Summer on Seashell Island: Escape to an island this summer for the perfect heartwarming romance in 2020 (Riley Wolfe 1)

by Sophie Pembroke

  She waited, killing time by examining the jars of local chutneys and jams, until the deli was empty and the buzz from the restaurant next door became background noise as people finished off brunch.

  ‘Do you have a few minutes?’ she asked, when they were alone.

  ‘You need to place another order?’ Rory turned towards the restaurant. ‘Let me get one of my colleagues to take it for you.’

  ‘No!’ Too loud, too desperate, she knew, but she didn’t care. Gathering her composure, she said, ‘I need to talk to you. I mean, yes, I also need to order food. But mostly I just need to talk to you and I can’t because you’ve been avoiding me. Understandably.’

  His gaze stayed steady on her face, like he was reading her mind, and she tried to meet it openly and honestly.

  Finally, he nodded. Unwrapping the black apron from around his waist, he tossed it under the counter, and disappeared to talk to someone in the back room. Then he returned, walked straight past her towards the door, saying over his shoulder, ‘Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.’

  Well. That boded really well. And also meant she wasn’t getting her Welsh rarebit.

  She caught up with him just as he was taking the steps down to the beach, two at a time, the sea breeze ruffling his hair.

  ‘So,’ he said, as his feet touched the sand. ‘You wanted to talk. Talk.’

  She’d rehearsed this in her head on the way over. She knew exactly what she’d intended to say. Apologise again first, then confess. So why wouldn’t the words come?

  ‘I just wanted to . . . apologise again,’ she started, uncertainly. She hadn’t expected the anger in his eyes, that was the problem. Even though she’d expected him to be furious. ‘For everything, of course. But especially for what you heard me say the other day. I know you must be angry with me, or else you wouldn’t be avoiding me.’

  He barked a laugh at that. ‘Angry with you?’ Shaking his head, he stopped walking and turned to her, grabbing her hands as he spoke. ‘Juliet, I’m angry with myself. For ever letting myself believe . . . let’s just say that your nicely timed declaration that you hadn’t come back here for me punctured any self-delusion I’d been operating under.’

  Letting her go, he stalked away up the beach, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaving Juliet to puzzle out his meaning until she realised he was halfway to the steps back up to town and if he took them she’d lose him.

  She couldn’t lose him. Not before she’d fixed things between them.

  Chasing after him, she grabbed his arm and made him stop. Glancing up, she saw a couple of locals she recognised watching them curiously from the street above, and cursed inwardly. This was going to be everywhere, no matter what she did next.

  People would be talking about her, just like they always had. She was scandal-worthy – even more so than normal, right now.

  She might as well live up to her reputation.

  ‘Here’s the thing,’ she said breathlessly, as Rory turned to face her, his expression steeled for disappointment. ‘I didn’t come back to Seashell Island for you, I came for me. And I didn’t come planning to stay, and I probably won’t. All the reasons I left the island still stand, but I need you to remember that none of those reasons were you. I loved you, Rory, more than I’ve ever loved anyone, it turns out. But I couldn’t live my life out here, and you—’

  ‘I needed to stay, for my dad,’ Rory finished for her. ‘I remember.’

  ‘Leo was teasing me at the beach. That’s why I said what you heard. But honestly, he seemed more worried about you than me.’

  That brought a half smile to Rory’s face. ‘That’s because he left to go back to university a week later than you that last summer. He saw the mess you left me in. And Miranda and your parents . . . they put up with me showing up drunk and morose to moon around the Lighthouse gardens, missing you for months afterwards.’

  ‘That’s . . . kind of pathetic,’ Juliet said, trying to not sound unkind but, knowing her track record, probably failing.

  Rory laughed. ‘It was. Very. And I got over it. I moved on with my life. Worked with dad at the family business then, when he got too sick to manage, I took over. Started the Flying Fish, which became a successful business, rather than just scraping by. And I’m glad he got to see that before he died.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rory.’

  He shrugged. ‘We knew it was coming. It is what it is. The point is, I managed very nicely here without you after the first little while. Even started dating again. Living again. Until this summer.’

  Juliet froze. ‘What changed?’ she whispered, although she already knew the answer.

  ‘You. You came home, and suddenly I was eighteen again. Stumbling over my words, struck dumb every time I saw you. Finding excuses to deliver your orders to the Lighthouse instead of letting Kieran do it like he normally would. Ready to be humiliated by you over and over. And it didn’t matter. I still wanted you, after all this time.’ He looked down at the sand, and gave a small, self-deprecating chuckle. ‘Nothing had changed. When you are here on the island, you’re still all that I see. You walked into my restaurant and . . . the tides stopped for me. You were still so . . . you. Beautiful and vibrant and—’

  ‘Pregnant,’ Juliet blurted out. ‘I’m pregnant. That’s why I came home.’

  Why had she said it like that? That definitely hadn’t been the script for how this conversation was meant to go. But he was being so open, so honest . . . didn’t she owe him the unvarnished truth?

  Plus, all her insides were squirming at the way he described her. At how she affected his world, when she’d only ever been thinking about herself.

  She didn’t deserve someone like Rory even acknowledging her presence.

  ‘You’re . . . what?’ Rory blinked at her in obvious bafflement.

  ‘Pregnant,’ she repeated, softer. ‘I . . . it’s a long story. Basically, the father isn’t in the picture but, because he was someone I worked with, I had to leave my job, too. So I came back to Seashell Island to throw myself on my parents’ mercies because apparently I’m still a teenager and incapable of looking after myself. Only they weren’t here, and I couldn’t tell my siblings and I can’t go back to London, so now I’m running the Lighthouse B&B and I have no idea what’s going to happen next in my life.’

  Rory stared at her for a long, long moment. Behind her, Juliet heard the sea crashing against the sand and counted the pause in waves. One, two, three, four, five . . .

  ‘OK,’ Rory whispered eventually, raking a shaky hand through his already windblown hair. ‘OK. We’re going to the pub. I’m going to have a drink and you’re going to tell me everything. OK?’

  Juliet looked up into his blue, blue eyes and burst into tears.

  MIRANDA

  Leo was back at four o’clock, as promised, with Christabel in tow, so Miranda handed over two sandy and only slightly sugary girls and headed upstairs to shower and try and find anything in her wardrobe that said ‘flirty planning meeting’.

  Obviously, nothing she owned managed that. She settled on a pale blue sundress she’d always liked and stuck with flat sandals because the cobbles in town were ridiculous in heels, and anyway, they might want to walk on the beach afterwards.

  Owain was waiting for her by the front door when she descended the stairs, A4 folder and notepad in hand.

  ‘Looks like you’re ready to work,’ he said, nodding towards her stationery supplies.

  ‘Of course. What else could tonight be about?’ She couldn’t help the smile that fluttered around her lips as she said it, and from the way Owain stared at her mouth he didn’t miss it, either.

  ‘I can’t possibly imagine,’ he said. But the heat in his voice told her he was imagining it every bit as much as she was.

  As they walked into town together, Miranda gave him a fuller version of the history of the Lightho
use Festival than he’d heard so far, starting with the summer they’d moved to the island, and how they’d been outsiders, trying to find their place on Seashell Island.

  Owain shook his head at that. ‘Kinda hard to imagine that now,’ he admitted. ‘Ever since I’ve been here, every time we’ve gone anywhere together – even just dragging Lucy across those damn fields – you’ve bumped into someone who knows you.’

  ‘Mostly people who want to ask me about the Lighthouse Festival,’ she pointed out. ‘Or ask when Paul and I are getting back together.’

  ‘Perhaps. But the point stands. You’re like the True North of this place. The backbone of it. I think the whole place might fall apart without you here to keep it together. You’re the locals’ local, these days.’

  ‘I wasn’t once, though,’ Miranda admitted, with a wry smile. ‘To start with, this was just another new school, more new kids to make fun of me. I guess I assumed that it would be like every other place Mum and Dad took us. We’d stay a while and then move on. It was only at the end of our first summer, when they threw that first festival and invited everyone on the island for barbecue and music up at the B&B, that I realised this was it. We were really staying. We had a proper home, at last.’

  ‘You moved around a lot before that?’ Owain asked.

  Miranda nodded. ‘Every year or so. Creative parents, you know. Always seeking the next inspiration.’ She looked out over the sea, towards the mainland, and was surprised to find she didn’t shudder at the very sight of it, for once. ‘You must know how it is. I bet you travel all over with the band.’

  ‘We do,’ he admitted. ‘And I love it. But then we go home again, and I love that too.’

  ‘That’s North Wales, right?’ It was hard to imagine Owain in one place, not adventuring the world with his guitar on his back.

  ‘Right. I inherited a little cottage from my grandparents, up in the hills. I used to go stay there with them as a kid, in the holidays. It’s good for holing up and thinking, but a bit cramped when the band’s all there together. Plus the nearest pub is a five-mile walk away. That’s why the band insisted on settling somewhere else this summer, to work on the new songs. And since we had a lot of gigs down this end of the country anyway, when Christabel sent us the link to the Lighthouse website, it made sense.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you decided to come,’ Miranda admitted, smiling up at him.

  ‘Me too.’ For a moment, he just held her gaze, and Miranda realised she could read anything she wanted to in his eyes. Did she really see the heat she hoped for, or was that just a reflection of her own desire? Owain seemed determined to hold back and let her set the pace for anything that happened between them. Which she applauded in the abstract. But right now . . . she just wanted a sign.

  ‘So, tell me more about the festival,’ Owain said, as they continued walking. ‘What was last year’s like?’

  Miranda talked about candyfloss stalls and vintage fairground rides and country dancers and so on until they reached the Flying Fish. Inside, Rory was nowhere to be seen, but his restaurant manager took them swiftly to their table.

  ‘How are things coming with the festival?’ Debbie asked, as she handed them menus and a wine list. ‘Rory said to let you know that of course the Flying Fish stall will be there.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Miranda said. That was one stall at least. ‘I’m still, ah, confirming the details with the other stallholders.’

  ‘Well, let us know if we can do anything to help,’ Debbie said. ‘Summer’s not complete until we’ve all enjoyed the Lighthouse Festival.’

  Miranda gave her a wan smile as she walked away, then turned her attention to her menu. She’d barely made it past the starters, though, before someone else came up to the table.

  ‘Miranda! I just wanted to check in about the arrangements for the festival.’ Dottie, from the island’s WI group, whipped out her diary and put it on the table. ‘When would be a good time for us to meet and discuss?’

  Um, any time I’m not on an actual date? ‘How about you give me a call tomorrow?’

  Dottie wrote it down in her diary. ‘I have lots of ideas.’

  ‘Oh good.’ Last year, the WI had run a flower-arranging stall, which had been much more successful than the naked husbands of the WI calendar venture from the year before.

  Before Miranda could return her attention to the menu, though, the door opened and the restaurant went bizarrely quiet. Which she liked, because it meant she could decide what to eat.

  But then Owain cleared his throat. ‘Um, Miranda?’

  Damn it. She was going to have to look up. And she just knew, in her gut, that she didn’t want to see whatever was going on behind her.

  Still, she turned, hyper-aware that everyone in the Flying Fish was staring at her. Which made sense when she realised that Paul had just walked in with Becca from the Crab Leg Cafe hanging off his arm.

  Right. Of course.

  Miranda did a quick check on her heart and found it still unbroken. She and Becca hadn’t been close in years, and she couldn’t exactly berate Paul for moving on while she was out on a date herself. So she smiled, waved at the pair, then turned her attention back to the menu.

  ‘Nicely done,’ Owain murmured, across the table. ‘Now, what are you having? I’m thinking maybe the duck.’

  ‘The duck is really good,’ Miranda agreed. ‘But I quite fancy the chicken pie.’

  Conversations began to start up again around them and, the next time Miranda glanced around, she saw that Paul and Becca had been seated at the far side of the restaurant, and no one was paying them any attention any more.

  Good.

  Of course, that didn’t stop another two locals stopping by to ask about the festival arrangements while Debbie was trying to take their order. But since that wasn’t as bad as everyone gossiping about her personal life, Miranda smiled nicely and promised to keep them updated.

  ‘This festival of your sounds like quite the important event for the whole community,’ Owain said, after they’d finally ordered. ‘Maybe even more so than your love life.’

  Miranda sighed, and decided to ignore the love-life dig. ‘Usually, yes. This year . . . probably not. I’ve emailed all the usual people Mum and Dad get in for it, and every single one I’ve heard back from has said they’re already booked that weekend, sorry. The others . . . I don’t know if they’ll even bother replying.’

  Owain leaned back in his seat, arms folded across his chest. ‘Well, maybe you need to think outside the box this year. Try something different.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ The Lighthouse Festival was an island tradition. People expected certain things. Like candyfloss stalls and carousels, neither of which she’d been able to source so far.

  ‘Well, from what you’ve said, it sounds like the festival has grown every year, right? So maybe it’s time for the next big evolutionary growth for the Lighthouse in general.’ The waitress brought their drinks, and he took a long sip of his pint after saying thanks. ‘What would have happened with the B&B this summer if we hadn’t come to stay? I heard you talking to Juliet about it that first night,’ he admitted with a sheepish look.

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know.’ Miranda reached for her wine glass, toying with the stem, turning it round and round as she considered. ‘Mum and Dad . . . they were supposed to be home by now, but when they extended their trip, they didn’t have any bookings in place for the whole of August. We’re always booked up in August.’

  ‘Suspicious.’

  ‘And that’s not the only thing.’ Suddenly, all the strange things she’d been noticing over the past months started to pour out of her, like they’d reached critical mass and couldn’t help but overflow. ‘They’ve basically abandoned the online booking system; everyone who has stayed with them this year were past visitors who contacted them directly. In the past, Mum was always religious about
repainting rooms the minute they started to show any wear and tear, but I don’t think they’ve decorated any of the Lighthouse for the last two years. And then this sudden trip of a lifetime they decided to take when they’ve barely left the island since we arrived, years and years ago.’

  ‘You sound worried,’ Owain commented.

  ‘I am.’ Miranda sighed. ‘Leo and I . . . we found a sales listing for the Lighthouse. Photos, descriptions, guide price, everything. And the most recent accounts are missing, too. What if they’re planning on selling? They’re not that old. But . . . what if it’s all getting too much for them? And . . .’ She bit her lip, reluctant to name her biggest fear, in case it made it real. ‘I’m scared one of them is sick and they won’t tell us. You know. Really sick.’

  Dying.

  The word echoed in her head. She’d been avoiding even thinking it, for strange, nonsensical, superstitious reasons. But now it was out there . . . she couldn’t avoid it any longer.

  Owain reached across the table and took her hand in his. ‘Have you spoken to Leo and Juliet about that?’

  Miranda shook her head. ‘No. I’m probably just catastrophising, anyway. And I’m the one who has been here, who should have noticed before now that something was wrong. It’s just . . . I don’t understand how they could leave Seashell Island.’

  He gave her a strange look. ‘It’s a holiday, Miranda. People take them.’

  ‘Not my parents. Not ever. Not since we moved here.’ They’d been like her: committed to the island. Happy enough there that they never needed to go anywhere else.

  Until this summer.

  ‘Then they were probably due,’ he pointed out, with annoying reasonableness. ‘What about you? When was the last time you left the island?’

  This was it. The moment he realised she was so crazy he would definitely not want to sleep with her, even for rebound sex. Juliet had told her often enough how insane her obsession with this place made her. Now Owain would know it too.

  She took a breath, and confessed. ‘Never. I’ve hardly left Seashell Island at all if I could avoid it. Not since the summer we moved here. And not once since I’ve been an adult.’