by Liz Eeles
As she daydreamed, the letter she was holding suddenly slipped from her fingers and fell onto the muddy tiles. Scooping it up and unfolding the stiff, cream paper, Rosie read the words embossed in silver at the top: Clarence & Buck Solicitors.
Why were solicitors sending a letter on behalf of Charles Epping to Driftwood House? She scanned through it quickly and then read it again, more slowly. There had to be some mistake.
‘Are you all right?’ Liam had come to stand beside her, the muddy cloth in his hand and his breath warm on her cheek.
‘I just can’t believe this.’ She waved the letter, as though the words might slide from the paper. ‘He wants the house.’
‘Who wants the house?’
‘Charles Epping. He says the house belongs to him and he wants it back now that Mum… now she’s…’ She couldn’t say the word because saying it out loud would make it real. Liam took the letter from her shaking hands and started reading aloud:
‘To the family of Sofia Merchant. I am writing, on behalf of my client Mr Charles Epping, to inform you that, following the regrettable death of Mrs Sofia Merchant, Driftwood House has reverted to his ownership. Mr Epping appreciates that this is a difficult time and is therefore willing to grant a stay of one month before the house must be vacated. I have enclosed documentation regarding the arrangement with Mrs Merchant. Mr Epping sends his condolences on your loss. Yours faithfully, Ellis Buck.’
‘The house is Mum’s,’ Rosie whispered.
Liam pulled a wad of paper from the envelope and twisted his mouth as he started flicking through the pages.
After a few moments, he frowned. ‘Not according to this. Is that your mum’s signature?’
Rosie tried to focus on the yellowing paper that Liam was showing her. Someone had signed it in black ink and, though the spidery squiggle was almost indecipherable, it looked familiar. ‘I think so. Mum’s handwriting is always terrible. But it looks like her signature.’
‘In which case…’ He flicked through the pages. ‘I’m a farmer, not a lawyer, but this seems to be a legal agreement that says she can stay in the house until her death, and then it reverts to the Epping family.’
‘Can he do that?’
Liam wrinkled his nose. ‘When it comes to the Eppings, they can do anything they want. Look’ – he moved closer until Rosie was aware of his arm brushing against hers – ‘Jackson in the village is a solicitor. He’s semi-retired but he knew your mum and he’d probably look through this as a favour. Did your mum tell you she owned this house?’
‘Yes,’ said Rosie, trying desperately to remember such a conversation. ‘Well, no, not in so many words, but she’d lived here since before I was born and she always talked about the house as if it was hers. When I was growing up I thought she and Dad were paying a mortgage, not rent.’
Rosie sat down and drummed her legs against the stool. She used to sit here and watch her mum baking, knowing she’d be allowed to lick the bowl after the cakes went into the oven. Mum loved baking in this kitchen. She loved this house.
Liam pulled out another stool and sat in front of her, his hands on his knees. Raindrops on his jacket ran down the waxed fabric and dripped onto the tiles. ‘I know it’s early days and your mum has only just… but were you planning to live here?’
He glanced at the back door as a squall of rain hit the kitchen window and Billy started to whine.
‘No, not long term. I’ll be going back to Spain as soon as I can.’
‘Of course.’ His mouth lifted in one corner. ‘So I suppose you were planning to sell the house.’
‘No, definitely not.’
Did he think she was worried about the money? Maybe the whole village saw her as an opportunistic gold-digger who’d come back purely to claim her inheritance. Rosie swallowed. ‘I could never sell Driftwood House. I haven’t had time to consider things properly. Everything’s such a muddle, but I suppose I’d have rented the house out.’
‘Why, when you’re hardly ever here?’
So he did blame her, just as Belinda did, for not being around enough. Rosie’s cheeks grew hot and her stomach churned with guilt and irritation. Why were people around here so swift to judge? All she’d wanted was an adventure – a chance to see a world outside Heaven’s Cove. A world that people like Belinda and Liam hardly knew existed.
‘Living somewhere other than Heaven’s Cove isn’t a crime,’ she told him.
‘I never said it was. But why keep the house on when you’re in Spain?’
That was a fair enough question, but Rosie hadn’t quite got her head around the answer. It didn’t make sense but, instinctively, she recoiled at the thought of losing Driftwood House. This dilapidated place, battered by sea winds and fierce winter storms, was her safety net. A place where she was always wanted and loved, however much she screwed up.
‘My mum loved Driftwood House,’ said Rosie, her voice shaky. ‘It’s full of memories and I thought it would always be here for me to come back to one day. If I wanted to. That’s all.’
When Liam stood up and took a step towards her, she thought for one alarming moment that he was going to hug her. But of course he wasn’t. People like Liam Satterley didn’t hug unglamorous women with eye bags and bed hair.
He set down the documents on the oak kitchen table.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, stiffly.
‘Perhaps Mr Epping will change his mind if I write to him and say I’d like to take over the house and make sure the rent is covered.’
‘You could try that. Or you could just go back to Spain.’ He frowned as a gust of wind slammed more rain against the window and Billy’s whining reached a new high. ‘I’d better be going because I’m busy tonight. Will you be all right here on your own?’
‘Yeah,’ said Rosie, her voice sounding strangely flat, as though it didn’t belong to her at all. ‘Thank you for bringing the letter and the food.’
‘That’s all right. And I’m sure things will look up.’
Things will look up – such an anodyne phrase that meant exactly nothing. Rosie merely nodded as he opened the back door and disappeared into the grey, wet afternoon.
She already regretted telling golden boy Liam Satterley her business. He’d be sinking pints in The Smugglers Haunt this evening and telling everyone that Driftwood House belonged to the Eppings.
I’m sure things will look up. Had Liam really said that to a woman who’d just lost her mother and now faced the loss of her family home?
He groaned as he slid his way down the sodden track, with Billy by his side. He used to be a smooth talker, someone who said exactly the right thing at the right time, even when he didn’t mean a word of it. But there was something about Rosie Merchant – there always had been – that unsettled him.
And seeing her so upset had thrown him even more. He winced, remembering how fragile and lost she’d seemed when speaking of her memories at Driftwood House. He’d never been a touchy-feely person but he’d almost hugged her then. Though thank goodness he’d seen sense and backed off, because she was virtually a stranger.
They’d been aware of each other at school of course but unlike him she’d never been a part of the alpha crowd. Rosie had been a loner, out of step with his group of friends, and determined more than anything to get away from Heaven’s Cove. That had never been an option for him.
Liam trudged on through the relentless rain, wondering if Rosie would really go to the effort of writing to Charles Epping. Whatever she did, it wouldn’t make the slightest difference. Charles Epping owned half the village, including some of his farm, and was the kind of absentee landlord who didn’t give a damn. He’d just upped the rent on the fields at Meadowsweet Farm and was bleeding the business dry.
The same shiver of anxiety that kept Liam awake at night rippled through him, and he stopped to catch his breath. Keeping the farm afloat, for his parents as much as for himself, weighed heavily on him these days.
‘Hold on, boy. Let’s rest a minute.�
��
Billy stopped immediately and flopped down by his master’s feet. Liam bent and scratched behind the dog’s ears. ‘Typical! Why weren’t you so obedient in Rosie’s kitchen, rather than splattering the place with mud? She can add hopeless with dogs to her poor opinion of me now.’
Oh, well. What did it matter what strange Rosie Merchant thought of him when she’d be back in Spain for good before long? He straightened up, noticing that Heaven’s Cove far below him was starting to close down early. The rain had chased away the tourists and lights were shining in cottage windows even though it wasn’t yet five o’clock.
‘Let’s get home, Billy, and have our tea,’ he said, picking up his pace when he reached the gentler lower slopes of the cliff.
His thoughts turned again briefly to Rosie, as he pictured her cooking the potatoes and chicken he’d brought. Though, having seen the state of her, he doubted that she’d bother. Just as he hadn’t bothered with cooking or looking after himself after his life had imploded last year. She’d probably sit in the kitchen, lost in memories as the sky turned black, before dragging herself to bed.
Maybe, pondered Liam, Charles Epping was doing Rosie a favour by severing her ties with Heaven’s Cove completely. It meant she could escape back to Spain after her mother’s funeral and leave the village behind forever, if that was what she wanted.
‘Devon in the rain, or wall-to-wall sunshine in southern Spain. It’s a hard choice, Billy,’ said Liam, feeling water dribble from his collar down his neck. But Billy was gambolling ahead and no longer listening.
CHAPTER 5
Rosie pulled her cardigan more tightly across her shoulders and shivered as she made her way down to the village. Her tanned wrists, golden against the soft cream wool, were pitted with goosebumps.
It would be nudging twenty-four degrees centigrade in Spain today. Rosie had checked her weather app that morning, as a cold wind whistled through the eaves of Driftwood House. She pictured her tiny garden, vibrant in the sunshine, and a heat haze over the rugged, russet mountains that rose up behind her apartment.
Here in Heaven’s Cove, the village was pretty in springtime with its whitewashed cottages and window boxes coming into bloom. The sky was a delicate china-blue and the sun was shining. But it held no real warmth and the chill wind was a shock to the system.
Where on earth was Jackson Porter’s office? The local solicitor’s rather antiquated website said it was here, in the cobbled High Street. Rosie peered at door numbers until she spotted a brass plaque etched with his name. It was attached to the front of a small cottage, with latticed windows and a dark thatched roof.
The pretty house had once belonged to the Carvers, whose son Brendan was a couple of years above her in primary school. Mrs Carver worked part-time in the local bakery but was always at the school gate in good time to pick up her son. Unlike her mum, who used to rush up at the last minute, hands covered in paint or lumps of clay.
Those were the days when Sofia spent every spare minute creating bowls and flower pots in her tiny studio at the back of Driftwood House. Later, she moved on to painting Devon landscapes with thick brush strokes, before taking up tie-dyeing plain T-shirts – selling the vibrant clothing she created at the monthly market. Then she became passionate about ecology and spent most weekends tramping the wilds of Dartmoor.
Rosie smiled. Her mother was a woman of enthusiasms who threw herself heart and soul into everything. As a child, she’d longed for a ‘normal’ mum who didn’t stand out, but her embarrassment had faded over the years, as her urge to escape and see the world had grown. You get your adventurous spirit from me, Rosie Posie. She could hear her mum’s voice as though she was standing right here, in Mr Porter’s cottage garden overflowing with golden daffodils. They were among her mum’s favourite flowers.
With a slight shake of the head, Rosie pushed open the shiny black door and went inside.
A middle-aged woman with metal-rimmed glasses and short, blonde hair glanced up from her computer when the door thudded shut. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, her tone implying she wasn’t keen to be of any assistance whatsoever.
‘I was hoping to see Jackson, if he can spare a few minutes.’ Rosie instantly regretted being so informal when the woman’s smile froze. ‘I mean I’d like to see Mr—’
‘Do you have an appointment?’ the woman demanded, pushing her chin into her white polo-neck jumper. She started flicking through a diary on her desk while Rosie wondered if Mr Porter had hired a Rottweiler receptionist on purpose. Her stubby fingers were poking out of fingerless gloves and she raised an eyebrow when she spotted Rosie staring at them. ‘The heating’s not working again and this old building never seems to get warm.’ She suddenly frowned. ‘I can’t see an appointment in his diary.’
‘I don’t have one, I’m afraid. But I was hoping to nab him, just for a minute or two, for some quick advice.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ said the woman, closing the diary with a snap.
‘Liam Satterley recommended him to me.’
‘Liam did?’ The woman almost purred, though Liam was surely young enough to be her son. He obviously hadn’t lost his allure with the opposite sex. ‘It’s most irregular but if you wait here I’ll see if Mr Porter can spare a few minutes. What’s your name?’
‘Rose. Rosie Merchant.’
A spark of interest glinted in the woman’s small eyes, which were the colour of conkers. ‘The Rosie Merchant? Well, you’re quite the local celebrity. You were the sole topic of conversation in the post office this morning.’ She grinned, as though that was a good thing. ‘I hear you’re planning to ship all of your mother’s furniture to Spain.’
‘That’s not my plan,’ sighed Rosie, realising that the Heaven’s Cove rumour mill was already in full flow. But was it common knowledge yet that Charles Epping owned Driftwood House?
Rosie bit back the urge to ask what else had been said about her. It was probably best that she didn’t know.
Getting to her feet, the woman looked at Rosie with a kinder expression. ‘I didn’t really know your mother because I’ve only been working here for a couple of months, but I’m very sorry for your loss.’
Tears prickled Rosie’s eyes at this unexpected sympathy and she blinked them away. ‘Thank you. It’s my mum I need to see Jackson – Mr Porter – about, actually.’
‘Take a seat and I’ll ask him. Do you need a cup of tea?’
Tea, the British answer to everything from disappointment and grief to crashing guilt. When Rosie politely declined, the woman knocked on the closed door behind her desk and bustled inside.
There were muffled voices as Rosie paced what must once have been the main living room of the cottage. A red-brick fireplace on one wall was almost obscured by a large filing cabinet and printer, and the ceiling was criss-crossed with white-painted beams.
Old photos of Heaven’s Cove lined the walls: black and white scenes of times and people long gone. Rosie focused on the photo nearest to her, trying to imprint every detail on her mind to distract her from the gnawing ache inside. A child with bright eyes was standing next to a horse and cart in Moor Lane, staring straight into the camera. There was a hint of mischief in the tilt of his chin and Rosie wondered what became of him. Did he spend his life as one of Heaven’s Cove’s most popular residents, like Liam, or did he, like her, always feel like an outsider?
‘Miss Merchant?’ Rosie spun around. ‘Mr Porter can spare a few minutes to see you.’
The woman held open the door and let Rosie into the office behind her. A stout man with a flushed complexion was standing behind a large oak desk, and gestured for Rosie to take a seat in front of him.
‘Miss Merchant, it’s good to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you from your mother and you’re a hot topic of conversation in the village.’ He held out his hand and engulfed hers in a vigorous handshake. ‘Though, of course, I’m sorry that we meet under such tragic circumstances. Sofia was a marvellous w
oman.’
‘Did you know my mum well?’ asked Rosie, extricating her hand and sitting on the hard-backed chair opposite his desk.
‘I knew her very well, many years ago. But I left Devon as a young man and only returned to my roots a short while ago. Sofia and I had only recently renewed our acquaintance, and then this happened. I’m so sorry. I’ll miss her terribly.’
Rosie was surprised to see Jackson’s eyes fill with tears. She’d been expecting him to be distant and professional, a bit of a cold fish. But he had a heart and it seemed that a part of it belonged to her mother. Perhaps local people’s affection for Sofia had made up for her own daughter’s lack of care.
‘Here you go.’ Jackson opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a small box of tissues, which he slid across to her.
‘Thanks,’ sniffed Rosie, who hadn’t been aware that tears were trickling down her cheeks. She dabbed at her face and took a deep breath before rummaging in her handbag and pulling out the paperwork she’d received from Charles Epping.
‘It’s a bit of an imposition but I was hoping you could do me a favour. This has arrived, about Driftwood House, and I’d be grateful if you could give me your opinion on it. I’ll pay for your time, of course.’
‘No need. Anything for Sofia,’ said Jackson, pushing the glasses perched on top of his head down onto the bridge of his nose. ‘Let’s see what we have here.’
‘I’d be grateful if you could keep this confidential,’ said Rosie, hanging on to the paperwork. ‘It may be that people know already but I’d like to keep it quiet if possible.’
‘Of course,’ said Jackson, looking at Rosie over the top of his specs. ‘Anything said in this office remains confidential. Let me have a look at what you’ve brought in.’
He scanned through the letter in seconds, while Rosie tapped her foot anxiously against the leg of her chair. Then, with just the slightest raise of a bushy grey eyebrow, be began to read the lease.
