A Rather Remarkable Homecoming by C. A. Belmond Read Free Book Online Page A

and handed it over to Jeremy with another admiring smile.
    As soon as she left, Jeremy poured out the wine and we clinked and took a sip before he darted into the shower. When he reappeared in his bathrobe, we collapsed gratefully on the sofa to explore the tray of food.
    “Smoked salmon, some ham, assorted cheeses and pickles, and a few odd greens and tomato,” Jeremy reported. It was all serviceable enough, and I was so weary that I was just glad not to be in motion anymore. My head was still whirring.
    “Let’s sleep till noon,” Jeremy advised.
    “We have an appointment with Harriet to see Grandma’s house tomorrow,” I reminded him. “Harriet’s a busy lady, you know.”
    Jeremy was still slumped against the back of the sofa and said nothing. “You’re falling asleep sitting up!” I exclaimed solicitously. “Go on to bed. I’ll clear up.”
    He was too weary to do anything but trot off obediently. A second later, I heard a plaintive, exhausted snore. I couldn’t help but smile in sympathy.
    “My hero,” I said softly, turning out the light.

Chapter Five
    I woke to the sound of gulls cawing in the distance above the harbor, and for awhile I just lay there, absorbing the feeling of the sea and the cliffs all around me. Then came the usual bustling sounds when innkeepers politely but deliberately wake you from your slumber: the rapid tread of the maids as they set about their work with clattering carts, and the other guests hurrying to get to breakfast, showering and rushing out of their rooms and slamming doors.
    I turned around in the bed and stared at Jeremy hopefully. His eyes were slammed shut.
    “Poor guy,” I murmured aloud. “He’s plumb worn out from all that tough driving he did to get us here. He’s entitled to sleep late, I suppose.”
    A good wife would just let him snooze and have his breakfast later . . . wouldn’t she?
    But I couldn’t help shamelessly bouncing onto the bed beside him, hoping he’d feel my eager, impatient presence. He did, and opened only one eye.
    “You awake?” I said pleasantly in a daytime voice.
    He shut the solo eye. “No,” he sighed.
    “Aw, c’mon,” I said encouragingly. “It’s another rare and wonderful sunny day outside. Everybody else is up and at ’em already. Breakfast is buffet only. Let’s not be last on line.”
    Jeremy rolled over and, still without opening his eyes, said, “What time is it?”
    “Nine fifteen,” I said severely. “We’re supposed to meet Harriet at noon. That doesn’t give us much time for sightseeing.”
    “S’all right. Seen it all before anyway,” Jeremy mumbled.
    “Well, I haven’t,” I said. “ Some of us didn’t spend every privileged summer of our lives out here. Some of us don’t even know what a Cornish pasty tastes like. Some of us want to see the fine bone china they make out here. And the fishing boats hauling in their fresh catch. And the cheddar cheese that is actually made in a real place called Cheddar. And the local ale from pubs that still brew it on the premises—”
    “All right, all right,” Jeremy groaned, sitting up now with both sleepy dark blue eyes wide open, and his dark brown hair appealingly rumpled.
    But he didn’t exactly jump out of bed. So now I nudged him for real.
    “Get up ,” I said. “They’ll stop serving breakfast soon.”
    Jeremy sighed heavily, then rolled out of bed.
     
    We took our coffee in the downstairs parlor, which was nearly empty, then we hurried out to the parking lot, which was fairly deserted. Jeremy pointed out that the smaller Victorian house next to our hotel had been recently turned into a restaurant called Seaside with Toby Taylor , a celebrity chef we’d seen doing frequent guest appearances on television.
    As we drove down the main street of Port St. Francis, I could see more of the town, now that it was daylight and the sun was shining brightly, burning off the white morning mist that had drifted in from the sea. Directly across the