A Cornish Stranger by Liz Fenwick Page B

they always said? Save a stranger from the sea—’
    A man stuck his head through the shop door. ‘Mrs Bates, can you move your car? They’re trying to get a trailer down to the pub.’
    â€˜I’ll be back.’ She waved and disappeared, leaving her basket on the counter. Gabe took the opportunity to pay, then set off out of the shop at a pace that hurt her aching legs, wondering how Mrs Bates could take two and two and come up with six.
    As they reached to the pub, Fin touched her arm and Gabe jumped.
    â€˜Sorry.’ He tilted his head to the side. ‘Can I buy you a drink to say thanks?’
    Gabe turned and smiled. ‘Sounds wonderful, but, um, do you have your wallet?’
    â€˜Oh, damn, I forgot about that.’ He tapped his forehead with his right hand.
    She laughed. ‘Lost your memory along with your boat?’
    â€˜Must have.’
    â€˜Well, I think stopping for a drink is a wonderful idea, and I’ll pay,’ Gabe said, heading into the pub.
    Once they had their drinks, they sat down on the lower terrace. The sun was so warm that Gabe shed her jumper. September was the perfect month, she thought, with its blue skies, warm sun and few tourists, just enough to keep the local businesses happy but the roads reasonably clear.
    â€˜Do you know everyone here?’ Fin held his pint.
    â€˜Sort of . . .’ She paused. ‘I spent much of my childhood here.’
    â€˜Perfect.’ He glanced out towards Falmouth Bay.
    â€˜Yes.’ Gabe thought of the early years when her father was still around. ‘Where did you grow up?’
    â€˜Here and there.’
    Gabe frowned.
    â€˜My father was a diplomat.’ He traced a finger through the condensation on the side of his glass. His fingers were long, but they weren’t a musician’s hands. ‘I did spend many summers in Fowey, though, with family.’
    â€˜Lovely.’
    â€˜It was, yes.’
    â€˜I don’t mean to intrude . . .’ Gabe pursed her lips, trying think of how to ask this.
    â€˜But you will.’ He raised and eyebrow and Gabe noted the hints of green in the deep-set blue eyes.
    â€˜Why are you staying with us if you have family in Fowey?’
    â€˜Fair question.’ He sipped his beer. ‘They sold the house this spring when my grandmother died and the family couldn’t agree on who should have the house.’
    â€˜Oh.’ Gabe continued to study him, hoping he’d reveal more. When he didn’t volunteer anything further, she asked, ‘And you normally live . . . ?’
    He rolled the pint between his hands. ‘You see, that’s the problem. I don’t have a normal at the moment.’
    Gabe tilted her head to one side, waiting for him to continue.
    â€˜Normal disappeared when my wife left me for her best friend.’
    â€˜Oh!’
    â€˜Oh, really doesn’t cover it.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘I was so shocked I wanted nothing to do with my old life because it was a lie.’
    â€˜I see.’
    â€˜I wish I had,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But enough about me.’ He grinned, revealing slight dimples. ‘You live with your grandmother?’
    Gabe nodded, thinking that didn’t sound very good, a thirty-year-old woman living with her grandmother.
    â€˜And she’s the famous artist Jaunty Blythe.’
    Gabe sucked in a mouthful of air, wondering how he knew. There were no photographs of Jaunty in any magazines or papers, no interviews . . And then she remembered that Jaunty had taken him to the studio.
    Â 
    Jean . Gabriella must understand that Jean is the key.
    After my first year studying in Paris my style was improving but Jean’s – Jean’s was special. It was based on hard work and sound skills but somehow, despite the technical ability underlining it, her work was innocent, even slightly primitive. Under each painting was a flawlessly executed sketch but once