by Liz Eeles
‘I know. My head keeps telling me to cut my losses and get on the first flight back home. But my heart… well, that’s a different matter.’
Nessa stared at Rosie for a moment and then started piling paintbrushes and rollers into a large paper bag.
‘In that case, you’d better get started. Take what you can now and I’ll drop the rest off to you later in Scaggy’s van if I get a chance. Or, brilliant timing’ – she glanced towards the shop door that had just opened – ‘we can ask Liam if he’s out and about later and can save us both the trouble.’
‘Ask me what?’ said Liam, wandering towards them.
He was looking particularly ruggedly handsome today, in tight jeans and a navy sweatshirt, with dark stubble on his chin. Rosie felt her cheeks growing hot and dipped her head. She’d never been one of the girls who blushed when Liam came into the room and she wasn’t about to start feeding his ego now, even if he had listened to her ramble on yesterday about her plan to save Driftwood House.
‘I was just saying to Rosie that I might not have time to drop off all these supplies at Driftwood House later, but maybe you could, if you’re out in your van?’
‘I’m quite busy, but I suppose I could…’
‘Please don’t worry about it,’ said Rosie, hastily. ‘There must be loads to do on the farm at this time of year, and I can drive down later to collect the rest.’
Nessa leaned across the counter and put her chin in her hands. ‘You’ll be far too busy sploshing paint over the walls, Rosie, to come down into the village again.’
‘I really won’t,’ said Rosie, giving Nessa the same look she often gave Matt when he opened a third bottle of wine.
‘Of course you will. Big, falling-down houses don’t decorate themselves.’
‘I’m still sure I can spare half an hour to nip in again later.’
‘But there’s no need to bother if Liam can help instead, is there?’
She frowned at Rosie, clearly not sure why getting Liam involved was being met with resistance. Rosie wasn’t sure either, but it felt like a really bad idea.
Before she could say anything more, Liam chimed in. ‘Ladies, stop fighting over me. I need to collect a few things from Selderfield later so I can pick up Rosie’s stuff and drop it at Driftwood House on the way.’
Nessa grinned. ‘Great, and you could always stay and give Rosie a hand with transforming the place into the Eppings’ new guesthouse…’ She stopped and clamped her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.
‘It’s all right.’ Rosie smiled. ‘Liam knows about the guesthouse plan, which is just as well because you’re not being very discreet.’
‘Maybe not but, in my defence, buying up a load of decorating essentials in the village hardware store is a bit of a giveaway. So are you going to give Rosie a hand with the decorating while you’re up there, Liam?’
Now Nessa was going too far. Rosie shook her head. ‘I can manage perfectly well on my own, thank you. And I’m sure you’ve got better things to do, Liam.’
He held her gaze when she looked at him properly for the first time since he’d come into the shop. ‘The farm is pretty busy right now, and I’m also helping out with Mum and Dad.’
‘Of course. Don’t let Nessa bully you.’
Nessa looked affronted at the very suggestion, but the corner of Liam’s mouth lifted. ‘I’m very easily bullied, to be honest.’
‘Really? I find that hard to believe.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’d be surprised. I can be bullied into all sorts of things.’
Was he flirting? Rosie grabbed the paper bag of supplies and shoved it into her canvas bag. Of course not. Liam was simply making conversation to cover his unease at being put on the spot by Nessa. And even if he was slightly flirting, he’d probably slipped into it out of habit.
‘I really can collect all of this later,’ she told him.
‘It’s no bother.’ Liam pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘I’ll drop the stuff round to you later this afternoon.’
Nessa grinned, looking very pleased with herself. ‘That’s all sorted then. You OK with that, Rosie?’
‘Yes, if you’re sure, Liam. Thanks very much.’
He nodded, already looking at the batteries he’d presumably come in to buy. Nope, he definitely hadn’t been flirting. Thank goodness.
Rosie swung her bag onto her shoulder and, after a brief wave to Nessa, she left Shelley’s as quickly as she could.
Liam was as good as his word and arrived at Driftwood House mid-afternoon. Rosie, still sorting through reams of her mother’s paperwork, heard the growl of an engine in the distance and went outside to watch his white van bounce up the cliff road. It threw up puffs of dust as it lurched in and out of potholes, leaving dark streaks on the paintwork.
Rosie waved as the vehicle got closer, still feeling awkward that Liam had been hounded into helping her. He seemed distracted and out of sorts when he got out of the van and stretched his long legs.
‘It’s a good job my van’s already clapped out ’cos that road’s pretty shocking,’ he said, following her into the house and dumping an armful of supplies in the sitting room. ‘If you want this house to take in paying guests, it’ll need to be sorted out.’
‘I’m sure the Eppings will fix it once they realise what a money-spinner this place could be. Anyway, whatever they finally decide – guesthouse or hotel – they’ll need a decent cliff road.’
‘I guess so.’ He turned slowly, taking in the room’s faded walls and the windows rattling in the breeze that had been whipping off the sea all afternoon. ‘At the risk of sounding a bit negative, there’s quite a lot that needs doing.’
‘There is, but I don’t have to do it all. If I can show that Driftwood House has loads of character and charm that will attract tourists, then the Eppings will step in and do the rest,’ said Rosie, with more confidence than she felt.
Liam shot her a straight look. ‘Hmm.’
‘I’m just giving the place a facelift. It won’t take long.’
Even Rosie didn’t believe that, so she wasn’t surprised when Liam raised an eyebrow. But he fetched in the rest of the paint and filler and brushes without a word and placed them on what was becoming a very large pile.
‘Thank you so much, Liam,’ said Rosie, wondering quite where to start with the facelift. It suddenly all seemed rather daunting.
‘That’s OK.’ His shoulders dropped and he smiled for the first time since he’d arrived. ‘I was already coming out this way.’ He ran a finger along flaking paint on the window sill. ‘Are you sure you can do all this on your own?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Rosie, brightly.
‘And you’re sure it’s worth the effort?’
‘Definitely.’ Rosie’s tone was less bright but she hoped he wouldn’t notice.
‘All right, then. I’d better leave you to it.’
Liam strode through the hall to the front door but hesitated on the doorstep. What was he doing? His head dropped and she heard him groan quietly before he turned to face her. ‘You’re never going to manage all of this on your own.’
‘I will. It’ll be fine.’
Liam shook his head. ‘No, you won’t. The farm’s busy but I can spare a couple of hours tomorrow morning to help you get started.’
‘God, no. You really don’t have to.’
The thought of being alone with Liam for any length of time made her stomach flutter with anxiety. But he waved away her objection.
‘I know I don’t have to, but I will.’
‘Please don’t be influenced by what Nessa said this morning.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Then why do you want to help? You obviously think this is a lost cause and a waste of time. Driftwood House doesn’t mean anything to you.’
‘But it does to you.’
He held her gaze, with his pale blue eyes, as light streamed in through the open front door and dust motes danced around him.
The grandfather clock in the corner began to chime the hour.
‘Anyway’ – Liam gave her a cursory smile – ‘I need to get over to Selderfield so…’
‘Yes, of course.’
Rosie followed him to his van and stood back while he did a three-point turn on the grass. Her brain was whirling. It was very kind of Liam to offer to help her tomorrow but what on earth would they talk about for a couple of hours? Years ago they’d had nothing in common, and now they had even less. It was going to be what Matt would describe as ‘mega awks’.
Liam suddenly wound down his window and stuck his head out. ‘By the way, Nessa asked me to say, seeing as I’m here, that some people you know will be in The Smugglers Haunt tomorrow night, and you should join them. I’m supposed to persuade you.’
‘Um…’
‘Seven thirty-ish, and they’ll be eating pub grub. Fred does a passable fish and chips on Saturday nights but I’d give the pasta a miss. Nessa said she really hoped to see you there.’
Maybe she’d go, maybe not, thought Rosie, watching Liam’s van lurch back down the track. But when the dusty van reached the edge of the village and was hidden from view, a sudden wave of loneliness took her by surprise.
She’d been lonely before – in unfamiliar European towns before she found her feet; gazing at the endless Namibian desert with no one to share the experience; and recovering from flu in a Greek hostel with only bed bugs for company. But that loneliness had been eased by the excitement of being somewhere different and laying down memories. This loneliness was intensified by sorrow and a nagging, familiar sense of not fitting in that dragged her back to years gone by.
Talk of the get-together in The Smugglers had unsettled her, she decided, vowing not to go. What was the point when she’d be far away soon enough, under the Spanish sun and in the arms of Matt – who hadn’t been in touch at all since yesterday morning, actually.
She checked her phone. There were the two messages she’d sent him earlier, both with ticks to show he’d read them, but neither had a reply. That was strange. His phone had started ringing one thousand miles away by the time she changed her mind and jabbed at the screen to end the call. Mid-afternoon in Málaga, he was probably at work, mentoring Carmen, and too busy to talk. Or maybe he was still enjoying a siesta. Perhaps he was enjoying a siesta with Carmen.
Rosie pushed the thought from her mind. Carmen was gorgeous, with her long black hair and eyes the colour of coal, but she trusted Matt. Plus, she hadn’t broken the news yet that she was stuck in Heaven’s Cove for a while longer. And that conversation was best tackled when Matt was home and slightly sozzled after a glass or three of rosé.
She turned her attention back to the paint and supplies, now piled in the middle of Driftwood House. Was all of this a waste of time? Nessa was probably right and the Eppings would screw her over, but she couldn’t just give up. Not when she could almost hear her mother’s voice, urging her on. What was it her mum used to say to her all the time, when she was growing up? You never know what you can do, Rosie, until you try.
CHAPTER 12
Rosie straightened up with a groan and pushed the heel of her hand into the aching small of her back.
The armchair she’d just dragged into the middle of the sitting room was heavier than it looked. The squashy cushions on the chair still had a dent where her mum used to sit. Though it was always Dad’s chair when she was growing up. He’d drop into it after work and eat his tea in front of the telly. But Mum claimed it after he left.
Rosie was devastated when he as good as disappeared from her life when she was ten, following his affair with a work colleague. Although she and her dad shared few interests and often clashed, she loved him and regular phone calls and the occasional get-together didn’t make up for his absence. But after a while, she began to appreciate the calm he left behind. It was good not to be roused from sleep by the sound of raised voices and banging doors.
She brushed her hand across the cushions where her mum would sit, curled up with her feet underneath her, watching American shoot ’em up detective shows. They were her favourite, even though she was the least confrontational or aggressive person ever. Rosie could picture her sitting there, elbow on the arm of the chair, chin in her hands, eyes on the flickering screen.
Rosie shook her head to dislodge the image. This was no time to be sad and distracted when there was so much work to be done. Yesterday, she’d washed down all the walls on the ground floor, and today the painting would begin. She started rooting through the paint pots and brushes, looking for the dustsheets she was sure she’d bought. The furniture in here was old, but it was solid – her aching back was testament to that – and it would do for now, with a few new cushions here and there.
She rooted through the pile again. She’d meant to buy dustsheets. She was sure they’d been on the list but they weren’t included in the supplies that Liam had delivered yesterday.
Rosie stood with her hands on her hips in the midst of the muddle. Maybe she could drape sheets from the airing cupboard over the huddle of furniture, like Dad used to do. She could remember her bed, dressing table and books covered in paint-splattered white sheets when Dad had decorated her bedroom.
Twenty years on, the walls of her old room were still a deep purple – she’d never been a pastel-pink kind of child. The purple was going to need at least two coats of white paint to cover it, she realised. And the furniture in there would definitely need protecting from her lack of decorating finesse. Maybe the old dustsheets were stored in the attic? It was worth a look.
Rosie climbed the last rung of the loft ladder and stepped gingerly into the gloomy space. She hadn’t been up here for years, not since she’d helped search for her mum’s old foot spa and had come across an enormous spider instead. Mum had stood up so quickly when Rosie screamed, she’d cracked her head on the sloping roof. Understandably, she hadn’t been best pleased and Rosie had avoided the attic ever since. Being yelled at by a parent and terrorised by a massive arachnid had drilled avoidance into her soul. But now Mum was gone and it was time to brave the terrors of the attic like the grown-up she was.
The floor was boarded over and safe to walk on, but the single lightbulb hanging from the apex of the roof cast dark shadows. It really was quite creepy up here, especially with the wind whistling and moaning through loose roof tiles.
Taking a deep, dusty breath – did that musty smell mean there were mice? – Rosie switched on her torch and started sweeping its beam ahead of her.
It was pretty much a dumping ground up here. Cardboard boxes overflowing with books, and transparent plastic cases packed with old blankets and duvets vied for space with a box of Dad’s old DIY tools, Grandma’s old Singer sewing machine, an ancient gramophone with a wind-up handle, several boxes of vinyl records, and Rosie’s old scooter – the one she’d fallen from on the quay when she was seven years old and broken her arm. Memories came flooding back as Rosie stood amid the detritus of her family life. A life that had once been so safe and secure, but now had so many people missing from it. She gulped and brushed away a tear that plopped onto the grimy floorboard. Where were the dustsheets, so she could leave this attic and its painful memories behind?
Rosie picked her way forward, trying to ignore the huge cobwebs that shone like delicate, silver filaments. She wasn’t a frightened child any longer. She was an adult. A seasoned traveller. An orphan.
But there was far too much junk up here to search through and no sign of the dustsheets. Rosie had turned back towards the loft ladder when she spotted a pile of old tablecloths on top of a cardboard box: a blue spotted cloth she remembered from her childhood, a Christmas one covered in sprigs of holly, and a plain white one that had yellowed with age. They’d be perfect for protecting Driftwood House’s furniture.
She gave them a shake to dislodge any spiders and shoved them under her arm. It was only then that she spotted Sofia’s Stuff scrawled across the top of the closed box underneath in black marker p
en.
The box was sealed with plenty of brown parcel tape but the tape had lost its stickiness over the years and Rosie was able to peel it back easily. Inside there was a jumble of clothing – skirts, dresses and cardigans that smelled of moth balls. Why had her mum bothered keeping all of this stuff? It could have gone to a charity shop rather than sitting up here mouldering for decades. In fact, it was about time it did.
Rosie pushed the box across the floor and, with only the slightest hesitation, shoved it through the open loft hatch. It bumped down the stairs and came to rest on the landing, on its side. She threw the bundle of tablecloths after it before carefully making her way down the ladder and stepping over the mess.
Then, she sat cross-legged on the landing carpet and started emptying out Sofia’s Stuff. None of the clothing was familiar and it all looked pretty old. When Rosie hugged one of the jumpers tight and sniffed it for her mother’s scent, she could smell only the slight tang of damp. The clothes would need washing before they could go to a charity shop.
Underneath the jumble of clothing, Rosie’s fingers hit something cold and hard. She pushed her other hand beneath the clothes and brought out a metal box that glinted copper in the light. The sides of the box were smooth and unremarkable, save for a few dents and scratches, but the lid was beautiful. Strips of different metals – copper, silver and gold – were woven together in a pattern that reminded Rosie of making willow baskets in primary school. She ran her fingertips across the colourful strands and tried to open the box, but it was locked.
She stared at it for a moment, as though force of will might make the box spring open, and when – surprise, surprise – that didn’t work, she started shaking out clothes in search of a dropped key. But there was nothing, other than a couple of lost buttons.
Rosie wasn’t the type of person to listen in to private conversations or read people’s diaries. She’d always thought that people who did were idiots, and likely to find out things they’d rather not know. But her mother had deliberately kept her in the dark about the Eppings owning her childhood home, and the mysterious J who must have known her so well. What other secrets had she been keeping? Suddenly, finding out what was in the box became the most important thing in the world.
