A Cornish Daisy's Kiss Read online

  A Cornish Daisy’s Kiss

  By Laura Briggs

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2020 Laura Briggs

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Image: “Summer in Port Hewer.” Original art, “Man Traveling Near Seaside” by Artisticco Llc, and “Fashionable young girls” by Filitova. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

  Dear Readers,

  Train tracks are bringing Maisie back to the charming Cornish village by the sea, as her writing dreams take a new route from the one she explored in Paris and London. Her time away has yielded new insights into her feelings about her future, and she can’t wait to return to the place—and the person—that she loves most in the world. This is the moment that readers have been waiting for, when Maisie is ready to embrace her feelings for Sidney, along with those three little words she finally confessed.

  But, alas, as we all could have predicted, it isn’t as simple to do as she hoped. To begin with, life in Port Hewer is not as she left it, for a few changes have taken place in Maisie’s absence from the Penmarrow that put its future on precarious ground. Worse yet, the consequences of her decision to leave will come back to haunt her in matters of the heart.

  Up to this point, ‘complicated’ has best described Maisie’s experience in idyllic Port Hewer, and especially her connection with handsome local groundskeeper Sidney Daniels. But whether that connection was strong enough to survive their time apart is what scares Maisie most. If hard reality has cooled the sparks between them from distance, or the fact she exited his life a day after that confession lingers like a deep cut … then fixing it will be anything but easy. And Maisie finds herself caught up in ugly possibilities like these.

  Brace yourself as mistakes are made, emotions confronted, and more than a few well-kept secrets are finally aired in the series’ exciting sixth novel, as Maisie faces an unexpected future – and, in a breathtaking moment, the long-anticipated romantic decision with Sidney.

  Lastly, for those of you who’ve been missing my other Cornish romance series, A WEDDING IN CORNWALL, I’m thrilled to share an exclusive sneak peek of the upcoming reunion novel, Return to Cornwall, available as a bonus at the end of this book.

  Happy reading!

  Prologue:

  Let me take a deep breath and figure out where to start on this page, so you understand what you're letting yourself in for if you're reading my words. Starting is the hardest part, as everybody knows.

  I've had my fair share of 'start again' in life over the past twenty-something years, both as a person and a wannabe writer who's been scribbling books since age seven. When I was a little girl, home was where my mom and I made it, a patchwork of different rented spaces, new neighborhoods, temporary landmarks. When I was grown up, maybe it was inevitable that relocation was still in my blood, and pushed me towards a university east of my last childhood home in the States, then to a new life on the west coast when I needed a new chapter afterwards. And when my post-university writing plans began to fall apart, I didn't let it stop my dream.

  Aspiring novelists have it tough in general when it comes to both the dream and the reality of making it in the craft. We do crazy things — in my case, that involved writing a letter to my favorite author in one last desperate attempt to find a mentor and save my bid for a prestigious literary grant, after two years of dreaming and saving for the chance. Oh — and leaping across the pond to the rugged county of Cornwall to meet said author at a historic hotel, only to wind up tangled in its sometimes-mad, always-adventurous everyday operation after it mistook me for its newest employee.

  Then I fell in love with an incredible, charming, and complicated man I can't quite figure out. That made being me, being a writer, and being a fish-out-of-water hotel maid, five times more complicated than ever before.

  With all of these obstacles, my latest move would seem crazy to anybody else. Twenty-four hours ago, my mail was forwarded to an address of 'Maisie Clark, London,' under the roof of my supposed favorite novelist, whose identity was as secret as his ... er, her ... books were brilliant. But that all changed when the author confessed the truth to me: that the person who answered my letter requesting a little guidance was merely a hired pretender who masked the author's real identity. A pretender who was only trying to be kind to a struggling nobody like me.

  That's not the crazy part, actually. The crazy part is that the pretend author offered to let me stay, to use their world's privilege of editors, publishers, and agents to achieve my dream — in short, to keep on being the protege of a writer that nobody but me knew was a fake. And that's when I packed my bags to leave.

  Why? you're probably asking. Because it was a false advantage, gained under false pretenses? For the conviction that I wanted to achieve success without it, on my own terms, and on honest ground — especially after I had once been briefly guilty of using a false identity to my advantage?

  Yes to all of the above, and to something more. Because the train I am on is bound for Cornwall once again, and the station in Penzance lies just ahead, with its bus line to the tiny hamlet of Port Hewer, the elegant Penmarrow Hotel on the hill, and the one person who has always been right about me from the beginning of all of this. When I think of him especially, I feel my heart pounding anxiously, drowning out all the words I know I have to say.

  All of this looks small on paper, but it's so much bigger than it appears, even mixed in with snatches of stories I've written during my last few weeks' travels. But I can't wait to go back where I belong and start figuring out what comes next in life — for me, for my book, and for my heart.

  And I don't mean back to L.A.

  A Cornish Daisy’s Kiss

  by

  Laura Briggs

  "Next arrival, Port Hewer," announced the bus driver. I listened, as if I didn't know it already from the view through the sunny, grime-flecked windows looking out past the countryside to the strip of heath ground, and the sandy shoreline between it and the waves pounding ashore.

  On the rack above me was my suitcase, packed with souvenirs of my mentorship between two cities with the supposed Alistair 'Alli' Davies — or Megs Buntly, as it would truly seem, such as postcards and a water globe of Notre Dame. Mr. Bubbles the stuffed giraffe, reminder of a fleeting childhood crush, was squeezed in between books and everyday garments. On the seat next to me was the bag containing my manuscript, altered by the advice of both the professional editor Alli hired on my behalf and the wise words of Helen from the publishing company. The most valuable thing she gave me, the card to contact her someday when I was ready, was tucked in the handbag underneath my cloche 'traveling' hat on my lap.

  Alistair Davies was far beyond my reach, an elusive figure who might never come back to Cornwall or might be hiding there even now. My book lacked only one thing to succeed in the future, my confidence in myself to see it through rejection and praise alike. But I was struck now by how the sight of shore grass in the breeze was making my heart leap the same way Big Ben had. To think I never realized how beautiful this corner of Cornwall was in the afternoon sun was unthinkable to me, coming back like this.

  During the time I spent walking along the Seine and the bridge across the Thames, I hadn't felt sand in my Converse sneakers since early summer, or held bits of smooth stone or shell between my fingers as I watched surfers take a poundin
g in the occasional rough waves when the sea had a temper. Different waves from the California beaches I had known after leaving university — and my weak-natured boyfriend Ronnie — behind for yet another fresh start in life.

  As soon as I got back there, I would be down there running along the hotel's shore strip, shielding my face as I gazed out at the vast waters and squinted, pretending I could see Tintagel from here and that it wasn't miles and miles north.

  As soon as I get back ... to what? It was this unaddressed problem that dropped my heart into my stomach with a dull clunk now and then. No job, no room, nothing but my savings and my suitcases to my name in this place. It was like the first time I walked into the hotel, but this time without any chance of being mistaken for the newly-hired maid. It wasn't as if I could sneak upstairs and unpack, pretending I'd never left, after all. Pin on my nametag emblazoned with my pseudonym of 'Maisie Kinnan' and serve tea to hungry tourists in the hotel's dining room.

  And then there was Sidney. I would see him, hear his voice say my name, and see the light from that familiar devil-may-care smile illuminate his face when I crossed the vicarage shed's garden. The words left suspended between us were as much a problem for me as being homeless and unemployed.

  There was no convenient cab parked at the bus shelter when I disembarked with my luggage. Like the first time I arrived, I glanced towards the distant shore, then towards the road that led up the hotel's steep hill. The steepest in all the south geography, as Riley the Irish hotel porter liked to claim with groans of protest whenever he cycled up it to work. It wasn't true, but I knew from experience that it could be a little treacherous, especially if you're riding a bicycle not in the best working order.

  It brought a smile to my lips, for the time said porter loaned me that bicycle. It lingered for the memories of all the rest of staff I had missed so much — Brigette, Gomez, Katy, and Molly most of all.

  Walking through the doors of the Penmarrow would be almost like a homecoming.

  My impression of the hotel the first time I visited had been captured in a journal I kept at Sidney's suggestion, then erased after the little mishap involving the local police — but today's vision of the hotel was unchanged, even in comparison to the famed architecture of continental Europe. The rosy-bricked, towering edifice of subtly weathered old country estate house stood at the far end of an emerald green lawn stretching towards the edge of steep rock and winding sea path, keeping its gaze fixed on distant shores that others couldn't see.

  Marble pillars and floors in its reception foyer, polished bronze and carved wood accented by those vast potted ferns; Edwardian fixtures and furnishings in the parlor whose windows gazed past the green lawn to a horizon ever banded with sapphire blue or storm grey at the mercy of the sea's mood. A modest number of rooms compared to the likes of Highclere Castle, but with enough dignity in the merest corner of its ballroom to shame even the Ritz.

  It took my breath away the first time I walked through its doors, and it did the same now. I felt smaller beneath its high ceiling, dwarfed by the elegance and the history within its walls. Two guests were perusing brochures of St. Michael's Mount as they walked past me, and a businessman on a mobile phone was turning away from the front desk. Nobody was there, which meant Brigette or the new assistant manager of the moment must have stepped away momentarily.

  I set down my bags. What I would do from here forward was unclear. Short of signing this guest book and figuring out how I could possibly stay here in the future, I had no real plan except for my in-progress manuscript.

  Another person approached the desk beside me and rang the bell impatiently. From the loud shirt and sunglasses, I expected to see a holiday tourist beside me, and felt surprised when I recognized Riley.

  He had a backpack slung over one shoulder and the kind of baked-on bronze glow one only saw on the beaches of island resorts or regular customers emerging from a tanning salon at the mall. On his face, a look between impatience and disgust as he waited.

  "Riley?" I said.

  Startled, he dropped the reception book's pen, which he had been using to doodle in its margins and clutched his heart, as if pretending it was suffering the pains of shock.

  "Faith and begorrah, woman," he said, sharply — using a folksy phrase that had undoubtedly charmed the tourists for tips many times past. "What are you doing here? I thought we were rid of you for the present time."

  "I came back," I said. "I said was going to, remember?" My leaving Cornwall was always temporary, destined to end whenever my tenure with Alli did. I just didn't foresee it being so soon.

  "You gave me a proper heart attack, you did," he said. "Next time, don't sneak up on a fellow."

  I could point out I was technically at the desk first, but didn't. "What are you doing at the hotel with your own luggage?" I asked. Clearly, the bags at his feet were his and not those of a hotel guest.

  I half expected a snarky-but-moldy joke about taking it out for a walk, but the porter surprised me by skipping it. "I've just returned from holiday, much like yourself," he answered. "And now I'll likely be dismissed if somebody doesn't tell me whether I'm on schedule." He didn't ask what I was doing here with suitcases not unlike his own, as he rang the bell again. "Come on, don't keep me waiting 'round all day!" he called. "I'm a busy man and time is money, love."

  "So sorry —" Brigette emerged from the office, and her polite smile was immediately vanquished. "Oh, it's you," she said to Riley, flatly. "Exercise a little patience, please, and don't yell in the presence of the guests, if you would be so kind."

  He rolled his eyes. "There's nobody listening who counts, Brigette." Meaning me, I gathered, which actually made me feel a bit better, less like an intimidated guest in the grand foyer.

  "Back from Ibiza already, I see." Brigette uncapped one of her favorite markers. "I thought you were on holiday until next week. It slipped my mind that you were coming back today."

  "How's that for a 'welcome home'?" he retorted. "Fine way to greet a long-lost friend from the auld country, Brigette. And here I thought we were comrades in arms at the Penmarrow."

  "You had a nice holiday, I trust?" said Brigette, ignoring the rest of his speech as she pulled out her color-coded employee schedule from its hiding place beneath the desk.

  "Smashing. Until the end, when I tragically drowned after tumbling off the boat during a pleasure cruise around the shore," he answered. "I'm sure you'll be devastated when word reaches this place of my passing."

  "I will be," said Gomez, the hotel's fake Latin lover and Riley's fellow porter, who was coming downstairs from assisting the last new arrival.

  "Very funny. I expect you to be on your best behavior from this point on, Riley. Ms. Claypool's special guest has arrived this week and is to be handled with tact and care, understood?"

  "Jawohl, mein kommandant." He saluted her. Brigette ignored this also.

  "There's a clean uniform for you in the laundry room, so go change and take over for Gomez, if you will," she continued. She noticed me standing by now, and genuine surprise flashed in her eyes.

  "Maisie?" she said. "What are you doing here?" Shock was a rare electricity in Brigette's voice, even in this suppressed state. "I thought you were traveling with the novelist who stayed here."

  "I was, but now I'm back," I answered, smiling. "I thought I would finish working on my novel in Cornwall instead of London, so ..."

  "Are you planning to stay here as a guest?" Brigette looked even more surprised at this notion.

  "Well ..." It did sound silly when put that way, in Brigette's prim business-y tone. While it felt like ages, it hadn't been all that long since I had been here full-time, hoovering carpets and laundering linens. But here I was with luggage at my feet and no other apparent plans, and certainly no famous author with me. "I came to say hello ... but I did intend to ask for a guest room, something small and cheap?"

  "I suppose there wouldn't be another reason, would there?" said Brigette. "After all, surely you
're not here for a job again after only six weeks," she continued, with a tiny laugh for her own joke. I joined in, although mine was less genuine, and feeling more out of place by the second.

  Suddenly, I felt very small and very stupid. What was I doing, coming back to a village — and a very expensive English hotel — where I had no real roots or ties? How was I going to survive here? I had to face the facts that I had no clear job options on the horizon, and an indefinite period of time before my manuscript might ever be published.

  Now I was here renting a room to stay for another indefinite period, one that I shouldn't be wasting my savings on in reality. But there wasn't any other place to stay in a village this tiny, and my little attic room clearly wasn't available for the taking. The nearest lodgings would be a long bus ride away, and the next bus to arrive wouldn't take me anywhere I wanted to go. I was, in a word, stuck.

  "Let's see ... there's a room available near the stairs, one of the smallest. The Oak Room. Will that suit you, Maisie?"

  Someone else was enjoying the window facing a corner of the sea, where I had sat cross-legged on the little single bed to finish writing my novel. I was going to miss that view.

  "That one is fine," I said. I pulled out my credit card and let her swipe it. I tried not to look as if I might regret this, because what I was regretting was my impulsiveness of not thinking of a plan on the train here. But I was here, and that was the main point.

  "How have things been while I was away?" I asked, as I signed the register. Maisie Clark — not Marjorie Kinnan, the name from when I first stepped into an absentee maid's shoes. Would Brigette notice?

  "Much the same as always," said Brigette, brightly, wearing her professional smile this whole time for the benefit of any real guests entering the hotel. Then again, I was one, I realized, and it felt strange.