The Little B & B at Cove End. Linda Mitchelmore

      

       Chapter Twenty-Six

      

       Chapter Twenty-Seven

      

       Chapter Twenty-Eight

      

       Chapter Twenty-Nine

      

       Acknowledgements

      

       Extract

       Dear Reader …

       Keep Reading …

      

       About the Author

      

       About the Publisher

       Mike and Barbara Adams – for a lifetime of support, generosity, and love.

       Chapter One

      ‘But Mae, we have to eat!’ Cara said, standing in the hallway, the flyer for the art festival in her hand: LARRACOMBE TO CHALLENGE ST IVES 3rd–7th AUGUST, it said in fancy script. There was a list of artists who would be showing their work and giving talks and workshops – Elisabeth James, Janey Cooper, Stella Murphy and Tom Gasson-Smith amongst others, although Cara hadn’t heard of any of them. The festival was six weeks away, but she was thinking fast. She would have enough time to get her B&B up and running, and a bit of experience under her belt. August was high summer when high prices could be charged. There would be lots of people coming from further afield to the festival, people wanting somewhere to stay. There was even a number to ring for anyone able to host artists. Cara would ring just as soon as she had calmed Mae down a bit and reassured her that Cove End would still be very much their home, even though they’d need to take in paying guests to survive.

      ‘Didn’t Dad leave anything, Mum? Anything at all?’

      Mae was practically screaming the words at her.

      ‘Sssh. Don’t shout, darling. We don’t want everyone to know our business.’

      ‘Huh. You tell Rosie everything.’ Mae tossed her head of auburn curls and dragged her fingers through her hair, straightening and then tweaking the curls she loved and hated in equal measure, depending on her mood. Cara had a feeling she hated those curls at that moment.

      ‘Keep your voice down. It’s not nice to talk about people behind their backs. Rosie can probably hear you.’

      Mae gave a couldn’t-care-less shrug and Cara did her best to remember how it had been when she’d been on the cusp of womanhood herself – the moods, the angst, the lack of self-confidence sometimes.

      Cara’s friend, Rosie, was still in Cara’s kitchen. She’d come over for Sunday lunch as she often had since Cara had been widowed, and the three of them – Cara, Mae and Rosie – had created a family of sorts. Yes, they were good friends and looked out for one another, but Cara did not tell Rosie everything.

      ‘I do not tell Rosie everything,’ Cara said, keeping her voice calm. ‘But to answer your question, all your dad left us was the house.’

       And that had always been in my name anyway in case of bankruptcy, but there was no need for Mae to know that.

      ‘I want to believe you, Mum,’ Mae said, screwing her eyes up tight, which Cara knew was just so the tears that were threatening didn’t fall, ‘I really do, but I can’t quite. I mean, Dad loved us, right?’

      In his way, Cara wanted to say. But just not enough to stop gambling; not enough that he didn’t sell anything he could to fund his addiction; not enough that he wasn’t open and honest with us both.

      ‘He loved you very much, you know that.’

      Cara hoped that would be the answer her daughter needed and wanted in that moment.

      ‘Yeah,’ Mae said, slowly, letting the word out like a sad sigh. And there was a tiny twitch at the corners of her mouth, the beginnings of a smile as though she was remembering the good times with her father and all they had been to one another. And then she took a deep breath and pulled herself up tall. ‘Yeah, well, try and remember it’s my house, too. I’m not moving out of my bedroom for any stupid B&B guests. Dad would never, ever, have wanted me to do that. Okay?’

      ‘Of course I won’t move you out of your room. Don’t worry,’ Cara said, weary of the fight she was having with her fifteen-year-old daughter over her new venture.

      ‘Couldn’t you get a job or something?’ Mae asked, arms folded across her chest, a pout on her face. ‘Go back to working in a bank or something, like you did before you had me?’

      ‘No, I’ve been out of it too long for that. Things have changed so much in fifteen years I’d need too much training to even get in at the lowest level. I’m not computer-literate enough for a start.’

      ‘Making stuff, then? Clothes. You’re good at that. The vintage dresses Dad bought me and you copied when I’d worn them and worn them and they were falling apart in the end because I’d worn them so much and the material was, like, ancient anyway, or I’d grown out of them … you always did that brilliantly. You could start a business – haute couture or something.’

      ‘It’s a lovely thought, darling,’ Cara said, hugging her daughter’s compliment to her because they came so rarely these days. But in her heart Cara knew it would be an impossible business to get into with just a now very ancient Singer sewing machine. She’d need a machine to do overlocking for a start and she just didn’t have the money. Or, as she’d said a moment ago, the computer skills to sell her product online, although she could learn that if she had to. ‘But I’m no Stella McCartney.’

      ‘Duh!’ Mae said, slapping her forehead theatrically. ‘You don’t need to be Stella McCartney, or anyone else, Mum. You just have to make good stuff that people want and …’

      ‘Enough, Mae,’ Cara interrupted. Mae was making a very decent argument about what she could do to get them out of the financial mess they were in, but Cara had already thought of all that; been awake night after night thinking those same things and if she could get any of them to work. ‘Now go and meet Josh and have a lovely time.’

      ‘I’m already gone,’ Mae said, hurrying towards the door, not stopping to peck her mother’s cheek as she usually did.

      Cara followed more slowly, stepping out onto the terrace. She pressed her lips together, forcing a smile she didn’t feel as Mae turned round for a brief moment before scurrying off. Mae was so pretty and never afraid to be different from her peer group. She was wearing the ballerina-length, black cabbage roses on a white ground, antique dress that had been her favourite since the day Mark had bought it for her from the vintage shop in Totnes. The fabric – starched to within an inch of its life – crackled as Mae walked. A black cardigan was draped over her shoulders, a simple, fine wool but faded.

      ‘Don’t be too late, Mae,’ Cara called after her, stepping out onto the terrace. ‘Please.’ But the