me about your family.”
“Don't have any; at least not here.”
“Your life, then?”
“Checkered.”
“Is that the truth?”
“Truth enough.”
“Okay then, beauty? Besides your own, which is perfectly obvious to anyone with at least one functioning eye.”
This seemed genuinely to have taken the woman aback. She turned to the tall gin and tonic Flora had left her and downed a third of it in one go. She stared at the glass for a moment, then turned toward him.
“Thank you,” she muttered. Then she smiled. “Liar.”
“You're right, I'm lying. I spend my days photographing gorgeous, scantily clad models for fashion magazines, and I've just gotten used to telling women they're beautiful. Apart from you, most of them seem willing to accept the compliment.”
“You're a fashion photographer?”
“No. That's the ‘liar’ part.”
She smacked his arm playfully and laughed, then raised her glass and clinked his. “You win this round.”
“I didn't know it was a competition.” This, too, was a lie; he felt as if he'd been fencing ever since he arrived.
“It's always a competition.”
“What is?”
“Flirting.”
“Is that what we're doing?”
“Isn't it?”
“Wait. This is making my head hurt. I asked first.”
“And I dodged the question.”
“You certainly did.”
Andrew felt weirdly off balance with this lovely but curious woman. And he realized this whole business of interacting with someone new was a little scary. It had been years. How do you behave? What do you say? Especially when the woman in question seemed armed to the teeth, at least verbally. Even more especially when you found yourself powerfully attracted to her.
For her part, Nicola was rather enjoying Andrew's struggle. Although he stayed right with her in their quick-witted parry and thrust, she sensed she had the upper hand. She liked that.
Andrew did a verbal feint. “Look, I'm told the reason to be here on Sunday afternoon is the roast dinners. Are you eating?”
“Heavens, no; far too much food for midday. I'd be asleep by three.”
“So why are you here?”
“You mean, apart from the gin?”
“Apart from the gin.”
She scanned the packed pub. “For the company, I guess. It's better in winter, without the tourists. But I don't mind the crowds.” They fill up the emptiness, she thought. She waved at the Reverend Janet, who was working the crowd, a judicious half pint of ale in her free hand. “My work is pretty solitary.”
As if he'd been given a peek through a keyhole, Andrew saw through Nicola's wall. But he was too much of a gentleman to pursue it.
“Ah,” he said, “we're back to what you do.”
“Clever how you did that.”
“You brought it up, actually, but as long as you did, let me guess: You're either an exceptionally messy interior decorator or an artist.”
“Aren't you observant!”
“You're an artist?”
“No. I'm an exceptionally messy decorator, and I'd better get back to my paint cans.”
She drained her glass and slung a canvas purse over her shoulder.
“Nice meeting you, Drew. Thanks for the drink.”
She had started to turn away from him but stopped. “Lee was right about what she said about you.”
“Which was?”
Nicki smiled a conspirator's smile. “Oh, that's just between us girls.”
“Do you have a name, besides Nicki?” Andrew felt like he was trying to lasso Nicola and pull her back.
“Nicola Rhys-Jones, formerly DeLucca.”
“Married then?”
“Not anymore.”
Andrew smiled. She didn't.
“And you're called …?” she asked.
“Stratton, like the village up the coast. Andrew Stratton.”
“Married?”
“Not anymore.”
This time Nicki did smile.
Then she was gone. She slipped through the crowd like water through rocks, disturbing nothing. Andrew fought his way to the door, just in time to see her disappear across the narrow bridge over the river. She was swinging her purse and Randi was dancing around her again.
The village of Boscastle lies within a conservation area amongst some of the most beautiful countryside within the British Isles, and is one of the very few unspoilt harbor villages in Cornwall. Designated an Area of Outstanding Beauty (AOB), the National Trust own and care for the surrounding coastline including the cliffs of Penally Point and Willapark which guard the Elizabethan harbor (built in 1584).
Boscastle Flood Special Issue,
Journal of Meteorology 29, no. 293
five
It was still too early for the sun to have crested the steep hills to the east as Andrew made his way down through Minster Wood to the footpath along the river on Monday morning. The valley was cool and misty, the grass laden with dew, the soft earth moistly fragrant. Mercifully, it was also too early for the tourist throngs. The street through Quay Town was nearly deserted, most of the shops still closed. He had a sudden glimpse of