Page 62 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
She shook her head. “Ah . . . um . . . Do you?”
“No, I’ll just have coffee. But you have a dessert if you want one.”
“Oh . . . no, I don’t think so. Just coffee for me, too. Thank you.”
The waitress nodded. “Be right with you.”
Alex watched Shelley gazing out of the window, maybe looking for those elves and fairies? She would fit right in with them. She was such a dainty little thing; she looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away.
But that was misleading. He hadn’t forgotten the injuries she had inflicted on that sleazy guy who had attacked her. And he had seen how hard she worked around the hotel — shifting tables, carting boxes around. On one occasion he had even caught a glimpse of her in one of the rooms, turning a double mattress by herself. When he had offered to help, she had laughed him off. “It’s done,” she’d told him.
Even so, he had to be careful with her. Physically, she might be stronger than she looked, but emotionally she was very vulnerable. The memory of her sitting on the rocks beneath the hotel, crying her heart out because the hotel might be closing down, had hit him hard.
That had been when he’d first thought of buying the place himself, an idea reinforced by his grandfather’s stories about the airmen during the war. The day after tomorrow he had an appointment with a Mr Stretton at Lytcott Capital Management. Then he would see if it was a realistic proposition or not.
The waitress had returned with a carafe of coffee and two cups, plus a jug of cream. Shelley smiled up at her.
“This is a lovely place.” She gestured towards the window. “We were just saying there could be fairies living out there.”
She laughed. “Oh, yes, there could be. We call them piskies here. My husband’s quite a folklore buff.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh. Bernard.” She called to a tall, lanky man with a thick brown beard who was wiping down one of the other tables. “These people were asking about the piskies.”
“Oh, yes?” He came over, beaming. “Dartmoor’s a favourite haunt for piskies. They’re supposed to look like bundles of rags, and they live in caves and holes, and under oak trees.”
Alex was amused. This man clearly loved to talk about his pet subject.
“Are they friendly?” Shelley asked.
“Oh, yes. They can be very friendly and helpful, if you’re friendly to them. There’s a legend about a woman who got lost on the moor with her children. The youngest disappeared, and she searched for hours but couldn’t find him. Then, as she sat down to cry, two little piskies appeared, holding little lanterns, and guided her to where he was lying. Then they disappeared into thin air.”
“Oh, that’s lovely!”
“Mind, if you treat them badly, they can be very mischievous. Sometimes they’ll force you to dance with them for hours and hours until you collapse with exhaustion.”
Shelley laughed. “I’ll make very sure that if I meet them, I’ll be nice to them, then!”
They had finished their coffee. “Another cup?” Alex asked.
She shook her head. “Oh . . . No, thank you. Unless you’re having another one.”
“No. Shall we go then?”
“Yes, okay.” She rose to her feet and swung her bag onto her shoulder.
“Goodnight, then.” The waitress beamed. “Do come again.”
“We certainly will. The food was excellent.”
“Thank you.”
As Alex held the door open for Shelley, she glanced back over her shoulder. “What a nice place.” She smiled up at him. “I’m glad you didn’t take me somewhere posh.”
He laughed. “Maybe next time?”
“Oh . . .” She froze, like that fox in the garden when he was a kid, darting back behind the hedge. “No . . . I . . .”
