‘Forty-one and I think I’ve still got it,’ he grinned, and Jennifer smiled to herself about the wedding present – one of them – she would give him later. A vintage Les Paul guitar she had found at auction and knew he would love.
‘Come on. We should go,’ he said, taking her hand.
‘Go where?’
‘To our room,’ he whispered into her ear.
She felt puzzled as he led her outside into the garden. A chill had settled into the English summer evening air, and Jim took off his suit jacket and put it over her shoulders.
‘Jim, our suite is upstairs,’ she frowned, looking back at the hotel.
‘We’re going somewhere else,’ he said mysteriously as he beckoned her to follow him down a path that led to the coast. She had found the trail earlier in the day. It snaked down the hillside to the harbour, and at some point one of the event planners had lined it with lanterns that cast a golden glow over the track.
Jennifer had thought getting married on Midsummer Eve was romantic enough, but as they walked in the moonlight, hearing the sound of the waves, the cow parsley tickling her arms, there was something especially magical in the air. Or perhaps it was just the idea that she was now Mrs Jim Johnson.
‘Here,’ said Jim as they reached the harbour.
She laughed out loud when she saw the fishing boat tethered to the dock. It had tin cans strung from the
stern and a wonky hand-painted sign that read Just Married.
‘Where are we going?’ she grinned, as someone waved from the cabin.
‘Climb on board. We’re going for a spin.’
‘Jim, our wedding . . .’
‘We’ll be back. Go on. I just want to show you something.’
She took off her heels and hitched up her skirt and did as she was told.
Cushions had been laid out along the seat at the back of the boat. Sunset was fading to dusk and the sky floating above the estuary had darkened to saffron-streaked violet.
The fisherman operating the boat cast off and the vessel chugged to life, the noise of the cans rattling against the stern as they carved through the water.
Jennifer curled into the space between Jim’s arm and his chest, consumed by the warm and peaceful feeling of coming home. She didn’t fool herself that she was a young woman any more. She would be forty-three soon. Almost certainly in the second half of her life and she had lines on her face and the scars of experience to prove it. And yet, as they powered down the estuary, watching the village recede into a series of lights, there was a sense of possibility, excitement and new beginnings that had seemed inconceivable a year earlier, when, living with Connor in her grand town house on the Upper East Side, she felt as if she was just treading water and slowly sinking.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m wondering where we’re going. It’s exciting,’ she said softly as Jim gave her shoulders a squeeze.
She heard the engine of the boat begin to slow.
‘We’re here,’ said Jim, getting to his feet.
She realised that they had anchored just off the opposite shore to Salcombe. It was a short distance to the beach, and a small tender lowered them from the bigger boat to take them there.
She was careful not to let salt water splash the hem of her dress and, barefoot, she followed Jim across the sand. He took her hand and led her away from the beach, past rocks covered with mussels and seaweed towards a small white cottage set in a thicket of trees.
‘It’s a micro-climate around here, so exotic plants can grow,’ he said, pointing out a perfumed myrtle, a magnolia bush and a banana plant.
‘Magnolia,’ sighed Jennifer, recognising all sorts of subtropical blooms from Savannah.
‘I know we were going to wait until after the wedding to buy a new house, but I saw this and thought it would be perfect as a weekend place.’
‘It is,’ she said. She didn’t have to go into the cottage to know that it was just right. ‘It’s my dream house. The red door and the magnolia bush. How did you know?’
‘I’ve always known you,’ said Jim, his voice full of love, and he took her hand and led her inside.