Return to Moon Cove
Fiona, Duncan and their dog, Charlie, find themselves once again in their favourite holiday retreat
As they drove across the bridge from Devon to Cornwall, Fiona turned for her first view of the Tamar river, spread in all its glory beneath them. The autumn sun shone brightly on the dozens of boats swaying at anchor.
“It’s good to be back,” she said. “Now will you tell me where we are staying?”
“You’re still not getting the whole surprise thing, are you?” her husband, Duncan, smiled.
“He’s a tease, isn’t he, Charlie?” Fiona reached over to the back seat to give their Labrador an affectionate stroke.
“Do I get one of those?” Duncan asked her.
“Only if you tell me where we are going.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal. We’re nearly there, anyway. I’ve booked us into the Penhallow Manor Hotel, just above Moon Cove. We’ve got the garden suite which has its own spiral staircase – should be interesting after a few glasses of vino.”
Fiona kissed his cheek. “It sounds perfect,” she said.
Twenty minutes later they turned off the main road onto a narrow, high-banked lane. “Oh no! here we go again,” Duncan sighed, preparing to reverse as a black 4x4 came into view ahead.”
“It’s okay – he’s waving you on.” “Does he seriously expect me to squeeze through that gap?”
“I’m afraid he does, darling.” “Good grief,” Duncan said as he turned the wing mirrors inwards. “This is going to be tight.”
“You could always reverse.”
“No chance! Looks like matey here is a local enjoying a little sport with the grockles. I’m not backing down.”
With a frown, Fiona looked out of her window. The grassy bank was only centimetres away. The last thing they wanted was a nasty scratch down the side of their car, ruining their break before it had even begun. “Careful, love,” she said. Drawing level with the other vehicle, Fiona caught sight of a handsome, dark-haired man. As Duncan eased past, the other driver accelerated and roared away along the lane.
“It’s an initiation ceremony – welcome to Cornwall!” Duncan grinned, his good humour restored as he turned into the hotel’s drive.
Penhallow Manor occupied an
elevated position and, as she got out of the car, Fiona could see Moon Cove below to their left and was just able to make out the stone cottages where they had stayed on a previous visit.
“You’ll love this place,” Duncan said as he took their bags from the boot. “They’re hosting an exhibition by a well-known local artist, McKenzie Scott. You’re always saying we don’t have enough culture in our lives, so it should be right up your street.”
“McKenzie Scott? I think I’ve heard of him.”
Stepping into the elegant reception area, Fiona asked: “They do accept dogs, don’t they?”
“If they don’t, Charlie can always sleep in the car,” Duncan joked.
“Of course I checked that they are dog-friendly! I’ll just collect our key.”
As she waited, Fiona strolled over to the entrance to the art exhibition, eager to take a peek.
A voice announced: “It opens tomorrow, officially.”
Turning, Fiona found an elderly gentleman standing beside her. “I’m really looking forward to seeing it,” she smiled.
“On holiday?”
“Yes, just a short break.”
“Come to Cornwall often?”
“Not as much as we’d like. Charlie loves the walks around here.”
“This is Charlie,” Duncan said as he joined them with the dog. “I’m Duncan and this is my wife, Fiona.”
“Pleased to meet the three of you. I’m McKenzie Scott. How would you like a preview of the exhibition?”
Delighted, Fiona said: “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather see it tomorrow,” Duncan replied. “It’s been a long drive and I need a hot bath to undo the kinks in my back.”
“Perfectly understandable. How about you, Fiona?”
“I’d love to see it now.”
As he kissed his wife on the cheek, Duncan whispered: “Remember, if you have to ask how much it is, you can’t afford it.”
Shaking her head at Duncan, Fiona followed the artist through the imposing doorway. As they toured the gallery, Fiona marvelled at the enchanting watercolours on display.
They were of fishing boats in Penrowan harbour and children playing on Tregelian beach as well as Cornish seascapes, both stormy and tranquil. She would be happy to find room for several of them at home – just as well she didn’t have her credit card with her.
She paused in front of three canvases depicting an abandoned tin mine and its crumbling engine house. “These are hauntingly beautiful,” she exclaimed.
“Ah, you have a Celtic soul, my lovely,” McKenzie said.
Fiona smiled, she was flattered by the compliment.
Ushering her through to the lobby, he added: “Most visitors go for the seascapes, but this is the painting that really made my name. It’s called She Waits.”
The painting was of a woman in a long dress with flowing hair, standing on a headland as she looked out to sea. Fiona recognised the iconic image, although she was more familiar with it adorning souvenir tea towels and mugs.
“It’s on loan for the exhibition. It belongs to Sir Richard Montague, although I now wish I’d never sold it to him,” McKenzie stroked the gilded frame. “I’m hoping he will sell her back to me one day.”
As they returned to the main room, a dark-haired man appeared. Fiona recognised him from their earlier encounter in the lane.
Ignoring her, he said brusquely: “The reporter from the local rag is here, McKenzie.”
“Meet Garth Pengelly,” McKenzie said. “Fiona is one of your guests. Garth’s family have recently taken over Penhallow.”
Remembering his manners, Garth said: “Hope you enjoyed the exhibition.”
Fiona nodded enthusiastically. “Loved it!”
“Well, my dear, duty calls,” McKenzie said, kissing Fiona’s hand. “Please continue to enjoy the paintings while I talk to the press. Now, where did I leave my notes?”
Fiona took a last look around the room before following the artist through to the lobby. When she entered, he was sweeping a pile of papers up from the windowsill.
“I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t…” he stopped in mid-sentence. Fiona saw a stricken look of disbelief cross his face. She turned to follow his gaze and gasped in shock. The picture of the woman on the headland had disappeared.
Fiona saw a stricken look of disbelief cross the artist’s face. She turned to follow his gaze and gasped in shock