A Cornish Christmas Read Online Free

special raincoat.
    The more I looked, I noticed something stranger still: it wasn’t just the crimson that was gone, but every last shade of red in every medium I owned was missing as well. From my watercolours, acrylic, ink, pen, gouache... all the burgundies, clarets, scarlets and all the shades in between... it was all simply gone.
    It was desperately odd. I have my scatter-brained moments, sure, but nothing like this. Especially not as a professional artist. We’re often, despite the label of ‘creative messiness’, neat and tidy out of sheer necessity, as damaged £100 paintbrushes can attest. So where were they?
    I set Rudolph down next to the empty postcard, wondering if perhaps Stuart had decided to take up homemade signage with my supplies. Though I really would have thought he valued his life more than that.
    I found him in the kitchen, his face bathed in steam from the simmering contents in the pan, which he was scenting with blissful intensity. He caught me staring and beckoned me over with a dreamy smile and inclination of his head. I breathed in the aromatic bouquet of garlic and cream, forgetting instantly why I had come down to confront him in the first place.
    â€˜You should bottle that,’ I said.
    â€˜Eau de Sea Cottage?’ he asked, with a grin.
    â€˜Oh yes.’
    He laughed. ‘Well, it’s ready if you are.’
    I quickly fetched two plates from the Welsh dresser I’d restored from a charity shop in the village, and painted a deep Provençal blue, piling the thick ceramic plates high with the creamy pasta, while Stuart carried the cutlery to our little conservatory in the front of the house, where another charity find had become our dining room table, the repaired legs and old, scarred wood painted a soft dove grey.
    The conservatory had become a favoured winter retreat, catching the last of the sun and the sunset while we dined.
    I had plans for a velvety, blue chaise longue and a fireplace and perhaps some flowers and plants. I’m sure I could keep one alive. Stuart would probably help.
    â€˜Red?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yes! I’ve been looking everywhere!’ I exclaimed over my shoulder, almost cricking my neck as he passed me on his way back into the kitchen. Suddenly reminded of why I’d come down, before I was distracted by Stuart’s kitchen wizardry.
    He pivoted on his heel, two wine glasses in his hand. ‘Sorry?’ he said, dark eyes puzzled.
    I shifted the plates in my hand. ‘Oh, you meant wine... though you know I can’t. I thought you were referring to my missing red paint.’
    He frowned. ‘Missing paint? I was going to offer you apple or cranberry juice so you don’t feel left out.’
    â€˜Thanks, the cranberry please. Never could abide white wine; not about to start now,’ I joked, and then raised a brow, undiverted. ‘You didn’t by any chance take all my red paint? Like every last shade in every single bloody medium I own, by any chance?’
    His eyes popped. ‘You’re joking. I value my neck a little more than that... I still remember the brush incident of ’06, Everton Four : Broken toe at least.’
    I laughed. ‘Damn straight... that was a pure, Kolinsky sable red, a legend amongst watercolour brushes, at an eye-watering seventy pounds a pop and you used it...’ I took a steadying breath; the memory, even now, caused mild panic.
    â€˜To paint glue on the loose skirting board,’ he said, head down, foot doing a half circle on the wooden floor in mock shame. ‘Muppet and I took shelter for weeks afterwards,’ he said dramatically, a theatrical shudder at the memory.
    I raised a brow. Muppet, who had been eyeballing our exchange and the plates in my hands hopefully, cocked her head, almost in doubt.
    â€˜I’d hardly say weeks... and Muppet was on my side,’ I pointed out.
    Muppet didn’t argue; she just stood in a puddle of her own