Free Turning the Tide by Christine Stovell Page B

stop me giving you a fair price when you finally come to your senses and realise that you’re sitting on an asset which could make your life so much easier.’
    ‘Listen,’ said Harry. ‘Just so you understand, Watling’s never was and never will be one of your cut-and-thrust operations. We’re not here today, gone tomorrow looking for a fast buck, we’re in it for the long haul. Your property makeovers are about a quick win, but we take pride in a steady pace, hard work and bringing some continuity to this community. The rewards we reap here are worth more than money.’
    ‘That sounds very fine,’ said Matthew, stepping towards her, obliging her to move back. ‘But fine words don’t pay the bills and some airy-fairy talk about rewards won’t feed you. We both know that you’ve got problems, Harry, and sooner or later you’re going to have to address them.’
    She shook her head. ‘Or what, Matthew? Or you’ll step in and buy the lot? You’re not worried about us. Let’s not forget that it would suit you if George and I did go to the wall, that’s why you want me to believe there’s something wrong. Well, I don’t scare easily. I’ll still be here when you’ve forgotten that Watling’s ever existed.’
    Harry replaced her ear defenders and started up the sander. When she turned round again, Matthew had gone. She waited a couple of minutes, then went out to make sure he wasn’t pumping George for further information.
    He was sauntering along the creek; but, instead of going straight to the old yacht club, he detoured to the Moults’ houseboat. She shrugged and resumed her work. What he did with Lola Moult was up to him.

Chapter Seven
    Pulling her tee shirt down as she went, Harry pushed the duvet away, got out of bed, opened the glass doors and stepped outside. Once upon a time, the first light fingering the little boats would have restored her peace of mind; but what if she was being short-sighted about the best direction for the boat yard? What if she was wrong?
    The previous evening she’d even tried phoning her mother – in the forlorn hope that, if she told her about the pressure she was under, Maeve might come up with a few homespun words of comfort. Well, there was supposed to be a first for everything, wasn’t there? When Maeve had taken flight with Don, the man who became her second husband, she couldn’t have chosen a worse time. Harry had paid in blood, sweat and tears trying to convince the maritime world that Watling’s was still a vital business and hadn’t died with its founder. What kind of parent did that to their child?
    Maeve sighed down the phone. ‘It sounds as if you’re badly in need of a holiday. Why don’t you come and stay with us for a while?’
    ‘I can’t just leave the boat yard to go out to France at the drop of a hat. You know that.’
    It wasn’t that Harry minded her mother, now running a holiday lettings agency, grabbing what she called a chance for happiness. Although that did seem to imply that happiness had been thin on the ground, which was clearly not the case. Nor did she have anything particularly against Don; she barely knew him and, when she tried to remember him, she could only summon up a colourless, rather ordinary man who was reliable rather than exciting. Quite why Maeve had been so keen to marry him and leave everything behind was beyond her, especially when Don didn’t have half her father’s vigour or a quarter of his personality.
    ‘Can’t or won’t?’ Maeve said, sounding irritated. ‘Harry, you weren’t exactly a child when I left. You were twenty-one, you’d finished your education. You could have come and lived with Don and me at any time, but you’ve hunkered down and flatly refused to leave even for a holiday.’
    So much for the mother-daughter chat. Maeve had always claimed that her reason for leaving was because she couldn’t go on living with ghosts. Never mind the ghosts, Harry wanted to say; what about the living?