The Captain's Cornish Christmas Read online

  Jago untied the painter and restarted the engine. The light was failing by the moment and the sky was growing dark with clouds, but the twinkling illuminations of Polneath harbor would welcome them home.

  * * * *

  With his pager in his pocket, as it always was, Jago pushed through the door of the Admiral Benbow. Peregrine rushed in ahead of him, announcing his arrival with a loud miaow. The ancient, wooden-beamed pub was packed and Jago had trouble spotting Sam. Was this such a good idea? He hadn’t socialized for a while, had almost forgotten how to. But there was no sense in moping, nor thinking over what had happened last Christmas.

  And he really had to stop thinking about those red boxer shorts.

  He heard Sam before he saw him at the center of a crowd around the bar, that braying voice soaring over the laughter of the villagers, all of whom were clutching a drink that he instinctively guessed their local celebrity had paid for. And was he really telling them— He couldn’t be—

  “So there I am, totally oblivious to anything other than my workout!” Sam was laughing as he told it, this edited, family-friendly version of the truth. “And in strides Jago, thinking I’ve been popped off and hauled overboard! Is there any wonder I fell over my feet? So that’s how I got the shiner. Sadly I can’t claim that an outraged literary critic punched me, though a few would probably like to!”

  “Evening, Sam.” Jago nodded to him as Peregrine leaped onto Jago’s shoulder and perched there like a parrot. “You’ve been telling them what you were getting up to? Yes, it’s true, I walked in on him working out—very strenuous exercise it must’ve been too!”

  “What’re you drinking, Jago?” Sam extended his hand to welcome Jago and the crowd parted, allowing him to approach the old oak bar. Perched on a high stool beneath the hanging tankards, a pint in his hand, Sam Coryton looked just as at home here as he must in a London bar, those elegant fingers wrapped around a glass of champagne. He had changed from the afternoon’s cricket sweater and wore another cozy jumper with his jeans, this one an appropriately nautical blue, and a long red scarf tied in a knot around his neck.

  “A pint of the local ale, if you’d be so kind.” Jago absentmindedly reached up to fuss his feline parrot, who was purring loudly. Sam always had been a handsome bastard, even with a bruise. “Sorry—Peregrine’s fond of making a racket.”

  “Is he friendly?” Sam blinked and Jago couldn’t help but wince. That eye did look painful, purple and black staining the flawless tan of Sam’s face. “Hey, Peregrine, how’re you?”

  The mackerel tabby swatted Sam across the head, then hopped onto his shoulder, where he proceeded to rub his cheek against Sam’s.

  “There’s your answer. A bit prickly to begin with, but he’ll soon warm to you.” Jago folded his arms against the bar as he watched the landlord pull his pint. He could see Sam’s black eye reflected in the mirror behind the bar. “You did put some ice on that, didn’t you? Looks sore to me, mate.”

  “I did and it is.” Sam shrugged one shoulder, closing his eyes as he nuzzled against Peregrine’s tabby coat, cooing softly. He stroked the cat’s back and scratched behind his ears, apparently now his best friend for life.

  “Sorry. I’m not much cop at rescuing people, am I, if you didn’t need rescuing to start with and ended up with a black eye.” Jago sipped his pint, amused at the sight of Peregrine on his new perch. “Must say, though, it does give you a rather piratical air, especially with my parrot on your shoulder!”

  “Cheers, cap’n! Shall we have something to eat? What do you fancy?” Sam glanced at the villagers, who were starting to thin out a little, clearly gathering that the author and the lifeboatman had some drinking to do. “Nuts? Chips? How about mince pies?”

  “Why not? I’ve not had any mince pies this year yet.”

  “Stack ‘em up, barkeep!” Sam laughed. “Pile the mince pies high!”

  The mince pies were homemade, the pastry crimped by hand. Sticky filling oozed through the cracks and icing sugar decked their cases like the memory of a snow flurry.

  “Fresh out the oven—still warm, they are!” The landlord proudly set the plate down in front of the two men. Sam picked up the plate and offered it to Jago, smiling that same, broad smile that he had known since childhood.

  Jago nodded his thanks to Sam as he took one and gladly bit into it. He hadn’t tasted anything so good for a while. “What an excellent mince pie. But you’re the cook, Sam—what do you think?”

  “Just an enthusiastic amateur.” Sam took a bite and made a show of chewing thoughtfully. He swallowed and nodded. “A taste of home.”

  Home. An image swam into Jago’s mind of Peregrine on the rug in front of the stove, and two figures on the sofa. He shook his head.

  “Fancy another pie?” he asked Sam brightly. “Bet this is all a bit low-key for you, isn’t it? No celebrities milling about in shades—well, apart from you. And you’ve forgotten your shades!”

  “Is that what you think I do?” Sam laughed and took another pie from the plate. “Loll about with the jet set?”

  Jago frowned as he drank his ale. “Isn’t it?”

  “So, here’s something you won’t be expecting then.” Sam turned away from the taproom a little and dropped his voice. “I’m back to stay. Had a bucketful of London life and I’ve never been one for the party crowd. I just want fresh air and space to write. Polneath’s home again, the Big House—don’t think I don’t know how you lot make fun of it—will now be occupied all year round. Sam Coryton is back!”

  Jago raised his eyebrow. “You’ll soon get bored, I bet! All us ordinary folk under your feet.”

  Peregrine didn’t seem as skeptical, though, and purred loudly as he stretched his tail around Sam’s neck like a furry scarf.

  “You save lives as a matter of routine. Nothing ordinary about that.” He took a sip of beer. “I sit on a comfy chair in a comfy house and write books, not exactly exciting!”

  “Save lives?” Jago shrugged. “Last week, we were called out to save ‘a drowning man’, and it was only an inflatable Father Christmas that’d had blown off someone’s roof into the sea! Or there was that tender with a malfunctioning outboard engine—it went round and round and round in the middle of the marina until we took a boathook to it and managed to turn it off.”

  “All I’m saying is that my life isn’t all champagne and socialites. When did you last go to a party?”

  “Erm…last year.” Jago tapped his beer mat against the table. “I was only really there as a plus-one anyway. Someone was opening a new surfboard shop in Bude. Bet you didn’t think I was cool enough to go to a party full of surfers! Still, I managed to spoil it by having stern words with some pillock who let off a flare for a laugh. Wasn’t laughing by the time I’d finished with him. And neither was I.”

  Sam frowned then said, “I used to go to every party I got invited to, then I realized I hated them. Not the ones with mates, the ones with photographers. So I stopped going and stayed at home, throwing the parties, much more fun. I was born and bred near the wild Cornish water. London was the best place in the world for a couple of years, then I made the mistake of spending last summer here—couldn’t get the place out of my head. I’m home, Jago, and for the first time in forever, it feels like it.”

  He raised his glass. “I can still have parties, and what better view than that perfect old harbor?”

  “You’ll certainly make the old place more lively! Will it be all glamour, like The Great Gatsby?” Grinning, Jago nudged him. “Just don’t let off any flares, all right? Captain Treherne’s orders.”

  “Scout’s honor, darling.” Sam laughed. “Just don’t black my other eye!”

  “I don’t make a habit of dishing out black eyes, you know.” Jago saw that he had only a third of his ale left. He wasn’t going to have another pint, not when he was on call. He helped himself to another mince pie instead. “I can’t even offer you any makeup to cover it up with, either!”

  “I look
nicely rugged, I’ll work it.” He laughed and skinned one hand through his shock of dark hair. “Another pint?”

  Jago saw those red boxer shorts again. He glanced down at his glass rather sadly. “I’d love to, but… I’m on call.”

  The words Jago hated to say, reminding him of one painful row after another. ‘You’re always on call’, ‘You’re no fun’ and ‘Why did you get all pissy about the flare?’ Until one day, Jago had found himself all alone. Why had he ever thought that his surfer boyfriend would remain interested in him? It was better to avoid fun and glamour and excitement, better to avoid getting hurt. As Jago’s ex had told him in the letter he had found on the mantelpiece beside Peregrine’s Christmas stocking—You’re just too boring.

  “Well, it doesn’t have to be booze, Jago, and I feel rotten about dragging you out.” He put his own empty glass down. “Share a pot of tea with me instead? Tea and mince pies, like when we were little!”

  “Tea, in the pub?” Jago laughed, but he liked the idea. “Go on, then! Will you ask for some cream for Peregrine? He’s not meant to have it, but a little won’t hurt. And—look, you didn’t drag me out—I just really hope I didn’t embarrass you too much. If it makes it any better…” Jago lowered his voice, mindful of the yarn Sam had spun the pub’s regulars, “I didn’t see anything. Well, apart from your—ahem—behind. But not, y’know, the front.”

  The tea and cream were duly served, and Sam was still snuggling Peregrine when he confided cheekily, “I was a bit embarrassed. I’m not the flashing-the-captain sort!”

  “That’s a shame—would make my job more interesting!” Jago dropped more sugar cubes into his tea than he had meant to and stirred the resulting syrup with an unsteady hand. Idiot! He’d only gone and admitted to Sam that he wouldn’t mind seeing him flash.

  He could feel Sam’s gaze on him, before he heard him say softly, “Maybe if you ever find yourself single again, we could discuss that potential plot twist?”

  Jago forced himself to drink his very hot and very sweet tea. He would’ve sworn that his teeth vibrated from the vast quantity of sugar it contained. “Actually—well…” Jago returned the cup to its saucer. Was Sam playing with him? But Jago decided he may as well be honest. “I am single, actually. Apart from Peregrine. And as much as I value his company—”

  The cat had slithered his front paws onto the table and was enthusiastically lapping the cream, his back legs still balanced on Sam’s shoulder. “His table manners leave a lot to be desired.”

  “I got dumped on Valentine’s, Jago.” Sam was still smiling, but a little more wistfully. “Nice guy, but— I got dumped for the most embarrassing reason a chap can get dumped. Apparently, I’m a bit boring, so that should put paid to your ideas about my hard-partying lifestyle!”

  “Valentine’s Day? Ouch!” Jago scratched Peregrine’s velvety head as the cat went on lapping. “I got dumped on Christmas Day.”

  “Bloody hell, that’s even worse! Sorry, chum!”

  “I’m boring too, apparently!” Jago sighed. “He was going to his parents’ for Christmas, I was staying here because I was on call, I came back from the lifeboat station in the early hours and there it was—a note. And an empty house. Not the most wonderful time of the year, to be honest.”

  “Were you together long?” Sam topped up the teacups. “I can’t get over that. Valentine’s was bad enough, but Christmas?”

  “He came down for the surfing last spring. Within a month, he’d moved in, but he was always off surfing, and that time of year it’s always busy with tourists down here—I’m sure you know how many lilos get blown out to sea with kids clinging to them for dear life. Didn’t see much of each other. Autumn arrived, but—maybe it was too late by then. He went away for Christmas and never came back.” Jago paused as he stirred his tea. “So, in answer to your question—not long. But… Long enough for it to hurt when he left.”

  Jago hadn’t talked about his break-up with anyone. Talking wouldn’t fix it, so he’d ignored it, but still, it was there, like a stone in his shoe. And now he’d told Sam. Why? Perhaps because Sam would understand.

  “That’s…” He shook his head and reached out, touching Jago’s forearm fleetingly. “Anyone who’d do that, they’re not a person you want in your life.”

  “No. And Valentine’s Day is rough too.” Jago filed away the sensation of Sam’s touch and allowed himself to look into his eyes. He really was a very handsome fellow. “Were you—had he moved in?”

  “He’s a nice guy. I need to say that because it won’t sound as if he is.” Sam put his cup down and stroked his hand over Peregrine’s soft back. He met Jago’s gaze and told him, “It was our first Valentine’s, so I said I’d cook us a really nice dinner and— You know that thing when you’re out shopping and you walk past a coffee shop and see your boyfriend with his tongue in another man’s mouth? That.”

  Jago, his cup halfway to his mouth, nearly spilled his tea. “What? That’s—oh, Sam, how awful! And—a nice guy? Doesn’t sound like it to me, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “We had the argument to end all arguments that night.” Sam winced and Jago wondered if the flush of his cheeks was embarrassment or remembered anger. “And he told me that he wouldn’t have done it if I was a bit more exciting. Nick said I was thirty-six going on fifty-six and he wasn’t ready to get old yet. Mind you, he was a youthful thirty-five, so he’d know.”

  He laughed and pushed the plate of pies toward Jago. “He and Mr. Coffee-Shop went off to India in a VW bus, so maybe it was always meant to be!”

  “Not quite the same as cruising in that big old yacht of yours, no!” Jago took another pie, carefully licking the icing sugar off his fingertips before biting into the soft pastry. “More fool him. He was going out with you—lucky bastard!”

  “I don’t really go anywhere on the yacht, I just pootle about the bay quaffing champers.” Sam chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, India’s gorgeous, but I’m rather fond of home nowadays!”

  “Not such a bad old place, is it?” Jago slouched back in his chair and peered out at the street. “Ah…no sign of that bad weather after all! Sorry about that, Sam. Not only was your boat not in trouble, but the storm hasn’t turned up either.”

  “I just want some snow, a lovely white Christmas,” Sam admitted. He picked up Peregrine and snuggled the cat against his jumper, placing a kiss to his head. “This is the nicest cat I’ve ever met. I might have to steal him away!”

  “My little furry friend?” Jago was impressed by how well Sam and the cat were getting on. Peregrine had certainly taken a shine to the author. He didn’t just perch on anyone’s shoulders. “Tell you what, he’d like a go on your boat. He was a ship’s cat once upon a time. It struck the rocks and we got the crew off—including the cat—and…well, he decided to move in.”

  “You’re a lucky pair to have each other.” Sam nuzzled another kiss between Peregrine’s ears. “Another, cap’n, or have you got to go and hang out your stocking?”

  “I ought to go. As much as I’ve enjoyed this, actually—better get some sleep. If the storm does come overnight, I’ll be busier than Father Christmas!” He held his hand out to shake Sam’s and winked. “We should do this again! Two boring old farts drinking tea in a pub—I’ve enjoyed it.”

  “Whenever you like, captain.” Sam seized Jago’s hand and shook it warmly. “I’ll walk out with you, better get off home and wrap the presents for the mothership!”

  Jago coiled himself back into his scarf and his coat and clicked his fingers for Peregrine to follow, even though his cat followed him everywhere. But Peregrine heeded his command and gave Sam a happy, chirruping miaow before jumping down from the table.

  Sam followed, shrugging himself into a rather formal, oddly rakish greatcoat. He left a handful of notes on the bar and murmured playfully to the landlord, “It’s all on me tonight. Merry Christmas.”

  At the door, Sam and Jago stood aside for a large party of rosy-faced revelers who had
obviously been drinking for a while.

  “Wahey!” one of them shouted. “You two are right under the mistletoe! Go on, give ‘im a smacker on the lips!”

  “What d’you say, captain?” Sam grinned. “It’d be nicer than a black eye!”

  Peregrine twined between their legs, miaowing insistently as if he, too, thought the two men should kiss. But Jago could only gape in alarm. A kiss under the mistletoe, in front of everyone in the pub? Because when Sam decided that Jago was indeed boring, like everyone else did, all these people in the pub would want to know, again—where’s that boyfriend of yours gone? And what would Jago say to that?

  He chuckled awkwardly and shook his head. Even though he wanted this more than anything, he couldn’t bear to be hurt again. A cold draught was blowing in through the half-open door. Maybe the storm was coming on after all. “No, I—I’m not into dating anymore.”

  “Ouch!” Sam laughed, but the sound was as cold as the breeze that ruffled their hair. Then he composed what must be his most winsome look. “Go crazy, give me a peck on the cheek? I promise I’m not half as dull as I made myself sound.”

  “I—I can’t.” Jago picked up the noisy cat and, without looking back at Sam, hurried out of the pub. Peregrine miaowed at him all the way home, trying to wriggle free of his arms, but Jago didn’t let him go until he was back inside the safe confines of their cottage. Maybe he was boring, the sort of man who wouldn’t kiss a man who was clearly interested, a man in red boxers who—

  Who was he trying to kid? Sam was being Sam, chummy, good-humored, a ham for the crowd. Sam Coryton wouldn’t look twice at Jago Treherne.

  * * * *

  The promised storm never arrived, only a cold, northerly wind that rattled Jago’s windows. He put the radio on and listened to some carols as he ate his breakfast. Peregrine sat by the front door, yowling to go out.