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When he stooped to let Billy off his lead, Rosie studied him more closely. He was as good-looking as ever. More so, now that the slight gawkiness of youth had gone. But the bristly golden haze of brashness and self-confidence that always surrounded him seemed tarnished today. Beneath his irritation and general arseyness, she realised, he was sad, like her.
‘Areyouall right?’ she asked.
When Liam glanced up and caught her eye, Rosie looked away quickly. He stood up and stretched his long legs. ‘Why would you ask that? I thought you of all people wouldn’t listen to gossip.’
Rosie tensed. He really was being impossible this morning. ‘What gossip? I was only trying to be nice. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t gossip aboutmybusiness, actually.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘So how did Belinda find out that Driftwood House belongs to Charles Epping?’
‘I heard her telling Claude that she knows someone who knows someone who works for the Eppings.’
‘So it wasn’t you?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘Right.’ Rosie winced. ‘Sorry.’
When Liam stayed silent, Rosie attempted to get their conversation back onto a more even keel. ‘I went to see Jackson Porter, like you suggested.’
‘That’s good.’
‘He reckons there’s nothing I can do and the house will revert to Charles Epping.’
‘That’s not surprising.’
‘So I’ve started packing up Mum’s stuff.’
‘Hmm.’
This was hopeless. Liam had one eye on Billy, who was rooting round the oldest headstones in the corner of the churchyard, and was totally distracted. Rosie idly wondered what the ‘gossip’ was about him that he was being so uppity about, but he clearly didn’t want to talk about it, or anything else for that matter. She tightened the laces on her trainers.
‘I’m going to walk up to Sorrell Head so I’d better get on.’
A flicker of relief passed across Liam’s face. ‘OK, I’ll see you around. Billy, come here, boy!’
Billy raised his head at his master’s sharp tone and ambled over to meet him at the church door. Once the two of them had disappeared inside, Rosie pulled the card signed by J from her pocket and flattened it out. It should be with the beautiful lily and iris bouquet. She took a photo of it before placing it back on the flowers.
The sea breeze whispering through the trees sounded like voices as she left the churchyard.
Rosie had reached the edge of the village, where the land started to rise steeply, when a man in long shorts, a bright Hawaiian shirt and a green spotted neckerchief waved at her.
‘Hello, it’s Rosie, isn’t it?’ he called, locking a grey Corsa parked close to the hedge and crossing the lane to join her. ‘I’m Jerry Wilson, a friend of your mum’s. I wanted to say how sorry I am about what happened.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m doing OK, thanks.’
‘Your mum was so full of life. It’s hard to take in what’s happened.’ His grey-streaked ponytail swished from side to side when he shook his head.
‘It was a terrible shock. What did you say your name was?’
‘Jerry. Jerry Wilson.’
‘Jerry with a J, or a G?’
