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The dog blinked at his master but didn’t move. Liam might be a hit with the ladies but he was absolutely rubbish with animals. Rosie moved towards Billy with a sigh but caught her breath when the animal tensed. Surely he wouldn’t…
Liam had noticed too and yelled, ‘Billy, don’t you dare!’ But it was too late. Mud flew in all directions as the dog shook himself, vigorously.
It would be funny, thought Rosie, watching wet earth splatter everywhere, if this were a television sitcom. She would laugh and Liam would apologise and, while cleaning up the mess together, their hands would touch and they would share an awkward moment of sexual tension.
Rosie bit down hard on her bottom lip. Why was she having such an inappropriate thought about a full-of-himself old school acquaintance when her mother was dead? Grief was making her mad.
Still on the doorstep, Liam shifted from foot to foot. ‘Billy never normally misbehaves like that. Can I…?’
When he hesitated, irritation shuddered through Rosie. Did he need permission to cross the threshold, like a vampire? The Liam Satterley of old would have laughed and marched in to take charge. But standing in shadow on the doorstep, with a glowering grey sky above him, he seemed unsure of himself.
Rosie stepped aside. ‘You’d better come in and sort out your dog.’
Liam brushed past, his wet boots slapping on the tiles, and grabbed the dog’s collar but Billy had his own thoughts on the matter. He plonked his backside down on the floor, resisting all efforts to make him stand up. Uttering a string of swear words under his breath, Liam pushed the animal across the tiles and into the garden before wheeling around on the kitchen doorstep, his cheeks flushed.
Comedy gold,thought Rosie, before another wave of guilt washed over her. She steadied herself against the kitchen counter, almost knocking over a yellow jug that her mum had picked up at Heaven’s Cove Market. Chuffed with her bargain, she’d FaceTimed Rosie specifically to show it off. Rosie picked up the jug and ran her fingers gently across the china.
‘Sorry about all that,’ said Liam, not meeting her eye. ‘Have you got a cloth?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Rosie, wearily, but she passed him a cloth when Liam held out his hand and watched while he started mopping up the splashes. He was making a good job of it. Much better than Matt would have managed. In Spain, the kitchen was Rosie’s domain, purely because Matt always made such a mess when he cooked a meal, and was pretty slapdash when cleaning up afterwards. She’d started to wonder if he did it on purpose so he could sit and sip wine while she got hot and bothered over the cooking.
As she daydreamed, the letter she was holding suddenly slipped from her fingers and fell onto the muddy tiles. Scooping it up and unfolding the stiff, cream paper, Rosie read the words embossed in silver at the top:Clarence & Buck Solicitors.
Why were solicitors sending a letter on behalf of Charles Epping to Driftwood House? She scanned through it quickly and then read it again, more slowly. There had to be some mistake.
‘Are you all right?’ Liam had come to stand beside her, the muddy cloth in his hand and his breath warm on her cheek.
‘I just can’t believe this.’ She waved the letter, as though the words might slide from the paper. ‘He wants the house.’
‘Who wants the house?’
‘Charles Epping. He says the house belongs to him and he wants it back now that Mum… now she’s…’ She couldn’t say the word because saying it out loud would make it real. Liam took the letter from her shaking hands and started reading aloud:
‘To the family of Sofia Merchant. I am writing, on behalf of my client Mr Charles Epping, to inform you that, following the regrettable death of Mrs Sofia Merchant, Driftwood House has reverted to his ownership. Mr Epping appreciates that this is a difficult time and is therefore willing to grant a stay of one month before the house must be vacated. I have enclosed documentation regarding the arrangement with Mrs Merchant. Mr Epping sends his condolences on your loss. Yours faithfully, Ellis Buck.’
‘The house is Mum’s,’ Rosie whispered.
Liam pulled a wad of paper from the envelope and twisted his mouth as he started flicking through the pages.
After a few moments, he frowned. ‘Not according to this. Is that your mum’s signature?’
Rosie tried to focus on the yellowing paper that Liam was showing her. Someone had signed it in black ink and, though the spidery squiggle was almost indecipherable, it looked familiar. ‘I think so. Mum’s handwriting is always terrible. But it looks like her signature.’
‘In which case…’ He flicked through the pages. ‘I’m a farmer, not a lawyer, but this seems to be a legal agreement that says she can stay in the house until her death, and then it reverts to the Epping family.’
‘Can he do that?’
Liam wrinkled his nose. ‘When it comes to the Eppings, they can do anything they want. Look’ – he moved closer until Rosie was aware of his arm brushing against hers – ‘Jackson in the village is a solicitor. He’s semi-retired but he knew your mum and he’d probably look through this as a favour. Did your mum tell you she owned this house?’
‘Yes,’ said Rosie, trying desperately to remember such a conversation. ‘Well, no, not in so many words, but she’d lived here since before I was born and she always talked about the house as if it was hers. When I was growing up I thought she and Dad were paying a mortgage, not rent.’
Rosie sat down and drummed her legs against the stool. She used to sit here and watch her mum baking, knowing she’d be allowed to lick the bowl after the cakes went into the oven. Mum loved baking in this kitchen. She loved this house.
Liam pulled out another stool and sat in front of her, his hands on his knees. Raindrops on his jacket ran down the waxed fabric and dripped onto the tiles. ‘I know it’s early days and your mum has only just… but were you planning to live here?’
He glanced at the back door as a squall of rain hit the kitchen window and Billy started to whine.
‘No, not long term. I’ll be going back to Spain as soon as I can.’
