Summer's Lease

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1

“The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,” John Tennant said, then hiccupped. He turned his gaze from the waves which, though moonlit, weren’t exactly cloudy. Nor, as far as he could make out, were there any galleons, ghostly or otherwise. Stumbling, he looked down and stared at a smooth white stone that was no bigger than a golf ball. “Hello, who put you there?”

He smiled, feeling happy for the first time since…“George,” he said aloud, his mood abruptly plummeting.

Reaching the end of the garden path, John lifted the dustbin lid and dropped in his bag of rubbish. Not that there was much; he’d been in the cottage for less than a day. But Morwenna, the owner of the half-dozen cottages that formed the tiny hamlet of Bishop’s Cove, had advised him that the bins were only emptied once every two weeks.

“And the bin men are apt to come early. Being from the city, you might not be awake in time to put out your rubbish.”

John had bristled; he’d always been an early riser, but then he supposed his definition of early might not be Morwenna’s. If her multi-coloured, tie-dyed, and no doubt home-spun clothes, the myriad bangles on her wrists, sandals on her feet, and the nest of twigs and wild flowers in her hair were any indication, she probably got up with the sun and danced naked in the dewy grass. John resolutely turned his mind away from such a mental picture. She was sixty if she was a day, and even if she were younger, the image would have still been distasteful. John didn’t fancy women.

Facing the sea once again, he breathed deeply of the salt-laden air. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the hypnotic rhythm of the waves. The stress of the past few months began to loosen some of its crippling hold.

John hadn’t known why he’d been surprised at Morwenna’s unorthodox appearance. Hadn’t he figured she’d be…free-spirited when he’d spoken with her on the phone?

Handing him a glass of wine, which she had explained was fermented from the elderflowers that grew in her garden, Morwenna had gone on to say something…strange. “Yes.” She’d looked him up and down. “You’re exactly how I saw you. You’ll do very nicely.”

“Um,” John had hesitated, wine glass hovering midway to his lips. “Maybe I should explain. I’m gay. I don’t—”

Morwenna had laughed and clapped her hands. “I know.”

“Oh.” Obviously she was one of those new-age types, or perhaps just a bit touched, John thought.

Morwenna’s cat, which had been slinking around in the shadows, slid out and wrapped itself around John’s legs. John had not been tempted to bend down to stroke the thing—he didn’t really care for cats: aloof, self-important creatures that they were.

“He likes you. Another excellent sign.”

John had taken a sip of the wine. It was surprisingly palatable if you went in for rustic-type beverages, which he usually didn’t.

Morwenna had insisted John take the rest of the bottle away with him.

On getting back to his cottage, and after unpacking his car, John had seen the bottle on the draining board and decided to take a quick sip.

The sip had led to a glass, which had graduated to three glasses.

“No wonder I’m a bit unsteady on me pins.” John smiled to himself, leaning against the dustbin.

He hoped he wouldn’t have a hangover in the morning, but then, would it matter if he did? He didn’t need to get up early—he’d got a long leave of absence from his middle-grade paper-pushing position in the Department of Work and Pensions. The job was dull, but it suited him. Maybe he was dull, too. Though George had always told him off when he started to go down that road.

George’s life insurance and his work pension meant John didn’t need to work ever again if he was careful with his investments and lived simply. Careful and simple were John’s middle names. He sighed. Yes, the money was nice, but he’d much rather have George alive and well.

John’s only big expense of late had been renting the cottage. But fate, in the guise of a curious gust of wind, had almost literally landed the summer getaway in John’s lap.

He thought back to that day in Regent’s Park.

After feeding the ducks, he’d settled himself on a wooden bench to enjoy the spring sunshine. It had been a cold winter and this was one of the first nice days they’d had.

Within seconds of settling his thin frame, a breeze got up, disturbing a nearby pile of litter. A brightly-coloured piece of paper separated itself from the rest and skipped across the grass toward him, coming to rest against his right shoe. John ignored the paper, but another gust blew the thing up his leg and onto his lap. The large typed words, Relaxing Cornish Getaways, caught his eye, so, not having anything else to do, he began to read the rest of the leaflet, thinking when he got up, he’d deposit it in one of the rubbish bins that were dotted around the park. But, although he had no memory of doing so, he must have folded the glossy leaflet and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. The next time he’d seen the brochure was a week later when he went to collect his dry cleaning.

The woman in the shop had saved the paper for him, remarking on how nice and peaceful the hamlet looked. John had intended telling her to throw it away, but was distracted by a call on his mobile phone that turned out to be a wrong number and ended up taking the brochure home and absent-mindedly dropping it on the small table in the hallway of his flat.

A couple of days later his mother-in-law had popped in for a chat and a cup of tea. Doris, bless her heart, had done a lot of “popping in” since George’s death. The woman was well-meaning, but she reminded John of George, and—at least she and her husband Bill had been supportive of George’s sexuality, which was more than could be said for John’s own parents, who had treated his coming out with indifference.

Doris had pounced on the brochure and immediately started in on how John should take a break. “You haven’t had a holiday since George died.”

“It’s been less than a year.” He could quote the exact number of days and possibly hours since George had collapsed after climbing out of the bath. He could also quote the doctor who had tried to offer comfort by telling him George probably was dead before he’d hit the carpet.

“I know,” Doris had said, no doubt picking up on his thoughts. She’d taken his hand and given it a squeeze.

John had sighed. He knew a holiday without George wouldn’t be much fun. They’d been a couple for almost twenty years and had done pretty much everything together.

But Doris had been determined to get him moving forward, trotting out all the old sayings about how John should get out more, how George wouldn’t have wanted him to sit at home and mourn for the rest of his life. Then she’d brought out a few new arguments, the most persuasive of which was that he and George hadn’t ever visited Cornwall, so there wouldn’t be any ghosts of past visits to haunt him.

John had done what he did best…prevaricated. The most Doris got out of him was a promise to think about it. He knew, however, that if he were to go anywhere, it would be somewhere exotic with more amenities than a rustic cottage close to the edge of—if not beyond—civilisation. He’d wondered about a holiday on a tropical desert island with cool breezes and hot scantily-clad male natives serving him drinks and—no, he wasn’t ready to move on. George was barely cold in the ground.

But Doris had been relentless. She’d brought up the Cornish cottages on her next two visits. John had admitted he’d mislaid the brochure. In point of fact, he’d thrown it in the waste paper basket.

“But it’s on the hall table, I saw it when I came in.”

“What?”

Doris got up, walked into the hallway, and came back a few seconds later holding the brochure.

Jesus, I must be losing it. Maybe I need that holiday more than I think, John had thought, eyeing the creased sheet of paper. It had definitely been the same brochure, with the same slight tear in the upper-left corner.

John took in another deep breath of fresh sea air, opened his eyes and started to turn back to the cottage. He might as well go to bed—not that there was any prospect of sleep; he hadn’t had a single night of uninterrupted rest since George’s passing. Although, maybe the crashing waves, the long journey from London, and Morwenna’s wine might just…

He gasped and froze in place. There, not fifteen feet in front of him, between him and the sanctuary of the cottage, was a huge—no, make that enormous—brown bear.

The creature turned its head and stared at him. The bear’s blue eyes narrowed and he could hear the animal’s steady breathing. He was drawn back to the eyes. Do bears have blue eyes? Does blue show up in moonlight? Or maybe it’s the light spilling out from the open kitchen door that allows the colour to show. And why the hell am I dwelling on colour perception when I should be running for my life?

He couldn’t move. His brain was telling him he should be shitting in his underwear, but instead he felt a curious calmness wash over him. It had to be that bloody wine. He’d definitely pour the rest of it down the sink when he got back into the kitchen. Assuming I ever get back into the kitchen and don’t end up as dinner for a hungry bear, he thought.

“Uh, nice Teddy.” Jesus, what was he saying?

The bear continued to stare at him.

“Nice night isn’t it?” John shut his mouth, knowing he was sounding like a total prat. Definitely the alcohol.

But drunk or not, what did one say to a bear? He imagined the books on etiquette so beloved by his social-climbing mother would be silent on the subject.

John was pretty sure bears weren’t native to Britain, or at least hadn’t been for about a thousand years. Maybe Teddy—John suppressed a giggle at the silly name he’d come up with—had escaped from a zoo or a circus or something. Perhaps that meant he was tame, or as tame as such a creature could be. He certainly was magnificent, all raw power, muscle and strength. So animalistic. Jesus, am I getting a bloody hard-on over a wild, escaped bear?

Teddy sniffed the air.

“Uh, I don’t think I’d make a very tasty snack for you,” John chuckled. “But I might have something in the cottage.” He pointed to the open kitchen door behind the bear. “Although I haven’t managed to go to the supermarket yet.” Shut the hell up! John told himself.

With a snort, Teddy shook his head and ambled away, his gait loping but unhurried.

Weirdly, John felt sorry to see the huge creature leave. And with his—John didn’t know why he’d assumed the bear was male—departure, John felt panic rush in. He stumbled for the cottage’s back door, locking and bolting it behind him, despite what Morwenna had said about how it wasn’t necessary in their little community.

John leaned against the door and tried to calm his racing heart. With the adrenalin coursing through him, he was certain he wouldn’t get any sleep that night, and doubted he’d packed the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed after George’s death. John had refused to take the darned things, as they made him feel empty, and he was pretty empty as it was.