Page 20 of Coming Home to Sturcombe Bay
“A tappoo?”
“A tattoo. A pretend one,” Liam explained quietly.
“Ah . . .”
“Anyway . . .” He smiled down at his daughter. “I think I need to hose you down to get all that sand and gunge off you.”
“The invoices?” Julia prompted. He might have known it was a vain hope that she would forget them.
“Oh . . . I’ll see to them later.”
“You know you won’t. You’ve got appointments booked all afternoon, and it’s darts night tonight. Do them now, while I pop this one in the shower and make us some lunch. And she can tell me all about Auntie Cassie too,” she added with a mischievous wink.
Liam sighed and took the folder from her. “Okay. I need a quick shower myself first, then I’ll look at them.”
Upstairs in the bathroom he peeled off his clothes and stepped under the shower, letting the warm water flow down over his body. How did the sand manage to get everywhere — in his hair, in his armpits, in his groin? Once it was all washed down the drain he soaped himself all over, working up a good lather.
That wink from Julia — would everyone be speculating now that Cassie was back? In a small place like Sturcombe, anyone’s business was everyone’s business, and people had long memories.
Though it was ten years ago, that brief fling— barely six months, from March to September — would be fuel for the gossips now. They’d all be watching, latching onto every look, every word. It could drive you crazy — and he could well imagine that it was just the sort of thing that would drive Cassie to leave again.
Cassie . . .
He ran his hand down over his wet chest. She used to do that, when they’d been swimming — run her hand over his chest, teasing her fingers through the curly dark hair that grew there, laughing up at him.
And he’d run his hands over her body, savouring every contour — the long curve of her spine, the dip of her waist, the firm swell of her breasts . . .
Dammit! Invoices. They’d stop him letting his mind run on memories of Cassandra Channing and her soft, silky skin . . .
Chapter Four
“Hi, Mum.” Cassie strolled into the kitchen and dumped the shopping bags on the counter. “Mmm, something looks good.” She snaffled a pinch of the pastry her mother was kneading.
Helen pushed her hand away before she could steal any more. “What took you so long? I was about to send out a search party.”
“Brenda in the shop kept me chatting.” She took the frozen stuff from the bags and began to stack it into the freezer. “Then I popped round to visit Arthur Crocombe. Brenda said he’d had a nasty fall.”
“He did, but he’s doing okay now. His son in Canada has arranged for a full-time carer for him.”
“Oh, yes. I met him. Marcus. Nice chap, ex-army medic, and Arthur seems to like him. Mmm, blackberry-and-apple pie. My favourite. How’s Nanna?”
“Fine. She’s been dozing most of the morning, but she ate a bit of lunch — without too much grumbling.”
Cassie laughed. “Where’s Dad?”
“He had to go into school. They’re doing a safety inspection.”
“But it’s the holidays!”
“Apparently it’s urgent.” Helen sprinkled some flour onto the marble pastry board and began rolling out the dough. “Something to do with the roof this time.”
Cassie watched her mother fondly. So many times she had sat here in the kitchen while she baked. She would be sixty next year. She had put on a little weight in the past ten years, but not much. There were threads of silver in her dark hair, and a few lines around her eyes — mostly of laughter.
Helen Channing had been the deputy head of Fowey Road Primary School — which had been a serious embarrassment forCassie and her brother and sister when they had been pupils there themselves.
She had taken early retirement five years ago to care for her mother-in-law. Though whether coping with Edie Channing was easier or harder than coping with a hundred or so lively five- to eleven-year-olds remained a moot point.
“You’re still wearing that old apron!” Cassie remarked. “It must be donkey’s years old.”
