by Anna Wilson
‘When the solicitor rang about the will,’ said Tristan.
‘I had to ask – when did she die, what time,’ Becca cut in. ‘Then they said – it was exactly when the phone call came through . . .’
More tears.
‘Is that when you first knew about me?’ Summer whispered.
Becca nodded. ‘Tristan had kept it a secret, as Cat had asked him to. So, you see? It was a huge shock. I am sorry, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I was so, so angry with them both. I was devastated that Cat had died, that I never got the chance to say goodbye, to make things better. I was furious that you . . . I had to tell Kenan. Imagine telling your son that he has a half-sister and that she’s coming to live with us, like that, out of the blue!’ Her voice rose, the words coming faster, the more distraught she became. ‘I couldn’t tell him everything at first. I made Triss say that you were his cousin, that we were family and we had to look after you. I thought I would be able to handle it, then on the day you were due to arrive, I just locked myself in the Wing. Poor Kenan. I had to tell him then. That Triss was your dad too . . . That I couldn’t bear it . . . What a mess!’ She buried her head in her hands.
Summer did not know what to feel any more. She knew she should feel sorry for Becca – go easy on her, probably – but she still had questions. ‘So the phone call? What happened? How did you know it was Mum?’
Becca took a hanky from her sleeve and blew her nose. ‘I definitely remember the time of the call – I looked at the radio alarm before I picked up the phone. 23:59. “Who would call at that hour?” I remember thinking that.’
‘What did she say?’
Becca let out a shuddering sigh. ‘She said, “Bye, love.”‘ Her face creased up again. She wept. ‘It’s how she always used to say goodbye.’
Summer went cold. ‘That’s what she said to me too,’ she said.
She heard Zach’s gran again.
‘Grief can open doors that would normally be firmly held closed.’
‘She found her way back,’ said Becca, smiling through her tears. ‘Through you. She’s come home. And she’s brought you home too. Bosleven is your home, you know that?’
Summer turned the words over in her mind.
Home. Bosleven. Home.
They sounded good together. She pictured the old house, no longer spooky in her mind’s eye; the rambling gardens; the rockery and that beautiful beach. Why would she want to live anywhere else? Then she remembered something.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask. Is the little white cat all right?’ she said.
Tristan and Becca both frowned. ‘What cat?’ they chorused.
‘The little white cat,’ Summer repeated. ‘I never asked you its name. It’s always coming and going – hardly sits still for a second! I tried looking at its tag once. It was quite worn. All I could see was the letter “C”—’
‘What . . . Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Becca cut in, perplexed.
It was Summer’s turn to look puzzled. ‘But it was in the house. I assumed it was yours . . . it was always there, running around. I followed it up to the attic one time. That’s when I found the photos. And the night of the fire – the cat went ballistic. I did think at the time it was trying to tell me something—’ She stopped short.
Tristan and Becca both looked white with shock.
‘We’ve never had a cat,’ Tristan said quietly.
‘You knew?’ Summer repeated in disbelief.
Zach concentrated on casting his line and did not turn to face her.
‘Gran told me,’ he said. ‘Only after the fire, though. I didn’t know anything before that, I swear.’
‘Why didn’t you find me, tell me? You knew how freaked out I’d been by everything. All that stuff your gran said. She made me carry on believing I’d been seeing ghosts.’ She wanted to be angry at him.
‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ said Zach, finally raising his eyes from the line. ‘Gran said we should stay out of it. She knew there had been . . . bad times in the family. She said the whole village knew about the twins – your mum and Becca. They knew about the fight they had, the fact that your mum left Bosleven. Then, when Becca married Tristan and they took on the house, they just kind of shut themselves away there. Kept things private. Anyway,’ he added, bracing himself as he felt a tug on the line, ‘she didn’t “make” you believe anything. She believes in those things: spirits, the thin places . . .’ He started reeling in his catch. ‘I believe in those things too. I think when I die, there’ll be part of me that stays right here.’
Summer stared pensively as the fish came up, wriggling on the hook. Had she been reeled in by a load of fanciful stories?
If so, how could she ever explain the way she and Becca had both received the same call, the same words spoken at the exact time of her mother’s death? What about the fire, that picture she had of her mother lying in a pool of blood while her own nose bled? She knew those had been warnings; she just knew. Even Tristan had said so. The clock that had not worked since Becca and Tristan had got together – since her mum had left . . . and that one box – how come it survived when everything else in the attic had been destroyed? It was too weird. As though her mum had had enough of Tristan skirting the issue, not being straight with her, and had decided to take things into her own hands, burning everything away to leave the evidence laid bare, for all to see.
‘Then there was that cat,’ Summer said.
Zach looked at her. ‘What?’
‘Sorry, I was just thinking things through – strange things have happened to me ever since I’ve arrived here. One of the most bizarre is there was always this little white cat, leading me here to the beach, leading me to find photos of my mum, and then trying to tell me about the fire. I haven’t seen it since.’
‘Cat?’ Zach said.
With that one word, it was as though a veil had been drawn back.
‘Cat – Catherine,’ she whispered. ‘Mum . . .’
She looked across to the Point.
‘So what will you do? Now you know the truth?’ Zach was unhooking the fish but was watching her closely. He put it in the bucket at his feet. ‘Will you – stay?’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’d like it. If you did.’
Summer slipped her hand into Zach’s. He pulled her to him, his bright blue eyes looking deep into hers.
Then, smiling, she said, ‘Yes. I’ll stay. I’ve come home, haven’t I?’
The house, beach, gardens and village in this story are based on real places, but I have altered the names and topography to keep them private. Some other places, such as the Merry Maidens, Newlyn and of course Penzance, are real. The people in the book are entirely fictional and not based on anyone I have ever met.
I would like to thank all the members of my family who encouraged me to write this book, which is so different from anything I have written before. The idea came from a family member who knows how much I adore the area of Cornwall I have described. To those who love it as much or even more than I do, I hope I have done it justice.
I would also like to thank the editors and readers without whose help I could not have crafted and shaped the story: Emma Young, Polly Nolan, Rachel Kellehar, Nick de Somogyi, Cathy Hopkins and Fleur Hitchcock. Thank you especially to Hilary Delamere, who read the first draft of the scene where Kenan challenges Summer to race to the Point and pressed me to write more.
Most of all my thanks go to Lucy and David, who enjoyed early drafts of Summer’s Shadow and kept me going with their love and their belief in me.
Anna Wilson lives in Bradford on Avon with her husband, two children, two cats, one dog, six chickens and a tortoise called Hercules. She spends as much time as she can in Cornwall, and her time there inspired this vividly written stand-alone novel.
Also by Anna Wilson
For younger readers
The Poodle Problem
The Dotty Dalmatian
The Smug Pug
Monkey Business
> Monkey Madness
I’m a Chicken, Get Me Out of Here!
The Puppy Plan
Pup Idol
Puppy Power
Party Party
Kitten Kaboodle
Kitten Smitten
Kitten Cupid
www.annawilson.co.uk
First published 2014 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2014 by Macmillan Children’s Books
a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-4472-5566-6
Copyright © Anna Wilson 2014
The right of Anna Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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