"If Jules was sending postcards to your father, his wife must have known about you."
"I suppose, but why can't I remember?"
"The memory is a tricky thing. It can blank out trauma."
"Permanently?"
"With nothing to remind you, no one to tell you..."
"And they didn't. Was that why they moved house?" Rose swallowed. "To somewhere no one would know, or would ask me who I was and where I'd come from? New neighbourhood, new school..."
"Or maybe with an extra child, they needed a bigger place," he suggested. "Were you happy with them?"
"Yes..." The woman Rose had always known as her mother had been handed her husband's love child out of the blue and given her the same love that she'd given her own children. "Mum..." Her throat tightened as she thought of the lovely woman who'd accepted her as her own. "I would never have guessed in a million years that I wasn't her own daughter. And Dad... Did you ever meet him? Did he come here?"
"Not often. He came on your seventh birthday and Jules threw a party in the beach hut. He called you his little princess."
"That's what Jules said."
"Do you remember anything else? Apart from the pink house and the swing?"
She leaned against him. "Not remember, but walking around town today... When Arthur told me about a hardware shop, I knew where it was. And I remembered that there was a sweet shop next door."
"Sweet Dickens. Your mum used to give us both money for sweets, but you always had to buy her something weird—"
"Ginger liquorice. I don't like it, but I bought some today. I left it for Jules."
"Do ghosts eat sweets?"
"Probably not. She asked for ice cream today but she didn't eat that."
"What flavour?"
"Espresso. She loved it and I used to beg her for a taste..." She grabbed his arm. "Ohmigod Daniel, that was a memory! Not just a feeling. I can remember the shock of it. The bitterness and then the sweetness. I couldn't decide if I liked it or not..." She swallowed. "That's why she asked for it. She wanted me to taste it so that I'd remember." She looked up at him. "Will you tell me what happened, Daniel?"
"Are you sure you want to know? If it jolts your memory it could be painful..."
"That's why the postcard brought me here," she said. "So that I could find out the truth. That's why Jules is here. She said Peter asked her to wait for me."
"OK..." He took a moment, then said, "Your mother was a bit of a sun-worshipper and she bought a blow-up sunbed so that she could lie out on the sand in comfort. One day, while she was in the hut, it seems that you took it into your head to take it down to the water."
"I drifted out?" Rose swallowed. "It was my fault?"
"No, Rose, you were a child."
But as it came rushing back at her, swamping her, stealing her breath, just as it had that day, she knew exactly who was to blame.
"You'd gone off on an adventure and I wanted one, too," she said. "I'd looked at the island for so long and I thought, if I went there, I could tell you about it."
"No—"
She put a hand on his arm. She had to get this out.
"Mama was busy painting her toenails so I sneaked off with the sunbed. It looked a bit like a raft and I thought I could paddle out there. At first it was OK, but then it started to get rough, tossing me about." She could feel it now, the sick fear... "The sea began to swamp the bed and I couldn't hang on..."
"Don't, Rose. Don't think about it," Daniel said, wrapping his arms around her as if he could keep the memory back, but there was nothing that could do that.
"The water kept coming over my head and I wanted my mother, but the water was coming over my head and I couldn't open my mouth to scream. I've been having nightmares about not being able to scream..." It was waking up screaming that had brought her racing to Little Piddling. "I couldn't scream but she came anyway. I saw her blue dress as she pushed through the people standing on the beach and ran into the water. Someone tried to stop her, but she shook them off and dived in and I knew it was going to be all right. She was going to save me..."
She was sobbing now, clinging to Daniel as he held her, rocking her as he whispered soothing words. Telling her over and over that it wasn't her fault until, finally, she managed to get a grip, calm down enough to draw back.
"Someone had called out the lifeboat as soon as they noticed how far out you were. By the time the radio message got to them to look for your mother, it was too late."
"Your dad's face is the last thing I remember," Rose said. "You look so much like him."
"He'll be very happy to see you."
"Will he? He won't shout at me?"
"He never shouted at anyone in his life. I don't normally, but this morning..." It was his turn to swallow. "This morning felt different."
She sniffed, wiped her palms across wet cheeks, then searched in her bag for a tissue to blow her nose. "I must look a sight. I bet you wish you'd left me with Henry or Arthur now."
He took her hands, held them in his. "Katherine Rosalind Redmayne, this would be a very good moment to tell me if you'd rather I'd left you with Henry or Arthur."
The warmth that trickled through her veins had nothing to do with the fire, or with Nigel lying on her feet.
"Why?" she asked. "What will you do if I tell you that I'm glad that you didn't?"
"I'd tell you that there was a reason I couldn't leave this town with its ridiculous name," he said. "I had no idea what it was, until I saw you standing in front of your beach hut with your curls and your chin and I knew then that I'd been waiting for you." He kissed each of her hands then cradled her face in his palms. "And once I'd said that, I'd kiss you."
"I'd like that."
"Would you?"
He was searching her face, wanting more and she said, "Henry and Arthur are both sweet men, Daniel, but we were soulmates. I'm sorry that I forgot you for such a long time," she said, "but I'm home now and I won't be leaving, so yes, I'd really, really like you to kiss me. Now, please."
Chapter Eight
Daniel's lips descended with what felt like agonising slowness but it was worth the wait.
The first touch sent a whisper through her body. He took his time getting to know what pleased her, to respond to her sighs, her moans, his touches becoming more intimate.
At some point they rolled onto the sheepskin rug sending Nigel running for his basket. Everything stopped then and looking up at her, he said, "Bed..."
"Are you OK, Rose?" he asked, much later, when they'd regained their breath.
"I think I might need some more hot sweet tea."
He laughed, kissed her. "I can't believe that just happened."
"Me neither. Maybe we should do it again to be sure." Somewhere in town a clock struck eleven. "But not now. If I'm not tucked up in my own bed by midnight," she said, "your mother's worst fears will be realised."
"I'll call her and tell her you're staying here."
"And confirm them? She recognised me today. She had no idea who I was, but she knew she'd seen me before."
"Then I'll put her out of her misery. Seriously, Rose, a lot of memories have been stirred up and you were already having nightmares. I don't think you should be on your own." He leaned across, kissed away any possibility of argument, then peeled himself off the bed.
"Hey!"
"Stay right there. I have to take Nigel for walk around the block, but I won't be long."
"No, wait," she said, scrambling up after him. "I'll come with you. I want to see Jules."
"Won't it keep until the morning?"
"I want her to know that I've remembered."
"I'll get a torch."
It took her a moment to locate her clothes. Her bag had fallen over, spilling her purse and phone and when she picked it up she said, "Arthur has sent a text."
"An apology, I hope."
"No. His mother told him that Nanna Rose is still living in the pink house. That's what he wanted to tell me. She's a bit of
recluse but she's alive, Daniel."
"I didn't know." He gestured at the painting over the fireplace. "That's one of your Nanna's. It belonged to my dad, but he knew how much I loved it and he gave it to me when I bought this house..."
Rose touched it. "It's beautiful."
"Come on," he said, offering her one of his jackets so that she wouldn't get cold. "You can tell Jules that you're going to see Nanna Rose tomorrow."
They walked arm in arm across the beach, Nigel bounding ahead of them, the stars dimmed by a full moon.
At the hut, Daniel said, "Do you want me to come in with you?"
"Yes, please."
She gave him the key, he unlocked the door and they stepped inside.
"Jules?" she called. There was no reply. Daniel handed her the torch and she climbed up to the sleeping loft.
Jules was curled up under the blanket.
"Mama...?" she said, uncertain whether she should touch her, but then letting her fingers whisper over her mother's cheeks.
"Katy..."
"Yes, Mama."
"Thank you for the sweets."
"I remembered."
"I told your dad that it would be better if you didn't, but he said it was time..."
"I'm so sorry, Mama."
"It wasn't your fault. I should have been taking better care of you. I relied on Daniel but I'd forgotten that he was away."
"He's here now and he's going to take me to see Nanna Rose tomorrow. Do you want me to tell her anything?"
"Tell her to start painting again."
"I will. Is there anything I can do for you? "
"No. I'm just going to stay here for a little while longer, thinking about Peter. We had such lovely times, but Nanna needed me and Peter had commitments..." She sat up. "Daniel?"
He stood on the ladder so that she could see him. "Hello, Jules."
"Will you take care of Katy for me?"
"Always."
Jules reached out a hand and touched his cheek. "Such a good boy."
"I'm going to stay with her, Daniel," Rose said.
"Do you want me to stay with you?"
She shook her head and he learned forward to kiss her. "I'll be next door if you need me."
He left her the torch, but she turned it off and lay in the dark beside her mother. They talked, laughed, remembered and cried a little until Jules' voice grew too faint to hear. And, when the scent of coffee tempted her from sleep, Rose was alone.
Matt walked Rose down the aisle to Daniel, with Lisa, thrilled to be her bridesmaid, following them. They had been stunned by her story and were just a little bewitched by Little Piddling.
Nanna Rose had repainted the rose garland and it glowed with pinks and greens and gold in the setting sun when, after their vows were made, Rose and Daniel threw the biggest beach party that Little Piddling had ever seen.
Rosa's Retreat and Dan's Den had been linked with more roses and fairy lights than anyone could count. There was fabulous food and lashings of champagne laid out in what had to be the smallest wedding reception venue ever, and they all danced barefoot in the sand as the sunset faded into twilight.
Later, they sat around a bonfire, eating hotdogs and watching fireworks—the silent ones that didn't frighten the animals—light up the bay.
And in the shadows, where only Daniel and Rose could see her, Jules looked up from painting her toenails and smiled.
THE END
About Liz Fielding
Bestselling author Liz Fielding writes contemporary romance and has sold more than 15 million books. When not writing, she is busy in her garden, fighting the flab in the local pool, or doing stuff with a crochet hook or knitting needles. You can see the results on Facebook or Instagram, and check out her books at her website.
Liz is also part of the Libertà hive: libertabooks.com/liz
I, VAMPIRE
Romance with Bite
by Joanna Maitland
DEDICATION
To the two people who inspired me to write a vampire:
the late Sir Terry Pratchett and David, both of whom made me laugh.
And to my fellow authors in this anthology.
It's been a huge pleasure (and an honour) to work with you.
Thank you all.
Chapter One
"I, vampire. You, human. We have a relationship, you know?"
The boy nodded. He didn't look worried.
I was going to have to be more precise. It was time this little urchin showed some proper respect to a vampire. Fear, even.
"Vampires drink blood. Human blood. You are human. Worried now?"
He shook his head. "Nope. I know all about vampires. I've read Terry Pratchett."
"Terry who?"
"Pratchett. Don't you read in your vampire world? Oh, I suppose you're a bit short of light in your coffin."
"I don't live in a coffin. I live in a—" Oh. Um. I glanced over my shoulder at beach hut Number 23a.
"Anyway, you don't have to drink human blood to survive. You can reform."
"I can what?"
"You can reform. Like Angel in Buffy."
"What the h—? Um." He was a child. No swearing. "Who is Buffy when he's at home? And where does the angel come in?"
"Buffy," he responded smugly, "is a she. She's a Slayer. Of vampires."
"Eh?"
"And Angel is a vampire."
"So she slays him?"
"Nnnooope. She falls in love with him."
My head was beginning to hurt. "So the Slayer doesn't slay the vampire? Does the vampire drink her blood?"
"Nope."
"So how does he survive?"
"It's complicated. You need to watch the box set."
The only boxes I knew were coffins—which don't come in sets. Besides, I'd given up on coffins in favour of beach hut Number 23a.
Temporarily, you understand.
I'd picked my hut for its simplicity. Some of the others—like Rassendyll Lodge further along—were ornate beyond belief and stuffed to the gills with human junk. Barely room to stand, far less lie down and sleep during the daylight hours. But Number 23a was as spare as its name and suited me admirably. It had a long bench down each side, a low cupboard at the back, and a couple of deckchairs, neatly stowed.
"Look," I said, "I am a vampire. And I do need a regular resupply. Right now, you look plump and pink in a way that's very enticing."
He sighed. "I don't believe you. If you were a proper blood-sucking vampire, you would have done the fang bit long before now. Proper vampires don't get into discussions about Terry Pratchett."
That was a low blow. I tried to regain a little dignity. "Blood-sucking vampires can be extremely polite and logical, you know. Charming conversationalists, even. When they are not out for blood. But just at the moment—" I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to look threatening. He didn't flinch. "Just at the moment, I'm beginning to feel the odd pang."
This time, he didn't sigh; he laughed.
Being laughed at by a little boy of about seven is pretty insulting when you're more than two hundred years old and have, basically, seen it all. Well, OK, not absolutely all. Clearly I'd missed out on Terry Pratchett and the blasted vampire slayer but I'd catch up, eventually. What mattered now was that this mouthy little human was beginning to annoy me.
I let him see my fangs.
He had the sense to recoil a couple of steps. But he hadn't allowed for the uneven sand on the beach. He lost his balance and fell in a heap.
My turn to laugh.
"It's not polite to laugh at others' misfortunes." That came out instantly, like something he'd learned at his mother's knee and was repeating by rote. But he managed to scramble back onto his feet and stood facing me like a boxer, fists raised.
"If you're so well up on vampires, you'll know that we have enormous physical strength. Hmm?" I waited.
In the end, he let his fists drop.
"Better. And while we're on the issue of politeness, might I mention that bo
ys of your age should have a little more respect for their elders?"
Something in my tone must have reassured him, because the tension left his shoulders and he grinned at me. "Boys of my age are a bit small to make a decent meal for you, aren't we? And how old are you, anyway?"
I ignored that. Though he was right on the size issue. I'd called him "plump and pink" but actually he was small and skinny and freckled. Barely a snack, really. And I was intrigued by his ability to resist the abject terror that most victims show when they see my fangs. "How old are you, boy? And do you have a name?" I rapped out, trying to regain the initiative. He was too cocky by half.
"William."
"William what?"
"Just William," he said with a smirk.
That certainly fitted. The freckles, plus a snub nose and too-innocent blue eyes. I hadn't read his blessed Pratchett person, but I had read Richmal Crompton. Even when I use a coffin, I don't spend all the sunlit hours sleeping, you know. After a century or so, meditation can get boring. So sometimes I read—I used candlelight at first, but nowadays I have an electric torch. And I'm thinking of getting one of those backlit tablet things, to save having to keep putting the torch down to turn the pages. Over the decades, I've read everything from kiddy picture books to Plato. Pratchett had now gone on to my To Be Read list.
"Just William," I repeated, returning the smirk. "As you wish. And your age, Just William?"
"Nine."
I raised a single eyebrow at him. I've perfected that over the years. It unsettles people, almost as much as the fangs.
Just William was unsettled enough to redden a little. "Well, nearly nine," he admitted. "More than eight and a half, anyway. Nearly eight and three-quarters."
I thought it didn't seem fair to quibble.
And then I realised what I was thinking. Since when did I, vampire, act fairly towards humans? Weren't humans simply fodder? Looking down at this small, skinny, insolent example of the species, I found that I'd lost my appetite. I wasn't interested in his warm, red, gloopy stuff. I was more interested in how his mind worked.
That was a first.
Beach Hut Surprise: Escape to Little Piddling this summer — six feel-good beach reads to make you smile, or even laugh out loud Page 23
