Читать книгу A Summer Scandal: The perfect summer read by the author of One Day in December - Kat French, Kat French - Страница 10

It didn’t smell of anything, really. She’d braced herself for it to somehow smell like her grandpa’s house, maybe, or of her grandmother’s perfume, which she knew was ridiculous. Or, more likely, of stale year-upon-year emptiness. But, no doubt thanks to the diligent upkeep of the cleaning company, it simply smelt vacant, as if waiting to catch the scent of someone new.

Closing the door, Violet stood in the small hallway to get her bearings, lowering her bag slowly to the floor and breathing deeply. She was here. This was it. Little as it was, the square hallway told Violet two things straight away. One, her grandmother had an eye for colour and interior design, and two, she was going to adore number 6 Swallow Beach Lido. It was pure seventies retro glamour right down to the shell-pink Bakelite telephone table, topped of course with a curly-wired ivory telephone, its sharp-angled handset resting lengthwise over the dial. Violet lifted the receiver and placed it against her ear, then replaced it, feeling foolish as she caught her reflection in the mirror over the table. As if there would have been any dialling tone.

Four doors led off the hallway, each of them closed. Turning the handle of the nearest door, Violet pushed it wide and stepped through it, finding herself in the bathroom.

‘Oh my God,’ she whispered, her eyes darting all around the room. It had all of the usual things – bathtub, loo, sink – but none of them were the usual kind. The huge, turquoise kidney-shaped bathtub had been inset into a surround with steps up, and the whole bathing corner had been lined with mirrors, like a child’s music box. It wasn’t a wallflower’s bathtub, that much was for sure. The loo and sink were squared off and equally bright turquoise, and the forest-green-and-turquoise-swirled wall tiles added to the impact. The taps were gilt, water-spouting goldfish, the light fitting a golden chandelier. It was a Hollywood starlet’s bathroom, and Violet found herself almost laughing with unexpected delight.

‘Go Gran,’ she whispered, turning a tap, glad to see the water flow from the goldfish’s open mouth. She hadn’t thought to check if the utilities were still connected; it seemed that she was in luck.

Opening the wall cupboard above the sink, Violet found herself looking at a collection of vintage glass-bottled bubble baths and paper-wrapped soaps, all still perfect thanks to being tucked away safe from the daylight. A pang of sadness washed over her at the sight of a glass holding three toothbrushes, two adult, one smaller. Her mum’s. Closing the cabinet quietly, she backed out of the room.

Right, so which door next? Vi looked at each of them and chose the one on her right, pushing it open slowly to reveal a single bedroom. She didn’t go inside, just stood in the doorway of her mum’s childhood bedroom and let the sweet sadness settle over her. The low, white single bed covered with a lemon and white patchwork eiderdown, the chunky white and lemon furniture, the wheeled book-box filled with well-thumbed picture books. Della had been seven or eight when she’d left this room for the last time, and as far as Vi could see, it hadn’t been touched since. She didn’t venture further inside the room. She would eventually, but of all the rooms in the house she knew that this one was likely to be the most difficult for her personally, because it represented her mum. Clicking the door closed, she moved on to the next, the master bedroom where, once again, glamour reigned.

Violet drew in a sharp breath; it was unique, and wild, and quite stunning. One wall had been hand-painted, a marine-blue ocean adorned with mermaids, some coy, others joyfully bare-breasted with their arms flung over their heads as they basked on rocks. As she neared the wall for a closer look, glints of iridescent gold glittered in their scaly tails, and their eyes seemed to watch with interest, as surprised by her presence as she was by theirs.

‘Who did all of this?’ she whispered into the quiet room. ‘Was it you, Gran?’

The mermaids served as the theme for the rest of the bedroom. The large, low bed’s high scalloped headboard had been padded in shimmering oyster silk, and an elegant clamshell chair sat in the curve of the floor-to-ceiling bay window.

Sinking down onto its ink-blue velvet seat, Violet took a few minutes to just let herself be. A tailor’s dummy stood beside the chair in the bay, dressed in a floor-length sheath that seemed to be made entirely from sequins and lace and light. Necklaces and pearls had been looped around the dummy’s neck, a glamorous makeshift jewellery box.

Every last thing in the room had been chosen with a nod towards maritime decadence; polished curved wooden furniture reminiscent of a luxury ocean liner, the fabulous, huge Tiffany glass bowl suspended from the ceiling an intricate mosaic of rainbow shades. Seventies glam wasn’t everyone’s style, but it sure was Violet’s. So much so that she felt as if she’d been winded; her own leanings towards colour and craft were so clearly inherited from the woman who’d hand-decorated this place with such unique style.

She was starting to understand that she hadn’t inherited just her gran’s physical looks. All of her life she’d felt very different to her practical, list-loving parents, and now she understood why. Monica’s blood ran hot in her veins. Violet hadn’t expected to feel an instant connection here, but by God she did. She saw now why her mum had wanted to keep her from this place: she’d known. Della knew precisely who her daughter was most like in the world, and probably feared what that knowledge might do to Violet.

Leaving the bedroom reluctantly, Violet headed for the last unopened door. She opened it slowly, wanting to savour this final new space. It was worth the reverence; the lounge-diner wouldn’t have looked out of place on the faded cover of a seventies copy of House Beautiful. A low, burnt-orange, oversized velvet sofa sat central in the lounge, accented by curved pale-blond wooden furniture, and the orange and grey oversized flower print wallpaper would have been perfect in an Orla Kiely showroom.

The kitchenette ran across the back of the space, a glossy swathe of orange. A breakfast bar acted as a room divider, complete with stools upholstered in orange and grey stripes. Accents of muted gold warmed and glamourised the space, not least the decadent wheeled glass and brass drinks trolley, still loaded with half-full bottles of colourful spirits and cocktail paraphernalia.

Vi gazed up at the chandelier dripping with clear and orange glass droplets and fell in love. She fell in love with the Lido apartment, and with Swallow Beach, and with her grandmother. Sinking down onto the sofa and wrapping her arms around her midriff, she couldn’t decide if she felt like laughing or crying. Because in the most unexpected of ways, she felt as if she’d come home.

‘Hey cat burglar. You still in there?’

Violet jumped as her new neighbour rapped on her front door. Unfolding herself from the sofa, she went to open it.

‘Hello again,’ he grinned. ‘I was a little rude earlier. I brought wine to say sorry and welcome to the top floor.’

He held out a bottle of red, and then produced a bunch of white roses from behind his back like a magician.

She narrowed her eyes as she accepted them. ‘Did you cut those from the bushes outside?’

‘I did,’ he said, lifting one shoulder, clearly unabashed at being caught out. ‘But I also grew them, so I’m not all that sorry.’

‘You grew them?’

He scrunched his nose, as if debating how honest to be. ‘Well, I water them sometimes. Strictly speaking, Barty is the green-fingered one of the block.’

Violet liked the idea that the tenants of the Lido worked as a community.

He glanced over her shoulder into the apartment. ‘How’s everything going?’

She accepted the wine, unsure how to answer the question. ‘Okay. Sort of.’

‘Need a hand with anything?’

‘No, I’m good I think,’ she said. ‘Except … I don’t suppose there’s a lift in the building, is there? A trade one, or something?’ The Traveller was fully loaded, and her sewing machine in particular was going to be a bit of a monster to lug up all of those stairs.

His mouth kicked up at the edges. ‘’Fraid not. You do, however, have a handsome neighbour with guns of steel who’d carry your stuff in exchange for a glass of wine?’

‘A neighbour who hasn’t even told me his name,’ Vi countered, amused despite herself. He was cocksure, but the mischievous glint in his brown eyes told her that he didn’t take himself seriously. Back home in Violet’s world everyone took themselves seriously, so he was something of a breath of fresh air.

‘I didn’t?’ he said.

She shook her head.

‘Cal.’

Different. ‘Short for … California?’ she said, knowing full well it wouldn’t be.

He laughed loud. ‘Trust me, my mother is nowhere near that adventurous. Calvin,’ he said. ‘Calvin Dearheart.’

Jesus, he’s straight out of a Jilly Cooper novel, Violet thought, nodding wordlessly. At least he’d buttoned his overalls up before knocking on her door.

‘Right, so now you know who I am, and I know who you are, that makes us friends. Now take the flowers, let me help you with your stuff, and then let’s get gloriously drunk and tell each other our darkest secrets.’

Well, that was unexpected. Violet swallowed hard, unsure how to reply, because Calvin Dearheart was fast becoming one of the most startling men she had ever met.

‘Jesus, Violet, what’s in here, a dead body?’

Cal appeared on the upper landing with the last and heaviest of her belongings cradled in his arms, her precious sewing machine.

‘Careful,’ she cautioned, wondering where in the apartment to set up her workroom. She’d upgraded to the eye-wateringly expensive machine last summer off the back of a couple of big theatre costume contracts, and right now Cal was staring at her questioningly, slightly out of breath.

‘Where to?’

Up to that point, he’d deposited her bags and boxes on the top landing and she’d ferried them inside as he fetched the next load, but it made no sense for him to put the machine down because she’d have to pick it up again.

‘This way,’ she said, hesitant. Inviting him inside the apartment felt almost disrespectful to her grandmother, as if Monica’s artistic secrets were going to be spilled. And then reality bit; Vi reminded herself that this was her home now, not Monica’s, and she needed to work out how to live in it, new neighbour included.

Turning her back, she led Cal into the lounge and asked him to put the machine down on the pale wooden dining table. It was an interesting piece: a thin slice of polished walnut on a white plastic pedestal with matching slender-legged walnut chairs. He carefully did as she’d asked, then straightened and looked slowly around the room, wide-eyed.

‘Christ,’ he murmured, rotating almost three hundred and sixty degrees on the spot. ‘I never realised this place hadn’t been touched. It’s amazing.’

Pride slid down Violet’s spine, making her stand straighter. She’d expected him to have a reaction to the place, because who wouldn’t, but she wasn’t sure which way it would go. She found it mattered that he appreciated her grandmother’s taste, because it was so in line with her own.

‘It’s really something, isn’t it,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t even know it existed until a couple of weeks back.’

He nodded slowly, taking it all in. ‘I think we need that drink now.’

Violet looked at her watch. It was well after three, and she was starving.

‘I better go food shopping first,’ she said. ‘Can you point me in the right direction?’

‘I could,’ he said. ‘Or I could take you to the local instead? They do a mean lasagne, Roberto makes it himself.’

Lasagne was one of Vi’s all-time top ten dinners. It was too good an offer to pass up, especially when it was cooked by someone who sounded like they might actually be Italian.

‘Go on then. You’re on.’

Cal wasn’t kidding. Perhaps it helped that Violet was hungry, but Roberto’s lasagne was to die for, as was his ice-cold sauvignon and his infectious belly laugh. The Swallow, as the pub was appropriately called, sat a little further along the seafront than the Lido, a hop and a skip away for an evening pint.

‘Have you always lived in Swallow Beach?’ Vi asked, poking a patchwork of holes in her lasagne with the tip of her knife to cool it down.

Cal nodded. ‘Give or take a few years. My family have been here for more generations than anyone can count back.’

‘Wow,’ she said. ‘You must like it then.’

‘It’s as good as anywhere,’ he said, non-committal. ‘Pretty special when the sun comes out.’

‘Does it attract much of a holiday crowd?’

Again, he looked as if he was hedging his bets. ‘Some. Not as much as the more well-known tourist spots further along the coast, but we do okay. We’re a bit more shabby than chic, if you know what I mean.’

Swallow Beach sat on the south coast, a forgotten little sister to Brighton’s famous pebble beach and the often-photographed Camber Sands. Violet rather liked the fact that it was off the tourist track; she’d been there less than twenty-four hours and already she was starting to feel territorial.

‘So what’s the grand plan then, Violet?’ he said, refilling both their wine glasses. ‘Are you here for a week, a month or forever?’

There he went again, coming out with something direct and unexpected.

‘The summer. To begin with, at least.’

He nodded. ‘And then back to the bright city lights?’

Thoughts of her distinctly orderly suburban life back home at her parents’ filtered in.

‘It’s not exactly that,’ she said, not wishing to say anything ungrateful. She knew she was lucky to be able to live cheaply at her parents’; it had allowed her the creative freedom to start the business rather than be forced to take a job she didn’t want to cover rent and bills.

Cal laid his cutlery down, his plate almost empty. ‘And is there a Mr Violet on the scene?’

Was he fishing? Or was this just another of his direct questions? He watched her steadily, his dark eyes interested. Violet found herself a little dry-mouthed; he was undeniably attractive and easy company. His question wasn’t a simple one to answer either, thanks to Simon’s insistence on waiting for her.

‘No, but kind of yes, a little bit,’ she said. ‘It’s complicated.’

He laughed softly. ‘Is that your Facebook status?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I know, it sounds flaky. It’s just …’

‘Complicated?’

Vi smiled, shrugged. ‘Yes.’

‘Okay.’

He didn’t push, and thankfully Roberto chose that moment to hustle over and take away their empty plates.

‘Dessert tonight, passion fruit pannacotta,’ he said, tipping a wink at Cal.

‘Irresistible,’ Cal smiled. ‘Two please.’

Violet wasn’t sure if she ought to feel irritated that he’d ordered for her, but on reflection she found not, especially given that she was a pudding kind of girl.

‘Passion fruit,’ Cal said, as Roberto disappeared with their plates.

There really wasn’t an answer to that, especially after three glasses of wine. ‘Indeed.’

‘I think we’ve reached the point in the evening where we trade secrets,’ he said, leaning back in his chair.

Violet took him in; the way his faded T-shirt and washed-out jeans followed the definitions of his body, suggesting someone who took care of themselves. He didn’t look like a gym worshipper though, more like someone who took themselves seriously. Until you looked into his face, that was; Cal didn’t seem able to stop his dark eyes from dancing or keep the ever-ready laugh from his lips. He was easy on the eye, and easy company to be in. Dangerous, in other words. The one thing Violet hadn’t come to Swallow Beach for was romance, especially not with her neighbour. If she thought her love life was complicated now, that would be a sure-fire way to make it as tangled as a fisherman’s trawl net. And perhaps she was hugely jumping the gun anyway; Cal Dearheart seemed the kind of guy who flirted as naturally as he breathed, it probably didn’t mean anything.

‘You can go first,’ she said, buying herself a little time.

He raised his eyebrows and tapped his fingers on the edge of the table, thinking. ‘Right. So, I’ve climbed a mountain,’ he said. ‘Three mountains, in fact.’

‘Oh,’ she said. That confirmed that he was indeed someone who took his body seriously. The idea of walking up a mountain filled her with unfathomable dread. Why would anyone do that for fun?

‘Your turn.’

There was a painting on the wall behind Cal’s head, a landscape oil of Swallow Beach.

‘I own the pier.’

He stopped tapping and stared at her. ‘Say again?’

Violet sighed, repeating herself quietly. ‘I own Swallow Beach Pier.’

Cal scraped his seat in under the table and leaned forward, his elbows on the table. ‘You own our pier?’

Nodding, Vi smarting slightly at the incredulous way he said it; ‘our’ as if the pier belonged to the town, and ‘you’ as if she wasn’t part of it. Well, she wasn’t really, not yet, but her grandparents had been and she felt oddly like she was representing them in the community. His words also gave her pause for another reason; she hadn’t for a second stopped to imagine that she might meet resistance to her presence from the locals.

Oh God! Were they all going to hate her?

‘My grandparents, Henry and Monica Spencer, honeymooned here. Gran fell in love with the place, and the pier was up for sale so my grandpa bought it for her. They moved here to the Lido lock, stock and barrel on the strength of it.’

‘That’s some story,’ he said, nodding slowly.

She still couldn’t tell if he was being off. ‘I think it’s romantic.’

‘Oh, it is, it is,’ he said slowly, as if choosing his words with care. ‘But you might want to tread a little cautiously, that’s all. The pier’s become a bit of a bone of contention in recent years. Some of the locals feel that a compulsory order is appropriate to get it out of private hands.’

Violet blinked, feeling her cheeks start to heat up. ‘A compulsory order? What does that even mean?’

Cal emptied the rest of the wine into their glasses. ‘You know, a forced sale. There was even talk of it being dismantled, although that seems to have gone quiet.’

‘No!’ The word left Violet sharp and laced with fear; they couldn’t take her grandma’s pier down. ‘Why would they do that?’

‘Hey, don’t panic,’ he said, sliding her glass towards her. ‘It’s not going to happen. Especially not now you’re here.’

‘But …’ She trailed off and swallowed a mouthful of wine. She’d had her rose-tinted glasses firmly jammed on up to now, seeing only romance and fairytale where the pier was concerned. Where her pier was concerned. ‘Is everyone going to hate me?’

A smile tugged at the edges of Cal’s mouth. ‘How could they hate a girl with blue hair and candy-stripe nails?’

Violet looked down at her hands. Her mum despaired of her penchant for painting her nails in weird and wonderful designs, and she dearly wished her daughter would stop dip-dyeing the ends of her dark hair all shades of the rainbow. Teal, orange, fire-engine red; she’d tried them all. Right now Violet was in her peacock-blue period. She didn’t do it to stand out. She just liked colour, and patterns, and didn’t see any reason to be bland.

‘Want to go out and look at it now?’

She looked up again and found Cal watching her. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I’d love that.’

Darkness had already fallen when they stepped out of the pub, and the nip in the air had Violet buttoning her coat as they crossed the deserted seafront road.

‘Is it always this quiet?’

Cal shook his head. ‘It’s Sunday, and it’s cold. Anyone sensible is doing something warm.’

Was that flirty? Did he mean sitting around the table with their family eating a Sunday roast, or did he mean in bed with a lover? It was hard to tell; Calvin Dearheart seemed to have a permanent glint in his eye. Vi didn’t pull away when he linked his arm through hers and steered her along the sea wall towards the looming pier gates.

‘Have you ever been beyond them?’ she asked.

He slanted his eyes towards her. ‘Not as an adult.’

She watched him, waiting for more, until he laughed and looked away.

‘What kind of kid would grow up in a seaside town and not explore the deserted pier?’

Ah. She nodded, wrapping her arms around herself as they reached the gates. It looked different at night; more ominous and ramshackle, like something from a Stephen King book. It wasn’t hard to imagine Cal as a boy, scrambling over the gates with his mates when they thought no one was looking.

‘What’s it like in there?’

Her eyes moved beyond the gates towards the barely visible glass pavilion perched out over the sea.

He followed her gaze. ‘I can barely remember. More sound than it looks, I think. Must be to have survived all these years; a lot of the old piers have fallen into the sea by now unless they’ve been looked after.’

They stood side by side in the quiet evening, their breath misting in front of them. Violet could taste the sea-salt on her lips, and looking down the length of the wooden pier towards the pavilion, she could easily imagine the sound of footsteps running the length of it, or dancing along it, as she fancied when she thought of Monica.

‘I’ve got the key to this,’ she said, touching her fingers against the cold padlock.

‘I don’t think you should use it tonight,’ Cal said. ‘Wait until you know if it’s safe.’

She didn’t answer, just curled her fingers around the gate, much as she had that morning. The truth was she knew it was safe. Her legacy from her grandpa hadn’t been neglected; he’d paid for a structural survey every three years. The pier had been given a clean bill of health just the summer before.

It was hard to fathom Henry’s thinking; on the one hand he’d left Swallow Beach and never returned, and on the other hand he’d ensured that both the pier and the Lido apartment were maintained. It was almost as if he’d mothballed them for something. For Monica? Not for her mum, surely – Della’s reticence about all things Swallow Beach was more than clear. The simple truth seemed to be that he’d kept them because they were part of the woman he loved, and now he’d passed them on to Violet because he’d felt, rightly or wrongly, that she’d know what to do with them.

‘Will you come with me tomorrow?’ she said. ‘At dawn?’

‘Are you serious?’

She nodded. ‘I’d like to open it up and take a look without anyone knowing I’m here, and that seems like the best time to do it.’

‘Will you come without me if I say no?’

‘Yes.’

He shook his head and pushed his dark hair back from his face when the wind whipped it forwards.

‘How did I know you were going to say that?’ Placing his hand on the base of her back, he steered her away from the gates and back towards the Lido. ‘Come on, let’s get inside, it’s too cold out here. I’ll come back with you in the morning.’

‘Morning catwoman,’ Cal said when he met her on the landing early the following morning as agreed. It was a completely nonsensical nickname derived from cat burglar, but Violet didn’t pull him up on it because, for one, it was harmless, and for two, it was kind of cool. Catwoman wore skintight leather and exuded sex appeal; no one had ever called her anything remotely sexy before. The closest Simon had come to giving her a nickname had been the couple of occasions he’d referred to her as darling, which didn’t really count. Unless Cal meant catwoman in the sense of a spinster who turned to keeping cats out of desperation, which was something else entirely. Caffeine; her brain needed more caffeine before she could distinguish between compliment or insult.

‘How did you sleep?’

‘Not the best,’ she said. ‘First night in a strange bed and all that.’

It was a massive understatement. She’d barely slept at all, too churned up by the events of the previous day. Less than twenty-four hours previously she’d been in the relative safety of her parents’ familiar kitchen, and now she was here in a strange town, in an even stranger apartment.

It wasn’t just that, either. Every time she’d fallen into fitful bursts of sleep, surrounded by mermaids, she’d found herself thinking about her new neighbour with his easy smile and laughing dark eyes. God only knew why; the one thing she definitely didn’t need was any distractions of the romantic kind. And now here he was again, with his low-slung jeans and disreputable air, and she couldn’t help noticing how his old leather biker jacket fitted him like a glove or the way his dark hair tumbled forward over his brow. He looked like trouble and laughed like a man who didn’t care what people thought. Vi couldn’t decide if she found that attractive or scary – a bit of both, probably.

‘Got your keys?’

She nodded and patted her pocket. Last night she’d shown Cal the paperwork from her grandpa’s engineers confirming the stability of the pier, and it had been enough to convince him they were safe to venture out there that morning as long as the weather was on their side. The huge landing window facing out towards the sea confirmed it; it was one of those rose-bright mornings, dewy, still and clear.

‘All set,’ she said. She didn’t wait for Cal to lead the way. This was her destiny and she was going towards it herself, best foot forward.

Cal watched his interesting new neighbour strike off down the stairs, her blue-tipped hair swinging beneath her chunky red bobble hat. She wasn’t very tall, yet she had a presence, an undeniable spark that crackled from her English-rose skin and shone from her unusual grey-green eyes. They were the exact same shade as the sea out in the bay; maybe she was a mermaid washed ashore to tempt him. If she was, it had worked. He was beguiled by the soft curve of her hips as she dashed down the stairs, taking care to step lightly due to the early hour.

‘Come on,’ she called up, a loud whisper that had his feet moving to catch her up. He’d cancelled a date last night to keep Violet company, and today he was going against his better judgement about the pier. But then it was no good being the black sheep of Swallow Beach if you didn’t do stuff that marked you out as rebellious, was it? The thought of how much Violet’s presence was going to rile his mother was enough to put a skip in his step as he followed her down towards the street.

She was waiting for him at the bottom of the Lido steps, rubbing her hands together in red-and-blue-striped fingerless gloves.

‘Nervous?’ he said, unnecessarily because it was written all over her face.

‘No,’ she said, and then laughed and rolled her eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘Standard,’ he said. ‘Come on. Let’s do it.’

In truth, he was undeniably fascinated to go onto the pier without climbing the gates like he used to as a kid, and he’d never been inside the pavilion. Aside from the engineers, no one had been inside it for the last forty years.

It took them all of three minutes to reach the gates, and he watched as Violet stood jiggling on the spot, keys in hand. Come on, he thought. Be brave, mermaid girl. He smiled when she turned her uncertain eyes towards him. Had they really only met yesterday? She felt familiar, as if she’d been here far longer.

‘Do it,’ he whispered. He didn’t offer to do it for her; it was one of those things she needed to do for herself. She nodded, turning away, and then stepped forward and slid the key into the clunky black padlock with shaky fingers.

Violet found the key fitted easily inside the lock. She’d worried it might be rusted or too stiff, but clearly her grandpa’s upkeep of all things Swallow Beach extended to ensuring that the hefty lock keeping the public at bay was fit for purpose. The gates themselves had rusted and creaked though, screeching like angry seagulls as Violet twisted the padlock off and unwound the chains that bound them together.

‘Sshh,’ she whispered, worried that the noise would attract unwanted attention.

‘It’s fine,’ Cal murmured. ‘No one will hear it.’

She pushed the gates open just wide enough to allow them to step through.

‘Are you worried it’s going to crumble into the sea with us at the wrong end?’ she said, turning to look at Cal again.

‘Are you looking for a reason not to do it?’ he countered, half smiling.

Was she? Kind of. Not because she was scared of it crumbling; she trusted her Grandpa Henry better than that. Her reticence was much less tangible than that, almost a muscle memory of being here before, a whisper of yesterday, a ghost from the past.

She was being fanciful; aware that her gran’s blood ran in her veins, that she looked so very much like her, that her spirit seemed to have lain dormant in her daughter and skipped down a generation. In actual fact, Violet was ever so slightly afraid. What had happened to Monica for her life to come to such a sudden, tragic end in Swallow Beach? It was unreasonable to fear the same fate, the sensible part of Vi’s brain knew that, but all the same her gran had arrived in Swallow Beach a bride and died far too young as a result. The thought sent a portentous chill down her spine. Maybe her mum was right to fear this place. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come here at all.

‘Violet?’ Cal’s hand warmed her shoulder. ‘Shall we?’

Buoyed by his presence, she swallowed her fear. It was now or never.

‘Yes. Yes, we shall.’