Secrets at the Last House Before the Sea

by Liz Eeles

Genres: General Fiction; Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

From the attic of Driftwood House there are stunning views of the deep green sea and sapphire sky. But Rosie can't tear her eyes away from the faded photograph in her hands, and the words written on the back that will change everything…
Back in the tiny seaside village of Heaven's Cove after the death of her mother, all Rosie Merchant wants is to hide her tears, rent out her childhood home, and get back to her ‘real' life, away from the gossiping villagers and wild Devon weather she escaped from years ago.
She's surprised to find a smiling man in hiking boots – local farmer Liam – waiting on the stone doorstep. His kind offer to help clear crumbling, isolated Driftwood House is hard to refuse, and despite Rosie's determination not to let anyone get close, soon they're walking and laughing together along the clifftops. As clouds scud across the endless sky and green waves crash against the shore, Rosie is reminded that nowhere is more beautiful than home.
Then, up in the attic of Driftwood House, Rosie stumbles across a photo which exposes the heart-stopping truth about how her mother came to live at Driftwood House years ago… and Liam only seems concerned about the implications for his own nearby farm. Did he know this painful secret all along, and should she run from Heaven's Cove for good? Or will facing up to her devastating family history mean Rosie can finally put down roots in this beautiful place?
Get whisked away to the rugged, sweeping Devon coastline in this gripping story about old secrets, learning how to trust, and finding where home is. Fans of Debbie Macomber, Barbara O'Neal and Mary Alice Monroe will adore this gorgeous and uplifting listen.

Release date: February 18, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

Rosie turned the corner, into the salt-laced wind, and pushed up the collar of her jacket. She’d forgotten quite how chilly the English coast could be in early spring. Despite the grey clouds piling up over the sea, tourists on the quayside, with mottled bare legs, were still licking ice creams, grimly determined to enjoy their holidays before the rain set in.

Yes, Devon was just as she remembered it: dreary, damp and depressing. If only she was still in Spain, and she’d never got that phone call.

Seagulls screeched mournfully overhead as Rosie imagined herself under the tree in her Andalusian garden: her skin hot on the sun lounger, glimpses of azure sky through the palm fronds and bright splashes of Moorish tiles on her apartment wall.

Colours in southern Spain were vivid and vibrant, not muted and soft like here in Heaven’s Cove. She stared at the moss-green waves breaking against the harbour wall and darkening the pale stone. Like the ebb and flow of the tides, nothing here ever seemed to change. It was the same old, same old year after year. Narrow lanes clogged with tourists, barn dances in the village hall, cholesterol-boosting cream teas for sale. Though after this week’s shocking news, she didn’t suppose anything would be quite the same for her ever again.

‘Oi, watch out, Lily, or you’ll run that lady over.’

Rosie gathered her thoughts and side-stepped swiftly to avoid a girl on a pink bicycle with stabilisers. The dark-haired child wobbled past her on the pavement, scraping along the side of Rosie’s battered suitcase.

‘I’m so sorry. She got the bike for her birthday but hasn’t got the hang of steering yet.’ The short, curvy woman chasing after the youngster stopped suddenly and buried her hands deep into the pockets of her grey hoodie. ‘Um, aren’t you…?’

She trailed off as Rosie scoured her memory for the woman’s name. It began with a V, she was sure of it. Veronica? Violet? No, Vanessa, that was it. Though she was known as Nessa at school and nicknamed The Loch Nessa Monster – not because she was scary but because, like the fabled creature, she was rarely seen. Nessa was a serial truant. And now a mother, it seemed.

Rosie huddled further into her jacket as dark spots of rain began to splatter on the cobbled pavement. ‘I’m Rosie. We were at school together. I think you were in the year below me.’

‘Ah, that’s it.’ Nessa nodded, her tone suggesting she already knew exactly who Rosie was. ‘I haven’t seen you around here in a while.’

‘I’ve been living abroad for the last few years.’

‘Yeah, I can tell. You didn’t get that tan in Heaven’s Cove.’ Nessa shifted from foot to foot and ran a hand along her shiny, brown ponytail. ‘I was really sorry to hear what happened to your mum, by the way. It was such a shame. Hey, Lily, stay there and wait for Mummy, please.’

Such a shame. Rosie blinked behind her sunglasses, the knot in her chest tightening. ‘Thank you. It was a huge shock.’

‘It must have been. I guess that’s why you’re here.’

‘I needed to come back for a week or two. I’ve already been to the funeral home in Exeter. There’s a lot to be sorted out.’

‘I can imagine. Your mum’s death was a shock to all of us, coming out of the blue like that. And it doesn’t seem right that her home is empty now. It looks kind of sad.’

For the first time since arriving in the village, Rosie allowed herself to glance up at Driftwood House. Her family home, perched high on the cliffs above Heaven’s Cove, did look rather lonely with its blank windows reflecting the steely sky.

She looked away quickly. Crying in front of someone from school wouldn’t do. News of her distress would spread around the village like wildfire and then a stream of people would come to the house, offering condolences and veiled disapproval that she had, to all intents and purposes, abandoned her mother.

Why hadn’t she come back to Heaven’s Cove last month when she’d had a few days off work? Instead, she’d spent the time decorating her apartment and drinking sangria in the sunshine with friends.

Rosie pushed her fingernails into the palm of her hand, willing herself to stay in control for a while longer. ‘It’s really sad,’ she agreed, unsure if she was referring to her mother’s death, or the fact that the house now stood alone and empty.

Nessa nodded and ruffled Lily’s hair. The girl had given up waiting and wobbled back along the narrow pavement. ‘So will you be staying in Heaven’s Cove for long?’

‘I certainly hope not.’

The words were out before Rosie could stop them and Nessa’s face fell. ‘I dare say Devon is a bit boring after all your travels. Which amazing place are you living in at the moment, then?’

‘I’ve been in Andalusia for the last eighteen months, in southern Spain.’

‘Yes, I know where Andalusia is,’ replied Nessa, with an almost imperceptible eye-roll. ‘What do you do there, then, in exotic, far-away Andalusia?’

It was hard to tell if she was being sarcastic or was truly interested in her life.

‘This and that.’ Rosie shrugged, keen to bring the conversation to a close. ‘I’m working part-time in a B&B and the rest of the time for a property company, mostly flogging apartments with sea views.’

‘That sounds wonderful.’

Rosie nodded, though showing hot, sweaty people around tiny flats was less wonderful than Nessa seemed to imagine. Especially when the promised ‘sea view’ turned out to involve leaning over the side of a balcony on tiptoe, to catch a glimpse of the sparkling ocean. She’d grown used to potential buyers’ excitement turning to disappointment but it made her feel uncomfortable nonetheless.

Nessa was still staring at her. ‘Um, what are you up to these days?’ asked Rosie, taking off her sunglasses and wiping spots of rain from the lenses.

‘Oh, nothing as exciting. I’m working part-time in Shelley’s hardware store and bringing up this little one, of course.’ She smiled down at Lily, before pulling a tissue from her pocket and scrubbing at the dark stain around the child’s mouth. ‘Birthday chocolate! She doesn’t usually eat sweets. I’m not the kind of mother who fills her kids full of sugar to shut them up, in spite of what some people think. Single parents get a bad press, specially round here where everyone has an opinion.’ Nessa’s cheeks flushed. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to get on my soapbox but this place does my head in sometimes.’

Rosie smiled, her facial expressions on autopilot. ‘I know what you mean. But I’m sure you’re doing a brilliant job. I admire anyone who’s bringing up kids.’

‘Really?’ When Nessa grinned, the crease between her eyebrows disappeared.

‘Really. How old is your daughter?’

‘She was four two days ago.’

‘Is she your only one?’

‘Yeah, thank goodness. One’s quite enough for me.’

When Rosie nodded, too wrung out for more small talk, Nessa glanced at her watch. ‘Look, I’d better be getting on but it was good to see you again. And I am so sorry about your mum. I know what it’s like.’

A vague memory surfaced in Rosie’s mind, of Nessa’s mother passing away years ago after an illness. She’d wondered at the time if Nessa was truanting from school to look after her. And now both of them were motherless.

‘Nothing feels real at the moment. I keep thinking it’s all a mistake, a really horrible mistake, and I haven’t even cried yet. Is that wrong?’

Rosie hadn’t meant to blurt that out, but Nessa seemed unfazed. ‘Nah, I reckon that’s totally normal. It’s the shock of it all. I didn’t cry for ages and then I couldn’t stop.’ She hesitated for a moment, lost in a memory, before grabbing Lily’s hand. ‘Look, losing a parent is rubbish but you’ll get through it. Honest. And if you need anything, just look me up in Shelley’s. I seem to spend most of my life there.’

‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’

With a nod, Nessa scurried off with her daughter, and Rosie picked up her suitcase. That might have been her life if she’d stayed in Heaven’s Cove. She could be bringing up young children and working part-time selling rubber rings to tourists. Would that have been so bad? At least she’d have been close when her mum needed her, and her mum would have so loved being a gran.

An image of her mother lifting up a child and laughing flitted into her mind. She wasn’t sure if it was a memory or a might-have-been, and the knot in her chest tightened until it was hard to breathe.

‘Just. Stop. Thinking!’ she said out loud. A middle-aged man in baggy shorts glanced at her nervously and ushered his family away from the crazy lady.

This wouldn’t do. Rosie gulped down the deepest breath she could manage and focused on the brightly painted fishing boats bobbing at the quay. She took in the gentle slap of waves against stone and the scent of the briny air, and gradually her torturous thoughts began to slow.

Everything was so familiar here, even after being away for so long. And at least her first encounter with someone from her past had gone smoothly. She’d been worried that habitual feelings of not belonging in this tight-knit community would come flooding back. Her face had never seemed to fit around here. But Nessa had been pretty decent, actually, so maybe returning to Heaven’s Cove and facing her old school friends and neighbours wouldn’t be as bad as she feared.

Buoyed up by this thought, Rosie ducked into one of the narrow lanes that led away from the sea and walked past a row of whitewashed cottages. She’d certainly imagined the villagers being less welcoming during her journey back to England: a three-hour flight from Málaga that seemed to last forever. The plane had been full of happy holidaymakers coming back from trips away, their high spirits contrasting sharply with her grief and guilt.

‘Maybe it’ll be OK being back in Heaven’s Cove,’ murmured Rosie, ignoring the fact that she was talking to herself again. ‘It’s going to be all right.’

But when a barrel-shaped woman stepped out of the fishmonger’s with a parcel wrapped in newspaper, Rosie’s brief flash of positivity did a nosedive. There were two people she was desperately hoping to avoid during her stay. One of them was Katrina Crawley, who’d been a right cow to her at school and never missed a chance to put her down. The other was Belinda Kellscroft, who was now homing in on her like a heat-seeking missile. It was ages since they’d last met and Belinda knew very little about Rosie’s life now, but that wouldn’t stop her from commenting. Belinda commented on everything and everyone at length, whether she was well informed or not.

Rosie put her head down and picked up speed but it was too late. Belinda stopped directly in front of her, parcel tucked into her bag, hands on her hips and the gold rings on her fingers glinting in the watery sunlight peeping through cloud.

‘Rose Merchant, as I live and breathe. So you finally made it home.’

She pursed her lips, no more words needed because her sour expression said it all: Such a shame you only came back after your mother’s death.

Rosie tensed, noticing the extra grey in the tight perm that curled around Belinda’s lined face. She’d had the same hairstyle for as long as Rosie could remember.

‘I’ve only just arrived. I got the first flight I could after… after I heard the news. A doctor called me from the hospital.’

Though it hadn’t been Rosie who’d taken the call. She’d been too busy cooking paella and drinking wine in the kitchen of her sunny apartment to answer her ringing phone. Matt had answered it instead, which upset Rosie hugely – not only was she a thousand miles away when her mother had a stroke, she hadn’t even been the first to know that something was wrong. What kind of daughter was she?

Belinda sniffed as though she knew exactly what kind of daughter Rosie was. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss. Poor, poor Sofia to be taken so soon. Tell me, when were you last back in Heaven’s Cove?’

‘I’m not sure. It must be about three years.’

‘Such a long time.’

‘I guess so, but Mum regularly came out to visit me, wherever I was.’

The newspaper around Belinda’s parcel crackled when she folded her arms, crushing her bag against her chest. ‘Sofia showed off her holiday photos to everyone in the village. She lived for those visits.’

‘And we Skyped a lot when she was over here. All the time, really.’

Sorrow washed over Rosie as it hit her there would be no more internet calls, no more picking up Mum from foreign airports, no more sending her pics of hot and dusty Spain on WhatsApp. It still didn’t seem real.

‘Hmm, well I suppose that was better than nothing. And it’s good you’re back now. I dare say there will be a lot to sort out up at the house.’

‘I expect so. That’s where I’m going now.’

‘Right.’ Belinda’s sharp features softened. ‘If you need any help, don’t forget that we’re all here and watching over you.’

She was only trying to be nice. Rosie knew that, but the back of her neck still prickled. She always felt claustrophobic in Heaven’s Cove with its tiny, cobbled streets that were jammed with tourists in the summer months. Even the cove itself had a hemmed-in feel, with its crescent of bright sand curbed by cliffs at either end. But it was the constant feeling of being watched that had got to her as a teenager.

She couldn’t put a foot out of line without someone – usually Belinda – reporting back to her mum. Whether it was sitting with her legs dangling over the cliff edge, jumping off rocks into the cool sea, or skipping out of school at lunchtime to buy chips, the gossips of Heaven’s Cove made sure that her mother heard about every minor transgression.

‘Thank you, Belinda,’ said Rosie, her throat tightening. ‘But I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

‘You’ll be jetting back to Greece or Italy, or wherever it is you’re living now, before you know it. Everything done and dusted and Heaven’s Cove forgotten forever.’

Rosie nodded, not trusting herself to speak, as Belinda launched into one of her infamous gossip-fests. ‘Did your mother keep you up to date with village news while you were away? Did you hear that Phyllis Collins has moved to Exeter to live with her awful niece, Serena near the quay has taken up with a chartered accountant, and Simon in the old coastguard’s cottage has decided he’s gay?’

Rosie nodded again, although it was the first she’d heard of any of it – unlike Belinda, her mum didn’t revel in passing on village gossip. She was also sure that Simon hadn’t simply ‘decided’ to be gay, as Belinda had so succinctly put it.

‘And we’ve just carried out repairs on the village hall roof because the old one was leaking like a sieve. I ended up chairing the fundraising committee, of course. If you want a good job done around here, do it yourself.’ Her laugh juddered through Rosie like nails down a blackboard. Belinda was mostly well meaning, but she was hard to cope with on a day like today.

Rosie stepped into the road and moved around her. ‘Sorry not to stop and chat but I’d better get to Driftwood House.’

‘Oh yes, of course. As I say, we’re all very sorry about your mother. Sofia was an unusual woman – a bit of a hippy, really. But she was one of us and we’ll miss her. Look after yourself, my dear.’

A hippy? That was probably fair enough. Her mum was never happier than when walking barefoot over the cliffs, with wild flowers threaded into her long hair. Rosie batted away the painful memory and walked along the lane, dragging her suitcase over the cobbles and feeling Belinda’s eyes on her back until she turned the corner.

At the edge of the village, where the lane became a rutted track, Rosie picked up her suitcase and started climbing up and up the steep path. It was wide enough for a car, though few drivers risked their suspension. That was why her mum had driven an ancient midnight-blue Mini.

There’s no point in shelling out on a fancy car, Rosie. It’ll only get wrecked by the potholes or the salt spray when a storm’s blowing in.

Rosie spotted the rusty car when she reached the end of the track. It was parked on the grass at an odd angle, as though the driver had leaped out, keen to get on with her day. That was Mum all over, always full of ideas and enthusiasms and never still. It was hard to take in that such a big personality could be snuffed out by such a tiny blood clot. It just didn’t seem possible.

Abandoning her suitcase, Rosie walked to the edge of the cliff and looked back at the house which faced the green-grey sea.

From the village, the house looked the same as it had for decades, with its bumpy whitewashed walls and dark tiled roof – too big to be described as a cottage, too small to be described as grand.

But up close, Rosie could see that ocean winds and rain had taken their toll in the three years since she’d last been home. The bottom of the wooden front door was swollen as though it might burst, and paint on the walls had bubbled into huge blisters. Driftwood House looked sad, as if in mourning for her mother.

Images suddenly cascaded through Rosie’s mind: her mum laughing during her last trip to Spain; the look on her face when Rosie said she wasn’t ever planning on coming home for good; her body at the funeral home. ‘I’m so sorry, Mum, if I let you down,’ whispered Rosie. But her words were whipped away by the wind and carried out over the white-tipped waves towards France.

Rosie unlocked the front door and used her shoulder to shove the bloated timber across the hall tiles. The last time she’d been home, the house was filled with the smell of freshly baked biscuits and caramelised sugar. Mum was always on a mission to feed her up. But today only a musty aroma of damp and dust greeted her when she dragged her suitcase into the house and pushed the door closed behind her.

‘OK, I’m back, so what happens now?’ Was talking to herself a normal symptom of grief? Matt had googled ‘grief’ on his phone while she was desperately trying to book a flight, but she couldn’t remember what he’d said about it. He hadn’t been terribly helpful, actually.

‘When will you be back, Rosie? I need you,’ were his final words as she shoved her suitcase into the taxi. As though she was letting him down by going back to England.

Rosie gave her head a shake to dislodge the memory and started walking around the house, almost expecting her mum to leap out from behind a door and give her a hug.

See, love, it was all a big mistake after all. Of course I’m not dead. Now get yourself unpacked and we’ll have a walk to Sorrell Head before tea.

But there was no Mum, no mistake – just an empty house that had become shabby and worn since she was last here. Rosie noticed damp patches on the walls and windows rattling in the sea breeze as she moved from room to room like a ghost. When did Driftwood House start to fall apart?

After going back to the kitchen and making herself a cup of Earl Grey, she sat in the silent conservatory and gazed at the view. Built on the back of the house, this room lacked a sea vista. But the view was magnificent, nonetheless, overlooking acres of rural Devon that stretched in a soft green swathe towards Dartmoor in the west. People would pay, thought Rosie, to enjoy such an amazing panorama while sheltered from blustery clifftop winds.

This was where she would play as a child when the weather was too poor for a walk. And when the sun finally came out, she’d sit here and watch her mother gardening. The tiny kitchen garden, with its pots of herbs and tubs of potato plants, was her mother’s sanctuary from the stresses of life, and was created in the months after Rosie’s father left. He’d moved to Milton Keynes when she was ten, and lived there with a succession of girlfriends until he died of cancer eight years ago. Their relationship had suffered after he left, but they’d still loved each other.

Rosie picked up the framed photo of her mum and dad in the window sill and brushed her finger across their faces. She’d insisted on having a photo of her dad in the house after their divorce and her mum had never put it away, even after Rosie moved out. Maybe she’d still loved him too, just a little bit.

That reminded her. Pulling her mobile phone from her bag, Rosie checked for calls from Matt but there hadn’t been any. She had missed a text, however, that had arrived unnoticed in all the flurry of airports and funeral homes and train journeys. Glad you’re there safe. Missing you already. Hope being home isn’t too tedious. I’ll call you. M x. It was the sort of message you’d send if your girlfriend had been summoned home for a family birthday, rather than a family bereavement.

If only he could have got time off work too and come back with her for the funeral. Matt wasn’t always the most empathetic of boyfriends, but he was loving and full of fun. The two of them had hit it off immediately when he’d joined the property agency she worked for a few months ago.

Sighing, Rosie put away her phone then climbed the stairs to her mother’s bedroom, with its lilac walls and heavy cream curtains she’d loved to hide behind as a child. A thin layer of dust had settled on the dressing table and she wiped it away with her hand before sitting on the bed. What had her mother been reading? Rosie tilted her head to read the title of a book splayed open on the duvet. Myths and Legends of Old Devon. That was just the sort of book her mum loved, with fantastical stories and ancient secrets. Rosie could imagine her reading it on the clifftop, all bohemian in a long dress with her blonde hair tied back with a scarf. Belinda’s gossip was often founded on half-truth and rumour, but she was right about one thing – Sofia was a bit of a hippy.

Leaving the book where it was, Rosie climbed fully clothed under the covers and breathed in a familiar smell of lavender. Mum swore by herbal remedies to help her nod off when the weather-blown house creaked and groaned. She must have been so lonely here, all on her own.

At last, the tight knot inside Rosie began to unravel and she cried great heaving sobs that echoed through the empty rooms. Tears soaked into the pillow as she begged, ‘Please come back,’ even though she knew that was impossible. It was just her now. Just her and Driftwood House.

Liam Satterley carefully picked his way up the track that had been turned into a mudslide by the latest downpour, and turned up his collar against the persistent drizzle. He hoped this wasn’t going to be a wasted journey, but there were signs that she’d arrived. A light was on in one of the bedrooms at Driftwood House, and Claude in the village reckoned he’d caught a glimpse of her this afternoon.

‘Blondish hair, tanned face, big suitcase,’ was Claude’s description. A man of few words, he could usually be found in the pub when he wasn’t at sea. But big, bearded Claude was rarely wrong, so Liam had decided to take a chance and deliver the letter, even though it was inconvenient. It was a busy time on the farm and he was behind with so many tasks. Fenella, one of his prize ewes, wasn’t herself, and might need a visit from the vet. That could prove expensive and money was in short supply right now.

But the letter in his pocket might be urgent – he suspected from the envelope that it might even mean trouble. And though he didn’t like to admit it, he was curious to see peculiar Rosie Merchant again.

He’d been on a course at the agricultural college the last time she’d made it home, ages ago. Although, thinking back to how she’d once described him at school, that was probably just as well. Full of himself and tedious. Ouch. It had rankled at the time, when his mate Kieran passed on what he’d overheard. And it still did now, to be honest. He’d always had a way with women but Rosie was apparently immune to his charms. Not that he’d been interested in her, with her long plait and funny glasses that made her look like an owl. Plus, she always had her head in a book.

He pushed the letter further into the pocket of his wax jacket and cursed himself for not wearing his bigger boots. Although it was spring, as a farmer he should understand the vagaries of Devon weather and have chosen more appropriate footwear. Billy, trotting along beside him, had a glistening wet coat and looked totally fed up with this unexpected walk.

‘Hey, boy, come here.’ When Liam whistled soft. . .