she made him feel hyper-aware of her physical presence. The way his body was responding to it. It was hard to think straight and unlikely to get any easier the longer he let this moment linger.
“Some of the stories were right,” he said, staring off through the window into the still darkness of the courtyard. He hadn’t told this story before – not properly – and he needed a small sense of distance to allow him to get the words out.
“It was partly the pressure. I’d been prosecuting for while by then, and I did the best I could.