Page 57 of The Clifftop Cottage

“Come to mine,” Margery cut in easily. “I’m just a few doors down.”

Before Erica could object, Margery had gently but firmly deposited the toddler into her arms.

Erica froze, arms locking into place.

The little girl was warm and heavy and smelled faintly of biscuits. Erica held her like a fragile parcel, elbows stiff, terrified of dropping her.

“Oh hello,” she murmured, unsure where to put her hands.

The child blinked at her, unimpressed.

Meanwhile, the older boys had already begun closing the shop with the brisk efficiency of people who had done this a hundred times – flicking off lights, tidying the counter, stacking things neatly.

“Where’s Norman?” Margery suddenly asked, peering around.

“Norman?” Erica echoed.

“My fluffy menace,” Margery said. “The cat. Never mind. He’ll either turn up at my door or rob half the town for supper. That creature eats better than I do.”

Laughing, she ushered them all outside and locked up in a flurry of keys and scarves. The rain had intensified, slicking the cobbles as they hurried along the street. Her house really was close – tucked between a bakery and a boutique, its windows glowing warmly.

Inside, warmth wrapped around them like a welcome.

The hallway was narrow but alive with colour. A stained-glass lamp threw blues and golds across the walls. Dried lavender hung from hooks, and a carved wooden sun beamed down from above the doorway, its painted rays curling outward.

The air smelled of spice and old books and something sweet.

Erica slipped off her soaked coat before it could ruin anything else.

“You’re drenched to the bone,” Margery said, steering her to a fire-lit sitting room where the eldest boy was already coaxing the flames higher.

“What would I do without you, Ewan? Always looking after your granny.”

He grinned shyly and slipped away.

“Let me get you something dry,” Margery said. “Tea first, though.”

Erica stood there, taking it all in – the layered clutter, the soft chaos, the sense of a life lived in this space. Nothing like the places she’d grown up in. Those had always felt temporary, as though they never quite belonged to anyone.

Upstairs, footsteps thundered.

“Those scamps will be after their games before dinner.” Margery sighed. “I try to stop them, but the screens always win.”

She clicked the kettle on, leaving Erica alone with the warmth and the quiet realisation that she’d somehow already been folded into this family’s orbit.

The room was a mosaic of Margery’s life – shelves crammed with leather-bound books, candles burned down to uneven stubs, trinkets from places far beyond Rock Cove. A sun-bleached cow skull sat beside a ceramic goddess and an abandoned piece of embroidered needlepoint.

Then Erica’s gaze fell on a book left open on a side table.

It was large. Glossy. A photography collection.

Of nudes.

Before she could look away, Margery’s voice floated behind her.

“Ah. That old thing.”

Erica jumped. “Sorry, I wasn’t⁠—”