LIZ FENWICK was born in Massachusetts and after ten international moves she’s back in the United Kingdom with her husband and two mad cats. She made her first trip to Cornwall in 1989 and bought her home there seven years later. She’s a bit of a global nomad but her heart forever remains in Cornwall. For more information visit lizfenwick.com. Or find her procrastinating on Twitter @liz_fenwick

Also by Liz Fenwick

The Cornish House

A Cornish Affair

A Cornish Stranger

Under a Cornish Sky

A Cornish Christmas Carol

The Returning Tide

One Cornish Summer

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Liz Fenwick 2019

Liz Fenwick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008290511

PRAISE FOR LIZ FENWICK

‘The queen of the contemporary Cornish novel’

The Guardian

‘Full of warmth, wisdom and compassion . . . Liz Fenwick’s writing is vivid, satisfying and descriptive’

Daily Express

‘Engrossing and romantic – a perfect holiday read’

Rachel Hore

‘Wonderfully intriguing and compelling . . . Together with Liz’s usual beautiful evocation of the Cornish scenery this was a brilliant read’

Barbara Erskine

‘Authentic and compelling . . . I loved it’

Rosanna Ley

‘As heartbreaking as it is absorbing . . . I read it in one day’

Kate Riordan

‘Intriguing, deeply felt and poignant’

Elizabeth Buchan

For the friend who has travelled the journey of my life, filling it with laughter, sharing the tears and the secrets, saving the memories and being an anchor when the waves of grief threatened to set me adrift.

Although we have chosen different paths, you remind me of the starting point and how far we have travelled. Great friendship doesn’t require proximity, just great love.

Thank you Christine.

Two roads diverge in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost, ‘The Road Not Taken’

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

PRAISE

Dedication

THE WAYMARKER

1. Lottie

SEA ROADS

2. Diana

3. Joan

4. Lottie

5. Lottie

6. Joan

7. Lottie

8. Diana

9. Lottie

10. Diana

11. Joan

12. Diana

13. Lottie

14. Joan

15. Lottie

16. Diana

17. Lottie

18. Diana

19. Lottie

20. Joan

21. Lottie

22. Diana

MILESTONE

23. Joan

24. Lottie

25. Diana

26. Diana

27. Lottie

28. Diana

29. Lottie

30. Joan

31. Lottie

32. Diana

33. Joan

34. Lottie

35. Diana

36. Diana

37. Joan

38. Diana

39. Lottie

40. Joan

41. Diana

42. Lottie

CROSSROADS

43. Lottie

44. Joan

45. Diana

46. Lottie

47. Diana

48. Lottie

49. Joan

50. Diana

51. Lottie

52. Joan

53. Diana

54. Lottie

55. Lottie

56. Joan

57. Lottie

58. Lottie

59. Diana

60. Lottie

61. Joan

62. Diana

63. Joan

64. Joan

65. Diana

THE CAUSEWAY

66. Lottie

67. Lottie

68. Joan

69. Joan

70. Lottie

71. Joan

72. Lottie

73. Joan

74. Diana

75. Lottie

76. Joan

77. Lottie

78. Joan

79. Lottie

80. Diana

81. Joan

82. Lottie

83. Diana

84. Lottie

85. Joan

DESIRE LINES

86. Joan

87. Lottie

88. Joan

89. Lottie

90. Diana

91. Diana

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

THE WAYMARKER

1

Lottie

3 August 2008, 11.30 p.m.

All was silent except for the sound of the waves reaching the beach. ‘Happy anniversary,’ he said.

Lottie frowned. ‘Anniversary?’ Turning, she tried to see his expression. ‘Are you taking the piss?’

He traced her mouth with his finger. ‘Would I do that?’

‘Yes.’

She felt rather than heard his laugh as his body was stretched out next to hers, thigh to thigh, hip to hip.

‘We’ve been together for a month and a half.’

‘So, we’re celebrating half months as well as months?’

He kissed her long and slow and she wasn’t sure what they had been talking about as his hand ran across the skin of her back, just above her jeans.

‘I celebrate every day, every minute, every second that you are mine.’

Her breath caught and held, and she looked up to the sky. The milky way stretched above, vast and mystical. She was captivated. The universe and all its glory filled her. Here on this beach, wrapped in his arms, was where she wanted to be always. It could happen if they wanted it enough and she believed they did.

‘Alex?’

‘Yes?’ His arm tightened around her.

‘Will . . .’ Just then a shooting star sped across the sky and seemed to fall into the sea. She wished with all her heart that she could be in Alex’s arms for the rest of her life. She rolled onto him. ‘Did you see it too?’

‘The shooting star?’

‘Yes.’ He kissed her.

‘Did you make a wish?’

He nodded and pushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ears. ‘I did.’

‘I wonder if it was the same thing?’

‘I hope so,’ he whispered against her ear.

She brought her mouth to his, praying that he would be hers forever. ‘Tell me.’

‘No, because if I do it won’t come true.’ He pulled her even closer to him.

‘You are all my dreams come true,’ she said, wrapping her arms around him.

He hummed Gramps’ favourite song, ‘A Kiss to Build a Dream On’, and she knew then they would make it happen . . . Alex and her and Cornwall forever.

SEA ROADS

2

Diana

3 August 2018, 12.00 p.m.

St Austell Bay gleamed in the distance as Diana Trewin turned left towards Porthpean and Boskenna. Once she had longed for Boskenna with everything that was in her. Every night she would clutch her pillow to her chest and pretend she could hear the sea, then she would dream. In those dreams she wandered sunlit rooms, seeing glamour and hearing the echoes of music and laughter. She would discover new rooms and new treasures then she would wake and the world around wasn’t as bright or as beautiful. Those dreams still came to her, mostly at times of stress. She escaped to those visions of blue sea and sky, big lawns and a library filled with every book she could want. No real house could live up to what her mind had created.

Last night she’d had that dream again. She’d walked Boskenna’s halls, seen the views and discovered new rooms. It was achingly familiar and yet entirely new. Something was forever just out of reach. She had always assumed that it was her father. If Diana found one more room, or the right book on the correct shelf then a secret door would open and her lost childhood with her father would appear. He would tell her that he’d just been playing hide and seek. She was his fierce huntress and she had found him. But no book, or panel or secret door would reveal her father, Allan Trewin. The morning light always showed the truth. Boskenna wasn’t a palace of delights but a big draughty dwelling, housing two old people.

Now she was just moments away and the lane narrowed, funnelling her towards the beach. A sharp turn and she was through the gates. Yesterday the call that every adult child expects and dreads when their parents reach a certain age had come. ‘Your mother’s dying,’ George Russell, her mother’s second husband, had said. She wasn’t sure how she felt about returning to Boskenna or about her mother. But that didn’t matter. Some things have to be done.

She parked next to George’s old Jag and grabbed her overnight bag. A shiver of recognition and homecoming covered her skin as she walked across the gravelled drive towards the house. She’d only been back to Boskenna a few times since she’d left it as an eight-year-old. Her heart had broken then – and a few more times since – and now it was whole, if patched. It performed its job a bit like the roof on the caretaker’s cottage to her left where a bit of blue tarpaulin covered an eave.

Outside the front door she stopped and turned to the bay. The heat of the sun beat down on her and the happy cries rose up from the beach. The world went on, while somewhere inside her mother was dying. She paused, feeling that sharp contrast between life and death, between the holiday world on the beach below and the everyday life in Boskenna. Even back in 1962 when she had spent her last summer holiday here, Boskenna existed on a different plain. She had tripped lightly among the intelligent and interesting, the suntanned and the salt-encrusted. That was all she remembered because tears had erased the important bits.

A seagull landed on the lawn and peered at her. The tilt of his head asked her why she was here. Duty she guessed. She pushed a piece of gravel with her toe. Diana and her mother, Joan Trewin Russell, had nothing to say to each other. They hadn’t for years. If Diana were honest this was a sadness she had sought to lose in her work. Travelling the world as a war correspondent had filled the void for years, but now she was slowing down and that left gaps. Unwanted thoughts and questions had begun to seep into the spaces.

Looking at the lawn, a memory of playing tag with her mother flashed in Diana’s mind. She was laughing and so was her mother. Once they must have been close but since her father died over fifty years ago, that had evaporated. Her mother loved Diana in her way. Diana had wanted for nothing . . . except her. Everything changed and she knew it was because of that long weekend fifty-six years ago.

The front door was open, and she couldn’t stand on the threshold forever, as tempting as the view was. George would be around somewhere. Striding in, she put the past aside to focus on what was happening now.

In the hallway the temperature dropped, and she shivered. The newspaper on the large round table in the centre of the hall flapped. Due to her early start she hadn’t read the papers cover to cover as she normally would, but she’d listened to today’s stories on the radio. They were eerily similar to those in her last summer here. She flattened the pages and placed an empty vase on top of it. In 1962 the world had been on the brink of nuclear war with the Soviet Union and currently the great bear was roaring again. The world moved forward and thought things would be better, but people never learned.

She peered into the drawing room then the snug, but George wasn’t in sight and she was reluctant to call out. All was quiet aside from a lawnmower and the distant beach sounds. The small kitchen was empty too. There was nothing for it but to head up to her mother’s room. She dropped her bag on an empty chair and took the stairs slowly, trying to prepare. She had seen the dead and the dying, but she knew this was different despite her ambivalent feelings.

On the landing she hesitated. A cough echoed down the hallway. Her mother was still alive. Diana was not too late to say goodbye. The floorboards complained as she walked the corridor. A closet popped open as she passed, and she glanced away. It would be full and what on earth would Diana do with it all? Maybe she would be lucky, and it would be empty. The house had been let for nearly thirty years. It wasn’t until George retired in 1990 that Boskenna had become her mother’s home again. Diana stopped. She’d seen her mother’s will years ago. Boskenna would come to her but George had the right to live in it until his death. Her mother, of course, had expected to outlive George. That was the normal order of things but that hadn’t worked for her grandmother either. Caroline Penquite, née Carew, had died of cirrhosis of the liver long before her husband Edward had passed away. Boskenna had bypassed him and gone straight to Diana’s mother.

There were seven steps up to the landing in front of her mother’s room. An odd detail to recall but she used to hop up and down them. Now the door was wide open, and the smell of illness hung in the air. Every few seconds as she stood there, she heard a raspy breath. Yet she remained motionless, staring not at her mother propped up in a chair but out of the windows. This room commanded an all-encompassing view, or it would have done if the trees hadn’t been allowed to grow untended.

Boskenna had been added to over the years as the wealth of the family had increased. This room sat in the extension made in the 1840s. The ceilings were higher, and the sea-facing wall curved out towards the bay. Twenty years later the north end of the house was extended in the same way. As with all the windows at the front of the house, these framed a view. Gribben Head baked in the August sun while boats with white sails dotted the bay. It was postcard perfect, but what pithy lines would she pen on the back? Mother unwell but perfect holiday weather . . .

She could make out Carrickowel Point, the little headland to the left, which seemed to spring from the end of Boskenna’s garden. Black Head to the right was just visible through the trees. Beauty could stop her in her tracks, but that wasn’t what was holding her here on the threshold. Fear was. It was foolish because in the course of her work she had walked straight up to men holding guns pointed at her heart, but here she was rooted to the spot afraid of facing her dying mother. What could she say? She’d thought about this the whole drive and she’d rehearsed words and phrases. ‘I love you,’ being one of them. But then the questions that had gnawed at her for years popped up. They would not sink down into the recesses of her mind. Like children’s toy ducks pushed to the bottom of the bath, they kept bobbing back up bringing unwanted emotions with them.

Clenching her hands, she took one step after the other, keeping her gaze focused out of the windows. A gull swooped down from the roof and she jumped. She was hardened and had seen death in its worst forms, but her head refused to turn to look at her mother.

George had been right to call her, but it would have been easier to come for the funeral. Being here now still gave her time, and time demanded action in some way. She exhaled. Standing here she couldn’t avoid thinking of her father, missing what she could barely remember. She’d been eight when he died, and she only had one photo of the two of them. Years ago, when she’d asked for others her mother had shrugged and said she didn’t know what had happened to them. Diana had found that hard to believe. Why wouldn’t she know? But her mother had never changed her answer.

Around this one photo she had structured all her memories. The housekeeper at the time, Mrs Hoskine, had sent it to Diana at boarding school. Closing her eyes, she could envision the washed-out colours of the snapshot. Diana was on her father’s shoulders and they were looking out to the bay. Both of them were smiling and pointing. On that day she had been a pirate about to sail the seven seas but always to return home to Boskenna. Now, home and Boskenna were two words she wouldn’t put in the same sentence. Diana’s last visit, ten years ago, had been because of her daughter, Lottie . . . artistic, flighty, and too trusting.

Her mother wheezed, and Diana turned to look at her. She had known what Lottie needed right from the start. Diana had been wrong. Not just then but in so much of her life. Yet she was sixty-four and still at the peak of her profession, about ready to slow down and allow others to move into her shoes. Her career, she was proud of but not much else and certainly not her mothering skills. Those she had learned from the woman in the chair. How she had longed for the closeness that Lottie had with her grandmother. Jealousy left a bitter taste and even now it lingered about the sides of her tongue.

Her mother’s eyes were closed, and Diana watched the laboured rise and fall of her chest. Her brain told her to speak, to make her presence known. In the mirror on the wardrobe door she caught sight of her reflection but also glimpsed something else. She blinked. It was a dark-haired child, but there was no child in the room. She was imagining it. She was alone with her mother. The only figure in the mirror was Diana. Noticing the slight stoop, she straightened her shoulders.

Another step took her to the chair. Her mother’s short, white hair was clean but not styled. Somehow it made her appear vulnerable. That was a word Diana didn’t associate with her mother. No foundation covered the discolouration on her forehead and cheeks, yet she seemed younger. Only her dried cracked lips distorted the image.

‘У меня не было выбора’ Her mother moved her head back and forth.

‘What?’ Diana bent down to try and hear her better.

‘Я не могла поступить иначе’

‘Mum, what on earth are you saying?’ She put her face close to her mother’s but pulled back at the smell of her stale breath. Her mother’s eyes opened wide, but Diana wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Haunted and hollowed were the words that described her, and Diana began to process the scene as if with camera angles. Taking in the sweep of the room and the view before a close-up on a dying woman’s face. Then it hit her, and she sank onto the edge of the bed. This wasn’t a war zone and she didn’t know what to do. There was no cameraman and she hadn’t written a script.

3

Joan

Friday, 3 August 1962, 1.00 p.m.

The sun breaks through the low cloud and I squint at the brightness, slipping through the gate and onto the coastal path. In moments I reach the watchtower. The area is mostly quiet these days with only a few walkers venturing onto Carrickowel Point. Despite being built because of the war, this is a peaceful place. Clouds race across the sky and the sea below is splattered with their shadows. With sun one minute then rain the next, it is classic Cornish summer weather as the Bank Holiday approaches. Guests are due in the next few hours. Everything is in place. The larder is full of food, the menus are selected, and the seating plans are organised. Nothing is left to chance. All is as it should be, as it is expected to be.

Placing the flower trug on the ground, I climb the few steps up to the watchtower and kick aside the loose newspaper on the ground. A quick glance reveals it is from two days ago. Someone else must have stolen away here to read the news in peace. But that is the only thing peaceful about the news. It is filled with the Cold War. I’ve had enough four-minute warnings, nuclear tests and awkward diplomacy. Here in Cornwall, away from Moscow, I want to escape that world. We need to relax. Too much tension surrounds us. I strike a match, light my cigarette, inhale and will the tension in me to leave. Slowly exhaling, I notice my pink lipstick marks on the cigarette.

The world is balanced on the edge, yet looking out at the bay below it all seems distant. A carefree laugh emerges from me unbidden and I take another drag on my cigarette. The smoke clouds my view of the beach, but through the haze I can see our sailing boat coming ashore. Allan and our daughter, Diana, have been out on the water for hours and the tide is just allowing them to return to the beach. They will be damp and weary which isn’t ideal with guests arriving in a few hours. But it will be fine and I’m just jealous of their fun. The freedom of a day on the water is a gift, and I haven’t had that pleasure this holiday. After this weekend I will go with them.

I roll my neck. From the moment when I woke until now I haven’t stopped moving. Even cutting flowers hasn’t provided the quiet reflection I’m seeking. At first I welcomed the activity, the focus on the beautiful, the surface of things, but now every muscle is tense, waiting. This weekend must be perfect. The sun will shine, and laughter and gaiety will abound. There will be a new guest, an important one, at the dinner table tomorrow night. Every reasonable bed in the house will be occupied. I glance down at the flower basket, knowing I should head back to the house and finish the arrangements, but the solitude here at the watchtower is a tonic. Closing my eyes, I try to still my mind so that I can hear the birdsong and the sound of the sea below, but instead names and faces scroll through my mind as if I am memorizing a sheet of paper. We will have eighteen at dinner tomorrow night and ten this evening.

In some ways, things will be simpler when we head back to Moscow. But only in some ways as my clenched stomach reminds me. If only life consisted of ballet classes at the American Embassy and helping Diana with her school work. I hold my hand out and roll my wrist gracefully. The ballet mistress would approve. I laugh. She has no idea that I understand every word she speaks, especially those muttered under her breath. She watches us so closely, pretending that she comprehends little of our chattering before and after the class. But she is no different than any Russian we meet on a regular basis. Nothing is ever as it appears.

My fingers flex, touching the concrete of the tower. I loved my war years here at Porthpean. My parents remained in India but felt I would be safer here. That proved to be wrong, with the endless bombing of Plymouth and near-misses along this coastline. But it was a magic time. The house had been filled with refugees and evacuees, including me. My governess taught us all, but I learned the most from the refugees . . . a French chef, a Czech scholar, a Polish linguist and Elena, a Russian countess who was a distant relative of my mother.

Elena had turned up on the doorstep after the Blitz. I clutch the enamelled locket at my neck. It is my good luck charm. It had been hers. She hadn’t been wearing it when she’d been hit by a bus crossing the street in London in 1952. We had become close during our time together at Boskenna and I’d been touched when she’d left her jewellery to me. I release the locket, loving its touch against my skin. Because of the imperial connection I don’t wear it in Moscow. All her jewellery remains hidden here at Boskenna for my return trips. On arrival I pull out my jewellery case and find the locket and wear it. Boskenna is a haven, and with or without the locket, luck abounds here.

Down on the sand they are about to play beach cricket, Allan carries the bat and Diana races across the sand before she comes to a halt. Turning, I can see her grin from here. I grab my trug and race down the path to join them.

Casting off my shoes, I drop my basket of flowers. The sand is cool and damp from the earlier rain. Diana bowls and I sprint to catch the ball. Allan runs back and forth until I tag him out, laughing. Squeals of joy fill the air and Diana picks up the bat ready for her chance. Allan bowls slowly and Diana makes the most of it. I fumble the catch giving her more time. She races, plaits flying. Finally I tag her out and Allan scoops her high in the air. We twirl together.

‘Mummy, it’s your go,’ she says, grinning.

‘I’m hopeless at batting.’

Allan raises and eyebrow. ‘Can’t say much for your fielding skills either.’ He chuckles. ‘Salome would be better.’

‘Of course, she would Daddy. Dogs are brilliant at playing catch.’ Diana smiles and I think of her and our dog playing ball in the parks of Moscow. The dog would love it here as we all do.

‘Have a go, Mummy, please.’

I drop a kiss on her nose and take the bat. I remember playing here in summer holidays before the war. Allan makes a big effort of bowling. I can hear Diana moving behind me then I see Allan dropping the ball and running towards me. Frowning, I turn. A sailing boat is in trouble, caught over the rocks just hidden beneath the returning tide. Diana waves wildly trying to get their attention. Things don’t look good. So much for quiet family time. No doubt they are tourists here for the Bank Holiday weekend, but today’s wind and weather conditions are not ideal for the novice sailor. The sweep of golden sand is rapidly being covered by the sea and the easterly breeze is pushing the unlucky sailors onto the rocks.

I shake my head. In another hour their boat would be afloat but, no doubt, with some hull damage. However, Allan was already in the water. Damn fool husband and damn fool strangers. But I smile. Allan is quick to help and that is one of the many reasons I love him.

Diana and I watch as Allan, knee-high in water, is holding the strangers’ boat from the side, bracing it as the wind pushes it further in to shore. Although I can’t hear them, I know he is instructing them to get the sail down. By the looks of it, it is their first time doing it. Their incompetence would be funny to watch if guests weren’t arriving shortly.

Diana frowns. ‘Oh, it’s the Venns.’

‘Are these the people your father mentioned?’

She nods and right at that moment the best I can hope is that Allan won’t invite them up to the house for a drink. He’s been threatening to do it all week. I can’t pinpoint when these people arrived in our conversations, but last night he’d mentioned them again. They look harmless enough and certainly hopeless with regards to sailing.

Finally with him holding the side of their boat, there is enough water to manoeuvre off the rocks. He takes their painter and walks the boat towards Diana and me. He points up at Boskenna and my heart sinks. I don’t have time or energy for waifs and strays this weekend. Allan should know that, sense that, but he hasn’t been himself since we have come here on leave. He can’t be still but this isn’t unusual when we are away from the fishbowl of Moscow life. But his restlessness is different this week and my concern is that I can’t pinpoint why. Automatically my hand caresses my stomach. He has taken the last miscarriage harder than I have. For a man who had never wanted children he has become the ideal father, which surprised both of us.

The man from the boat leaps out. His swimming shorts display rather too much of his thighs. On top he wears a flimsy flower-covered shirt. He is almost pretty but along with having no sense about sailing he clearly doesn’t know how to dress for a Cornish summer’s day either. The east wind is touched with a cold underside. The forecast promises bright sunshine and warmth for tomorrow, but I will believe it when it happens. Right now, the sun is ducking behind the clouds and I wouldn’t be surprised if we have rain.

Diana grabs my hand and I look down at her in her navy guernsey. She is sensibly dressed for a day on the water. Her cotton trousers are rolled up to her knees. She is the image of a Cornish maid with her dark hair and brown eyes. Whereas the woman climbing off the boat with her high cheekbones and full mouth, is as underdressed as her husband. I pull my shoulders back and push my hair off my face. I am clothed like my daughter, but this woman is attired for the Côte d’Azur, in snug white shorts and a sleeveless shirt tied at her tanned midriff.

Together with Allan they pull the boat onto the sand. With my public smile in place, I try to make eye contact with my husband, but he is watching the strangers, his expression animated.

‘Darling.’ He turns to me. ‘I’d like you to meet Ralf and Beth Venn. The people I mentioned from America.’ He grins at them both, boyish and engaging, looking far younger than his thirty-six years. ‘They have rented Penweathers.’

‘Hello.’ I hold out my hand and Beth Venn extends her toned arm. Her hand limply grabs mine while she towers over me. I am not short, but I have to look up to meet her glance which falls away immediately.

‘Welcome to Cornwall,’ I say, then turn to Ralf Venn and offer him my hand. His grip is firm, but he quickly releases my hand too.

‘Thank you. It’s wonderful but the sailing is a bit different here.’ He grins and doesn’t quite look me in the eye. I don’t like him, despite his physical beauty, and I can’t explain this reaction to myself because it feels like jealousy.

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Really? No sails then?’

He laughs, still avoiding eye contact unlike most Americans in my acquaintance. ‘Good one. We’re from Chicago and have sailed lakes only.’

‘I see.’ But I don’t. His accent doesn’t sound Midwestern either, or was it the syntax?

‘I was just inviting them up to the house for a drink tonight, but they have other plans this evening.’ Allan’s glance meets mine and I stare back intently. ‘However they can make it for dinner tomorrow night.’

I swallow down my immediate reply. Tomorrow night is important, and I don’t need unknowns in the equation. I glare at Allan but open my eyes wide as I turn to his new friends and say, ‘How lovely.’

‘They’ve taken Penweathers for a year, so I thought it would be good for them to meet some people.’

‘How kind.’ I press my lips together slowly lifting the corners of my mouth into something resembling a smile. Two more people will bring the total to twenty for dinner. ‘Wonderful. We’ll see you tomorrow evening at six thirty for drinks followed by dinner.’ I push a loose tendril of hair off my face, feeling flustered for no reason. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must dash back to the house as guests are due any minute.’ I lie. Picking up my basket I listen to Allan making plans with the Venns for tomorrow during the day when he and many of our guests would be enjoying the promised good weather. A piece of cobalt sea glass sparkles in a ray of sun light and I grab it, sighing long and low as I climb the steps on the path to the garden. Something isn’t right about the Venns, I’m not sure what it is, but nor do I have time to dwell on it.

4

Lottie

3 August 2018, 3.10 p.m.

The traffic in front of her on the A390 came to a halt. Lottie’s knuckles went white. Would she make it in time? Why hadn’t she charged her phone last night? When she finally woke on the last morning in her flat and plugged in her phone, there were three messages from Gramps asking her to call. The final one said, ‘My darling girl, she’s leaving us. I don’t think it will be long.’ His voice had cracked, and Lottie had swallowed a sob. Her car had already been packed. She’d thrown the last of her stuff into the boot and waited for the estate agent to take the final set of keys for her flat.

It was fewer than three miles to Boskenna from here. She just wanted to drive up and over all these people. Didn’t they know she had to get home? She exhaled, and her glance darted to the fuel level. In normal circumstances she would have enough fuel, but with this traffic it would be touch and go.

She turned on the radio for distraction. There was nothing she could do and that was proving to be the story of her life. Her fingers stilled on the scan button as Ray Charles began singing ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You’. This was the lead song in the soundtrack to her life. Just a few notes and she had time-travelled back to the summer of 2008.

That summer had proved that life could alter in a moment and now it was about to change again. Gran. She shifted from neutral to first and back again. The changeover traffic on a Friday in August had never been good but this was brutal. Cornwall was full of people and now that included her, except this was not a holiday. She would give anything to have this just be a visit, but she had heard the fear in Gramps’ voice.

Traffic stopped again, and the only movement was on the other side of the road. There must be an accident ahead. Today was purportedly the hottest day of the summer and she was now watching the fuel gauge on her old Fiesta bounce in and out of the red. It was like her bank account. That too was empty. The trip meter said she’d done 286 miles since she’d last filled it up. She’d lived twenty-eight years never having let her finances or her fuel tank run dry. On the passenger seat her handbag contained only five pounds, her phone and not much else. She ground her teeth trying to think of positive things, which at the moment was very difficult.

She glanced in the rear-view mirror as traffic began moving again. The car was stuffed with her worldly possessions. That was something she didn’t want to think about. She just wanted to make it to see Gran. She had to. Her last visit had been anything but good, and recent phone calls had been stilted. Lottie couldn’t have that be the last conversation. She just couldn’t.

As the car crept along at ten miles an hour, she spotted the problem: a broken-down camper-van. She tensed, waiting for the ancient engine powering her car to cough and die but it didn’t. Finally turning left, she travelled past the new housing estate, and before long she went left again to Porthpean. That first glimpse of St Austell Bay caught her unprepared even though she’d made this journey thousands of times. Stretched out below, it looked as if she could touch it, but she always forgot the sheer jaw-dropping beauty and today was no different. The bright blue sea gleamed, and Gribben Head jutted out into the bay under a clear sky. The road narrowed, descending towards the cove, and her heart lifted then it crashed. Gran.

Even before the sharp turn through the gates, she pictured Boskenna and the view. White, green and blue. House, lawn and sea. Perfect harmony. Peace. The car spluttered its way past the green wooden gate on fumes. The gate was in need of painting and she might be wrong, but it looked like it was off its hinges and wouldn’t close even if she wanted it to. This wasn’t normal, but the sun was beating down on Boskenna and the view of the bay beckoned. It never disappointed even on a grey day. Here was home in a way she never felt anywhere else ever. It was in her bones. Every school holiday until university, this was where she lived.

Lottie parked and climbed out, taking a deep breath. The breeze was fragrant with sea air and freshly cut grass. She could do this. She stood tall. Gramps needed her. Dashing towards the front door, she caught a glimpse of broad shoulders walking through the courtyard. She stared for a second. Her brain said Alex but it couldn’t be. It was just wishful thinking brought about because of an old song. She hadn’t spoken to him in ten years and her last words to him had been unjust. But that wasn’t really important right now. Gran was. She ran, seeing a blur of large agapanthus heads against the white wall of the house. The colour popped with the intensity of their blue petals. They glowed like Tanzanite. Boskenna was different from every angle, but this view by the front door was her favourite. It had welcomed her every time as it did now.

The front door swung wide and Gramps hobbled out, leaning heavily on a cane. This was new. In February he hadn’t needed one. She swallowed then threw her arms around him. ‘Gramps, I’m so sorry I missed your calls.’

‘My darling Lottie, not to worry. You are here. That’s all that matters.’ His smile couldn’t have been wider, but he looked like he would break. He was eighty-eight, his birthday just last month, but how could he have become so fragile so quickly?

‘Gran?’ She studied his face for signs of hope. There were none.

‘Sleeping.’ He sighed.

‘Mum?’

‘Still upstairs, I believe.’ He shook his head and the smile slipped from his face. ‘I haven’t seen her yet.’ His weariness broke her heart and she wanted to wrap him in her arms again. When she was last here, she’d had Paul with her and maybe that was why she hadn’t seen their frailty. She’d been too bloody focused on making sure Paul had a good time. But he hadn’t. He’d hated Cornwall. It had rained like they needed an ark. Maybe Cornwall had hated him, or it had simply been giving her a sign which she’d ignored. God, she’d wished she’d listened. Since then Gramps had shrunk. He had never been a big man, but he’d been fit for his age. He stood in front of her now looking old, really old.

‘You must be desperate for tea. It’s such a beastly journey.’ His voice was still strong and distinctive with that peculiar mix of English vocabulary and American twang. It reminded her a bit of JFK in old documentaries.

‘Is it OK if I just go see Gran and then have some tea?’

He nodded.

‘I promise I won’t wake her.’

‘Go.’ He smiled at her.

She hesitated. Should she stay with him a bit longer? But she might not have much time with Gran. She raced up to Gran’s room. She was through the door, breathless, then stopped abruptly. Gran was asleep in a big armchair. Her beautiful skin was thin and slightly yellow with her white hair flat against her head. Lottie reached out to it. She could fix that for her. Even combing it would make Gran look more like Gran. That and a touch of pink lipstick.

An oxygen tube rested against her grandmother’s sunken cheeks. Just six months ago she was working in the garden. The camellias were about to kick into full glory and Gran had held up one, and said, ‘The red camellia represents love, passion and desire.’ She’d tucked a bloom behind Lottie’s ear and said, ‘You’ll know when you’ve found it and it will happen when you least expect it.’ Lottie had thought it had been a sign, but if it had she’d misread it, thinking that Paul had been what she’d been looking for. A white bloom had fallen at Gran’s feet. Lottie had picked it up and given it to her. Gran had smiled but there was sadness in her eyes. ‘The white camellia can mean good luck, perfection and loveliness but in Japan it means death and bad luck.’

Lottie glanced around the room now. There were no flowers and that was wrong. She was sure the garden would be full of them. Gran always had flowers in her room and in the house. Even in the depths of winter. There was one particularly fragrant tree that should be in bloom now if she remembered correctly. Flowers would help somehow, even if they provided mixed messages.

She leaned down and kissed Gran’s cheek. ‘I love you,’ she whispered. Gran didn’t move, and Lottie backed out of the room with a heavy heart, but then Gran opened her eyes and smiled.

‘Lottie, my love.’

Lottie returned to her side.

‘I’m so pleased you’re here.’ She looked towards the door. ‘Did you bring your young man?’

Looking away Lottie reminded herself to simply answer the question asked. ‘No.’ She turned to Gran. ‘He’s gone.’

‘Ah.’ Gran stared at her before putting out her hand to hold Lottie’s. ‘I thought I heard your mother’s voice.’

‘She’s here but I haven’t seen her.’

Gran nodded, and her eyes closed.

‘Can I get you anything?’

She looked up and smiled. ‘Nothing darling. I’m just tired . . . forgive me.’

‘Rest and I’ll find some flowers.’

Without opening her eyes, she said, ‘That will be lovely. Thank you.’ Taking a last glance at her grandmother, Lottie held back tears. How had she not known Gran was ill? Because she’d been wrapped up in her own life and what a bloody mess that was.

Downstairs the smell of the sea, low tide in particular, rushed in through the office window. God, she loved it here. Even though everything else was wrong, being here was right. She nipped out to the car to get her phone.

Three messages all from Sally, her solicitor and best friend.

Jamie Sharp, a private investigator, will be in touch. I told him all. Sxx

Lottie swallowed thinking of the cost. She opened the next message.

Don’t worry about the cost. He owes me a favour. Sxx

Looking out to the bay, she didn’t think this Jamie Sharp would be able to help. The police didn’t know where Paul was nor did his mother. She opened the last message.

He’s just pinged me to say he’s found something. Love this guy. He’ll be in touch. Hugs and send your grandparents my love. Sxx

Typing quickly, she replied.

Arrived. Gran not good. Gramps holding up. Thanks for all the help. Don’t know what I’d do without you. Lxx

Even if they tracked Paul down it would all be too late. She sighed and grabbed her handbag, leaving everything else for later. She’d store her stuff out of sight. The last thing she wanted was for her current situation to be known and for it to become a concern. She was twenty-eight and she would fix her own problems.

Stopping in the entrance vestibule, she took a deep breath. Boskenna was unchanged, but she was altered since she had last removed her boots here. The Chinese vase still stood in the corner with enough brollies and walking sticks to equip an army. Under the large mirror, the bowl filled with sea glass was covered in a fine layer of dust, as was the table it sat on. Lottie ran her fingers over a cloudy aquamarine cabochon of the sea. It was pitted and rolled to the perfect shape. Her fingers turned it over trying to feel her grandmother who would have found this on one of her morning strolls. Those treasures of the beach had inspired Lottie’s career. As a child, she’d used old bits of garden wire to form jewellery. Maybe she should have stuck with beach debris and string. She wouldn’t be broke, if she had.

Through the glass doors into the hall, delicate flower-covered china plates still adorned the upper reaches of the wall in the 1840s addition to the house. Here the ceiling was high, and the white wooden panels covered the walls to six foot. Off to her right the drawing room beckoned, with the grand piano and family portraits, but rather than turning in there towards the view she walked through the arch that had marked the beginning of the original building. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the south-facing window, warming the wide wooden floor boards. Instantly the house closed around her with its lower ceilings. It felt like a much-needed hug. Clearly she was not the only one who felt welcomed. A spider web extended across from the ceiling light to the tall clock. A feather duster would tackle that later. She made a mental list . . . paint the fence, dust the hall. Other signs of things slipping appeared with each glance. Was their daily help on holiday? If that was the case Lottie didn’t think there could be a worse time.

In the small sitting room, otherwise known as the snug, the tea things were laid out and the sight of a Battenberg cake set her stomach rumbling. Gran was dying but life here at Boskenna went through the motions as it always had.

Gramps hobbled towards her clutching the teapot at a dangerous angle. She rescued it from him. How was he managing? Had he brought the tea things in one item at a time?

‘Did you stop for lunch?’ He studied her, and she looked away, shaking her head. He’d been her confidant for as long as she could remember, especially when she couldn’t talk to Gran or Mum. Now she hadn’t the heart to tell him she couldn’t have afforded to stop for lunch. It would require an explanation and that was one thing she didn’t want to give. He had taken against Paul on that visit. It had been mutual, and it was one of the reasons she hadn’t seen her grandparents or her beloved Boskenna since that wet February weekend. She should have listened to Gramps. But hindsight was a wonderful thing.

He frowned as he manoeuvred into his favourite chair by the fireplace. ‘Will you be mother?’

She poured the tea and put a small spoonful of sugar into his cup. ‘Shall I cut you a slice of cake?’

He looked at her as if he was surprised to see her there. ‘Yes, thank you, just a small one, please.’

The silver handle of the cake slice was tarnished. Another job she could sort out for them. She had no idea how long she would be here, but the up-side of her situation was that she could be of use. She cut herself a big slice. This cake represented her childhood. Her life then had been divided into squares, time with Mum, time at school, time at Boskenna and time at friends’. The only misrepresentation was the size of the squares. The school and Boskenna squares should be larger. Now of course her life in cake would be far from neat. It would have a soggy bottom certainly and only one flavour.

Her mouth watered as she used the dainty cake fork. At least these were pristine. The explosion of sugar took moments to hit as it reached her empty stomach and blended with the caffeine. Over Gramps’ shoulder she could see dust collecting in the corners of the bookshelves. Mixed among the local history books behind him were some of her favourite children’s books. The cake dried in her mouth as she thought of her grandmother in bed upstairs.

‘Tell me about Gran.’

He picked up his cup. ‘It’s not good.’

There was nothing Lottie could say. Gramps looked into his coffee. His hand shook.

‘Doctor doesn’t say much.’ He turned to the view. ‘She’s eighty-five . . .’ Out of the window she could see Gribben Head basking in the sun. Lottie had never known a summer like it. The atmosphere in London had been so close, but here the air was fresh with the scent of the sea.

‘But she seemed fine a few months ago.’

‘True.’ His voice was wistful, and Lottie leapt to her feet.

She knelt at his side. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Me too. Me too.’ He patted her hand.

Her mother walked past the door without looking in the snug. Lottie stood.

‘I hope she’s OK.’ He gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Go to her.’ His voice was gentle, but Lottie understood. Gramps knew things weren’t easy with her and her mother, or for that matter between her mother and Gran. He was very intuitive. He’d read people well, especially Lottie.

‘Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I’m just going to check on your grandmother. The nurse won’t be in for a bit,’ he said, pushing himself out of the chair then giving her an encouraging hug to send her on her way.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.