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CHAPTER 11
It took a few moments for Rosie to remember where she was when she woke up the next morning. The bed was less lumpy than hers in Spain, the light filtering through the curtains was softer, and there were no rhythmic snores from Matt.
She rolled over and stretched, suddenly acutely aware of the silence. Usually, she was woken at Driftwood House by the screech of seagulls and, if she listened carefully enough, the dull boom of waves pounding into the foot of the cliffs carried through the air. But this morning there was no sound at all.
She padded from her bed to the window and pulled back the curtains. Instead of sun-streaked sea stretching to the horizon, there was nothing. The house was cocooned in a dense blanket of sea mist that curled around the building and suffocated all noise. She laid her hand flat on the window and traced a tendril of white that pressed against the glass. Heaven’s Cove may as well not exist. The world had shrunk to her, standing alone in her mother’s dressing gown in a house that was on borrowed time.
Yesterday, her agreement with the Eppings had seemed rather overwhelming, and turning to Matt for comfort wasn’t an option. She wasn’t sure how he’d react to the news, so it was just as well he hadn’t called her last night. But chatting with Liam – simply telling someone else about the whole crazy idea – had galvanised her. She’d gone to sleep with a head full of plans, and with time running out for Driftwood House, today was the day to start putting those plans into action.
Rosie had a quick shower and forced down a slice of toast. Her appetite was still off. Then she grabbed a notebook and pen and started going from room to room, noting down what needed to be done to spruce up the house. Some things were beyond her – new furniture would be essential if the house were to welcome paying guests, along with a modern boiler for hot baths, and an updated kitchen to replace the scuffed cupboards and chipped counters.
But there was a lot that Rosie could do to freshen up Driftwood House and enable Charles Epping to see its potential. Cecilia’s good opinion was already a lost cause, she feared. Mrs Epping had taken against Rosie and her guesthouse idea from the start.
After an hour, Rosie had quite a list of what she needed in order to get the tidy-up started: cleaning materials, sandpaper, paint, silicone for around the baths, and bleach for the yellowing grouting between the bathroom tiles. The front door, with its swollen timbers, was almost beyond repair, but she was determined to save it. Every Christmas, her mother would make a wreath of holly, ivy leaves, and driftwood from the beach and pin it to the storm-scoured wood. The wreath would welcome visitors and always gave Rosie a warm festive feeling, until it finally disintegrated in the wind and salt spray.
Tucking the list into her bag, Rosie stepped outside and blinked. The village was still shrouded but higher up, on the cliffs, the fog had been burned away by the sun, and Driftwood House was now an island in a sea of mist that swirled far below her. It really was beautiful up here, but she didn’t have time to linger. Buttoning her jacket, Rosie walked down the cliff and was enveloped by fog.
She’d almost reached Shelley’s hardware store when Katrina, in a leopard-skin coat, came out of the newsagent’s, fastening her beautiful handbag that Rosie just knew was made of soft Italian leather.
Rosie ducked into the doorway of the ice-cream parlour and peered through the curls of mist blanketing the narrow lane. Having already had one run-in with Katrina, she wasn’t keen on having another.
It was daft to be nervous because school was long gone and Katrina had never been a bully. Not really. But her steady drip-drip of snide comments – about Rosie’s absent dad, ‘spooky’ Driftwood House and her inability to fit in with the ‘in’ crowd – had made Rosie feel that she wasn’t good enough. And judging by Katrina’s comments yesterday on Rosie’s appearance and the brags about her own life, she hadn’t changed a bit.
Now it seemed that Katrina was cosying up to Liam, the village’s most eligible bachelor. Two golden people together. Who would outshine the other? Rosie wondered, before deciding that skulking in the doorway of an ice-cream parlour at the age of twenty-nine was rather pathetic.Act like the grown-up you are!she told herself, stepping back into the street. But she heaved a sigh of relief when Katrina glanced at her watch and wandered off towards the grocery store, her footsteps muffled by the fog.
When Rosie reached Shelley’s, the sun was starting to burn through the mist. Another half an hour and the village would be bathed in bright sunshine, but for now it was cold and damp, and Rosie shivered as she looked at the store that was open for business.
It was just as she remembered: a gleaming, dark-wood shopfront, with buckets and spades in bright colours stacked outside, along with deckchairs, beach balls and, a perennial favourite on the breezy Devon coast, striped windbreaks.
When she pushed open the door, the inside was familiar too. A smell of linseed oil and polish hung heavy in the air, and wooden shelves were lined with plugs, lightbulbs, hooks, doorbells, paint and, rather incongruously, fake flowers and a glass display case of watches.
‘I reckon those watches fell off the back of a lorry,’ said Nessa, closing the novel she was reading and pushing it under the counter. ‘Scaggy turned up with them a couple of months ago. I’ve no idea why ’cos no one comes into a hardware store to buy a watch, do they? Especially not knock-offs.’
Rosie smiled, genuinely pleased to see a friendly face. ‘I thought you might be here.’
‘I’m always here.’ Nessa tugged at her Shelley’s-branded apron as though she was embarrassed to be seen in it. ‘So what brings you to Scaggy’s hardware emporium? I thought you’d be packing up Driftwood House and heading for Spain.’
‘Not yet. I need a few things.’
Rosie passed her list across the counter and Nessa read through it, wrinkling her nose. ‘A few things? What are you up to? I thought you were leaving soon?’
‘I am, but I want to spruce up Driftwood House first.’
‘Why?’ Nessa leaned against the counter and folded her arms, which Rosie noticed were a darker orange shade of Saharan Chic than before. ‘I don’t mean to be harsh but is there much point if the place is going to be demolished by old misery-guts Epping?’
‘It might not be demolished, you never know.’
‘You’ve changed your tune.’
‘I’ve just had a think about it,’ said Rosie, reluctant to talk about the bargain she’d struck with the Eppings. Not when Liam had made it patently clear through body language, if not words, that he thought she was barking mad. ‘This is just something I have to do.’
Nessa sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. ‘I get it. I went a bit nuts after my mum died too. Though that involved drinking lots and smoking spliffs rather than home improvement. But whatever helps to get you through.’
She started collecting together items on Rosie’s list and piling them onto the counter. There were rather a lot and Rosie began to wish she’d brought the car with her, even though parking in the centre of Heaven’s Cove, with its narrow streets, was often a nightmare.
‘You’d better come and choose your paint colours,’ called Nessa from the back of the store. ‘What do you fancy? Daffodil Yellow? Hyacinth Blue? Epping Ebony that’s as black as the old bugger’s heart?’
Rosie grinned for the first time in ages and started searching through the paints. She needed light, bright colours that would make Driftwood House seem large and welcoming.
