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Belinda grabbed hold of the low wall next to her for support. ‘You went, uninvited and unannounced, to High Tor House and demanded that they turn Driftwood House into a guesthouse, rather than demolishing it and building a hotel?’
‘That’s right. Though “demanded” is a bit strong. I requested.’
‘And they did what you asked?’
‘Kind of. Cecilia is still keen on her hotel idea but Charles gave me a chance to show Driftwood House’s potential.’
‘Unbelievable!’ Belinda was now sitting on the wall, with silent Jim beside her. ‘I have been trying for weeks to elicit their financial support regarding the village hall which is in need of more repair. But all of my efforts – letters, emails, phone calls – have been ignored. Not that I was ever confident the Eppings would help. She’s rarely seen in the village and I don’t believe he’s set foot in Heaven’s Cove for years.’
‘Yet they’re still very influential.’
‘They’re rich and they own local land and property, including Driftwood House, as I’ve only recently discovered.’ She tutted as though her lack of knowledge about the house’s provenance was Rosie’s fault. ‘Mind you, I’ve heard from my source that they don’t seem as flash with the cash as they used to be. Though rich people can be quite tight, I’ve found. Do you think they’ll agree to your guesthouse plan?’
Not if Cecilia had her way. Rosie shrugged. ‘Maybe. Probably not, but it’s worth a try.’
‘Personally, I’d rather have Driftwood House up there on the cliff than a hotel. But the parish council, which I head, is far too busy to get involved in another project. Especially one that, no offence, has so little prospect of success.’ Lowering her voice, she leaned forward. ‘You didn’t hear it from me, but the Eppings are not always to be trusted. They have a very bad reputation around here. They show very little interest in the village and, as landlords, they’ve proved themselves to be hard-headed and intransigent.’ Belinda rubbed her finger across her mouth. ‘But my lips are sealed on the matter.’
Well, that was a first. Jim caught Rosie’s eye and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.
‘But tell me,’ said Belinda, unsealing her lips pretty sharpish, ‘why are you bothering to try and save Driftwood House when you’ll be back in Spain before long? You’ve certainly made your dislike of Heaven’s Cove clear.’
‘I’ve realised that the house is full of memories and means a lot to me. And just because I choose to live somewhere else, that doesn’t mean I dislike the village.’
‘Hmm.’
Belinda looked unconvinced and Rosie suddenly felt ashamed. This close-knit community in a beautiful part of England meant the world to the people who lived here.
‘I suppose it’s that I don’t always feel a part of Heaven’s Cove, that’s all.’
Belinda’s sour expression softened as she moved closer and took hold of Rosie’s hands. A strong smell of lager wafted between them. ‘Of course you’re a part of Heaven’s Cove, you silly girl. You’re one of us. Always have been.’
Rosie gulped, her eyes suddenly prickling with tears. ‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’
‘Yes, well.’ Belinda dropped Rosie’s hands and stepped away. ‘Jim and I had best be getting home so I can get out of this wet dress.’
‘Before you go,’ said Rosie, remembering why she’d followed Belinda outside in the first place. ‘Do you happen to know someone called Morag MacIntyre?’
‘Midwife Morag? Yes, of course. She lives in Callowfield, next to the grocery store, I think. She’s not a midwife now, of course. She must be well into her eighties. But she used to be…’ Belinda trailed off, her eyes narrowing. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘No particular reason. She was in a photo that I found at the house. Her name was on the back of the picture and I wasn’t sure who she was.’
‘Hmm.’ Belinda still looked far from convinced but she’d started shivering in the stiff breeze blowing off the sea, so made no fuss when Jim linked his arm through hers and led her off towards their cottage.
A midwife. That would explain why Morag was pictured with Rosie so soon after she was born. But why had her mother kept the photo in her box of secrets?
The breeze was strengthening, rustling through the leaves of the ash trees that flanked the pub, and scudding dark clouds across the navy sky. A smell of rain hung in the air, but Rosie walked to the quayside and sat on the cold stone, with her legs over the edge of the harbour wall.
A lone seagull, ghostly white, flew above her head while she drummed her heels against the stone and checked her phone. Matt hadn’t been in touch since their conversation this morning which meant he was still annoyed with her for not heading home immediately. She could call him now but, as it was ten thirty on a Saturday night in Málaga, he was probably in a bar and not in the mood for a chat.
Pushing her phone back into her bag, Rosie listened to the soft suck and whoosh of the waves and thought about her next move. The list of jobs to be done at Driftwood House was ridiculously long and time was running out. But she could spare a couple of hours tomorrow morning for a trip to Callowfield. And perhaps Morag could shed some light on the secrets her mother had taken to the grave.
