Stepping out of the museum at ten past five and locking the door behind him, Jory considered his options. The obvious thing to do would be to walk home, grab something to eat, maybe have a shower and change his clothes . . .
No. God, no. He was reading too much into a simple invitation for a drink. This wasn’t a date.
Is it? Jory wondered as he took the path along the cliffs. The museum was only half an hour’s walk from Roscarrock House, so he never drove unless the rain was coming down in torrents and sometimes not even then. Today the weather was glorious, with hardly a cloud in the endless blue sky and the sea breeze taking the edge off the lingering heat of the day. It promised a warm, pleasant evening, which, given they were only a week or two past midsummer, would last for hours. Below him, the beach stretched out, golden and inviting. On another day, Jory might have gone for a swim—might even have called Kirsty and asked if Gawen would like to come to the beach for some father-son time, although today being Sunday, he’d probably been out with his mother already. Time was too tight today if he wanted to arrive punctually for his date.
Or not, as the case might be, although Mal had definitely seemed to be flirting. He’d winked. Who actually did that these days? Or any days, come to that?
So it might be a date.
Then again, Mal had just suffered a bereavement. Perhaps he hadn’t been thinking clearly. Simply going through the motions. Perhaps he was one of those people who flirted with everyone. For all Jory knew, Mal might be straight as an arrow.
But he’d winked. Did straight men wink at other men?
He could ask his brother . . . Except that no, he really, really couldn’t. Bran wouldn’t be at all pleased about him having a date. Especially with a man. Maybe he could get away with asking the question, and not mentioning the invitation to the pub?
Because of course Bran wouldn’t smell anything remotely rodent-like about Jory mentioning he’d been winked at, and then disappearing out for the evening.
Bugger it. He’d just have to play it by ear. Right, well, a quick shower wouldn’t hurt in any case. His sister, Bea, had sniffed the air when she got home from work one evening a week or so back and accused Jory of smelling of museum, which she’d informed him meant dust and dead things.
They didn’t even have any dead things in the naval museum, but better safe than sorry.
As the path got steeper leading up to Big Guns Cove, Jory found his pace increasing, the exertion helping to calm his nerves. Silly of him. Mal was obviously a tourist, so he wouldn’t be here long in any case.
Long enough, perhaps, a sly voice that came directly from his id whispered in his mind.
Roscarrock House had been closed to visitors today, so there were no last stragglers to weave his way around as Jory made it through the gates, which was how he liked it. He didn’t know how Bran could stand working from home while strangers poked and pried through the rooms open to them, laughing at the family portraits and occasionally speculating loudly on Great-uncle Lochrin’s paternity. And Jory’s, come to that, when they got to the photographs.
Every time he came back, Jory had to get used to it all again. Perhaps after a year or two of living here full-time, he wouldn’t even notice, as Bran seemed not to. And Bea, for that matter, although Jory had always found it impossible to tell what Bea thought about anything.
Jory managed to avoid Bran on his way to the bathroom. Bran had a way of making Jory feel like he should be asking permission to go out, which had perhaps been reasonable when he was seventeen and they were newly orphaned, but was a little ridiculous now he was thirty-two years old.
Showered and changed into jeans and a polo shirt Kirsty had once complimented him on, Jory headed down to the kitchen.
There was something about being back in Porthkennack that gave him an appetite. Maybe it was the sea air, or maybe it was just the association with childhood and big family dinners. At any rate, Jory was starving, so he dumped a generous portion of pasta into a pan and set it on to boil. There was half a jar of sauce in the fridge, and enough ham and vegetables to pad it out a bit. Plenty for one person. He’d given up trying to persuade Bran and Bea they should all eat together, even one day a week. Their schedules never seemed to match—Bea in particular was always home late from the office, or off at some social event that was more about business than pleasure, like today. He had a strong suspicion that she didn’t much like eating in company. Maybe she was worried about looking too human.
Jory gave his wrist a mental slap. He wasn’t being fair. And it was time to put the sauce on.
Halfway through his meal, it occurred to Jory that the pub most likely served food. Would Mal be planning to eat?
He’d said, Come for a drink, but maybe he’d meant with the option of dinner afterwards? Oh hell. Why did life have to be so impossibly complicated? Making a snap decision to hedge his bets, Jory put down his fork and shoved an upturned plate over the rest of his meal. He could always microwave it later.
Then he jammed his feet into his trainers, checked his reflection in the hall mirror for sauce splatters, and set off out, all without having bumped into Bran, miracle of miracles.
The Sea Bell was down a country lane, not far from St. Ia’s church. Jory hadn’t been there in years.
