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Adam walked with her to the door. She picked up her tools.
‘Thank you so much for a lovely time.’
‘You’re very welcome.’
He opened the door, then leaned in to kiss her as he had when she arrived. On both cheeks this time. It was a very London gesture. In Speedwell, no one kissed you unless they wanted something more.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘I’m rather lucky to have you as a neighbour. If there’s anything I can do in return …’
‘Cocktails is just fine,’ said Nikki hastily, backing out before she made an idiot of herself.
By the time she got home, she felt a bit swimmy. The gimlets had basically been neat gin with an afterthought of lime juice. It was too late to cook so she drank a big glass of water before getting ready for bed. Her first night in her new home. The bedroom she’d chosen was the largest one at the back. She jumped under the duvet while the anaesthetic of the gin was still going strong. Hopefully she’d fall asleep straight away.
She didn’t. The unaccustomed alcohol and the rich hummus meant her mind was doing overtime. She was still awake at midnight when a wild wind got up, whipping itself into a frenzy around the little house, screeching and keening. As hard as she tried not to feel unsettled, it unlocked memories. And with the memories came guilt, guilt she had long since buried. Or was it shame? It was hard to distinguish between the two. Whichever it was, it seeped into her, filling her body with a thrumming anxiety that kept sleep at bay.
She thought of the card she’d received, ripped up into little shreds. The words still imprinted on her memory. There are no secrets in a small town. She sighed and turned over for the hundredth time, smoothing her pillow.
What if she hadn’t been in the harbour that morning, the day he arrived? Would everything have turned out differently? There was no way of knowing, so she should stop torturing herself. She’d asked herself that question often enough. She breathed, in for four, out for four, and let her mind float back in time.
Sometimes she let herself remember the beginning. Just enough detail to keep it as a dream, reliving the good bits and stopping before it all went wrong.
6
Twenty years earlier
Rik Mahoney-Chambord sailed into Speedwell harbour on a summer’s morning as the sun rose, gilding his salty bleached-blond locks. He stood at the helm in a pair of cut-off Levi’s, and scanned the quay as if searching for a girl he’d left behind long ago. His father was from Cork and his mother from Toulouse, which was how he’d come by his charm, his warm blood and his preposterous name. It was hard to know which was drawing more attention: his lean torso the colour of the golden fudge sold in the Candy Cabin, or the gleaming wood and brass of his vintage yacht.
The harbour was calm as he docked, the waves lapping a gentle welcome, the early morning light dancing off the water. You could feel something shift in the little town; an alertness, a wariness. They welcomed strangers every week, but this one felt different. From the wheelhouse, Kris Kristofferson sang about coming down on a Sunday morning. Glances were exchanged. Eyebrows raised. And Nikki North, on her way back from the mini-market with a fresh loaf and a packet of bacon, stopped in her tracks. She lifted up her sunglasses and smiled.
‘Well, hello, sailor,’ she sang under her breath, then went and sat on the harbour wall to see what he did next. She hadn’t meant to stay out so late, because Sunday would have been much better spent without a hangover, but there’d been a great band on and then a lock-in and once you’d got past midnight at the Neptune you were in for the long haul. She looked down at last night’s clothes: cargo pants and a cropped singlet that exposed her tanned stomach, and a denim jacket. Could be worse.
The boat was called The Lady Stardust, and she watched her captain jump onto the pontoon and stride along it, pulling on a sweatshirt and shaking out his shaggy locks as his head popped out of the neck. She could hear him whistling ‘Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl)’ and immediately her interest in him doubled, for the seventies’ classic was their pub anthem. Someone would put it on the jukebox and they’d all join in, roaring away with gusto, then go back to their drinking and talking as the last note faded, as if nothing had happened. Her eyes followed him until he reached the quayside and she began to sing along.
He stopped, put his hands in his pockets and grinned at her. Nikki felt as if the sun had just come out, even though it was already shining.
‘My favourite thing about that song,’ he told her, ‘is how many girls have been named after it.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. And if I wasn’t like the guy in the song, and actually managed to stay ashore long enough to settle down, I’d call my daughter Brandy.’
‘Never say never,’ said Nikki, feeling a sudden rush of boldness. ‘You might not have met the right girl yet.’
‘Maybe.’ His gaze swept up and down the parade of shops on the seafront. ‘What are the chances of getting some breakfast around here, do you think?’
‘It’s a bit early yet.’ Nikki hoped her mascara wasn’t smudged. If there was any left at all. ‘But if you wait here, I can bring you a bacon sandwich.’
She held up the carrier bag containing her hangover cure. Please say yes, she thought.
He looked pleased. ‘That would be amazing.’
‘Ketchup or brown sauce?’
‘Brown sauce,’ he said. ‘Thank you. It’s not often you get a welcome like this in a strange town.’
‘Welcome to Speedwell,’ said Nikki, and they locked gazes. His eyes were the pale denim-blue of his shorts, and she found herself drowning in them, momentarily at a loss for what to do or say. Then gathered herself together and pointed at the bench overlooking the harbour. ‘Wait there. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’
Exhilarated by her encounter, she ran along the seafront with its cafés and sweet shops and funny little emporiums that kept the tourists happy, then dived off between two buildings. Speedwell was full of secret passages. A warren of cobbled walkways leading to walled gardens and courtyards and hidden houses. And right in the heart of this maze was Mariners – square, white, Georgian, rambling – the North family home.
