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CHAPTER 5
Rosie pulled her cardigan more tightly across her shoulders and shivered as she made her way down to the village. Her tanned wrists, golden against the soft cream wool, were pitted with goosebumps.
It would be nudging twenty-four degrees centigrade in Spain today. Rosie had checked her weather app that morning, as a cold wind whistled through the eaves of Driftwood House. She pictured her tiny garden, vibrant in the sunshine, and a heat haze over the rugged, russet mountains that rose up behind her apartment.
Here in Heaven’s Cove, the village was pretty in springtime with its whitewashed cottages and window boxes coming into bloom. The sky was a delicate china-blue and the sun was shining. But it held no real warmth and the chill wind was a shock to the system.
Where on earth was Jackson Porter’s office? The local solicitor’s rather antiquated website said it was here, in the cobbled High Street. Rosie peered at door numbers until she spotted a brass plaque etched with his name. It was attached to the front of a small cottage, with latticed windows and a dark thatched roof.
The pretty house had once belonged to the Carvers, whose son Brendan was a couple of years above her in primary school. Mrs Carver worked part-time in the local bakery but was always at the school gate in good time to pick up her son. Unlike her mum, who used to rush up at the last minute, hands covered in paint or lumps of clay.
Those were the days when Sofia spent every spare minute creating bowls and flower pots in her tiny studio at the back of Driftwood House. Later, she moved on to painting Devon landscapes with thick brush strokes, before taking up tie-dyeing plain T-shirts – selling the vibrant clothing she created at the monthly market. Then she became passionate about ecology and spent most weekends tramping the wilds of Dartmoor.
Rosie smiled. Her mother was a woman of enthusiasms who threw herself heart and soul into everything. As a child, she’d longed for a ‘normal’ mum who didn’t stand out, but her embarrassment had faded over the years, as her urge to escape and see the world had grown.You get your adventurous spirit from me, Rosie Posie.She could hear her mum’s voice as though she was standing right here, in Mr Porter’s cottage garden overflowing with golden daffodils. They were among her mum’s favourite flowers.
With a slight shake of the head, Rosie pushed open the shiny black door and went inside.
A middle-aged woman with metal-rimmed glasses and short, blonde hair glanced up from her computer when the door thudded shut. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, her tone implying she wasn’t keen to be of any assistance whatsoever.
‘I was hoping to see Jackson, if he can spare a few minutes.’ Rosie instantly regretted being so informal when the woman’s smile froze. ‘I mean I’d like to see Mr—’
‘Do you have an appointment?’ the woman demanded, pushing her chin into her white polo-neck jumper. She started flicking through a diary on her desk while Rosie wondered if Mr Porter had hired a Rottweiler receptionist on purpose. Her stubby fingers were poking out of fingerless gloves and she raised an eyebrow when she spotted Rosie staring at them. ‘The heating’s not working again and this old building never seems to get warm.’ She suddenly frowned. ‘I can’t see an appointment in his diary.’
‘I don’t have one, I’m afraid. But I was hoping to nab him, just for a minute or two, for some quick advice.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ said the woman, closing the diary with a snap.
‘Liam Satterley recommended him to me.’
‘Liam did?’ The woman almost purred, though Liam was surely young enough to be her son. He obviously hadn’t lost his allure with the opposite sex. ‘It’s most irregular but if you wait here I’ll see if Mr Porter can spare a few minutes. What’s your name?’
‘Rose. Rosie Merchant.’
A spark of interest glinted in the woman’s small eyes, which were the colour of conkers. ‘TheRosie Merchant? Well, you’re quite the local celebrity. You were the sole topic of conversation in the post office this morning.’ She grinned, as though that was a good thing. ‘I hear you’re planning to ship all of your mother’s furniture to Spain.’
‘That’s not my plan,’ sighed Rosie, realising that the Heaven’s Cove rumour mill was already in full flow. But was it common knowledge yet that Charles Epping owned Driftwood House?
Rosie bit back the urge to ask what else had been said about her. It was probably best that she didn’t know.
Getting to her feet, the woman looked at Rosie with a kinder expression. ‘I didn’t really know your mother because I’ve only been working here for a couple of months, but I’m very sorry for your loss.’
Tears prickled Rosie’s eyes at this unexpected sympathy and she blinked them away. ‘Thank you. It’s my mum I need to see Jackson – Mr Porter – about, actually.’
‘Take a seat and I’ll ask him. Do you need a cup of tea?’
Tea, the British answer to everything from disappointment and grief to crashing guilt. When Rosie politely declined, the woman knocked on the closed door behind her desk and bustled inside.
There were muffled voices as Rosie paced what must once have been the main living room of the cottage. A red-brick fireplace on one wall was almost obscured by a large filing cabinet and printer, and the ceiling was criss-crossed with white-painted beams.
Old photos of Heaven’s Cove lined the walls: black and white scenes of times and people long gone. Rosie focused on the photo nearest to her, trying to imprint every detail on her mind to distract her from the gnawing ache inside. A child with bright eyes was standing next to a horse and cart in Moor Lane, staring straight into the camera. There was a hint of mischief in the tilt of his chin and Rosie wondered what became of him. Did he spend his life as one of Heaven’s Cove’s most popular residents, like Liam, or did he, like her, always feel like an outsider?
‘Miss Merchant?’ Rosie spun around. ‘Mr Porter can spare a few minutes to see you.’
The woman held open the door and let Rosie into the office behind her. A stout man with a flushed complexion was standing behind a large oak desk, and gestured for Rosie to take a seat in front of him.
‘Miss Merchant, it’s good to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you from your mother and you’re a hot topic of conversation in the village.’ He held out his hand and engulfed hers in a vigorous handshake. ‘Though, of course, I’m sorry that we meet under such tragic circumstances. Sofia was a marvellous woman.’
‘Did you know my mum well?’ asked Rosie, extricating her hand and sitting on the hard-backed chair opposite his desk.
