The Summer Island Festival

by Rachel Burton

  Also by Rachel Burton

  The Tearoom on the Bay

  THE SUMMER ISLAND FESTIVAL

  Rachel Burton

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Rachel Burton, 2021

  The moral right of Rachel Burton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN

  eBook: 9781800241145

  Paperback: 9781800246065

  Cover design © Lisa Brewster

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  To Dad, with love

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Luc and Willow’s Playlist

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  ‘If you are Gamble Gold of the gay green woods,

  And travelled far beyond the sea,

  You are my mother’s own sister’s son;

  What nearer cousins then can we be?’

  (from Child Ballad no. 132 – The Bold Pedlar and Robin Hood)

  Prologue

  June 2018

  Willow sat in the back of the limousine staring at the bouquet of wildflowers in her lap. These simple flowers had been one of the few things she’d insisted on as the planning for today had got more and more out of hand – flowers that reminded her who she used to be. She’d also insisted on just having one bridesmaid, her best friend Kate who she’d known almost as long as she’d known Charlie, since they were all at university together. Kate would be waiting for her at the church, an oasis of calm on this crazy day. A day that Willow had lost control of months ago.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’ her father asked from the seat next to her as the limousine pulled up outside the church. He ran his index finger around the collar of his shirt, looking hot and uncomfortable. Don Warwick was a much-acclaimed session musician, touring the world playing guitar for big-name stars – he was flying out to America after the wedding to play a handful of dates along the west coast. The last time he’d worn a suit, he’d claimed earlier this morning, was on his own wedding day.

  ‘I’m just nervous I guess,’ Willow replied quietly, but what she was feeling wasn’t nerves. It was fear.

  On paper Willow’s life was perfect – a First from Cambridge University, an internship in one of the big banks in the City shortly followed by a permanent job offer – she’d been there nearly eight years now. She and Charlie had a beautiful flat in central London and today was her wedding day, perfect in every way – even the sun had come out for the afternoon. Willow had achieved everything she’d ever wanted and had come a long way from her Bohemian upbringing on the Island she used to call home.

  So where was this unsettled feeling coming from? A feeling that had been growing for weeks. It wasn’t just about Charlie’s parents taking over the planning of the wedding – after all she should be grateful to them for that as work had been far too busy for her to do much of the planning herself. This was to do with Charlie. He had changed her life in ways she could never have imagined, introduced her to a world that she would never otherwise have been able to be a part of and for that she was grateful. Wasn’t she? Of course she was, but there seemed to be so many rules to fit into that world, so many ways she’d had to change herself – what she wore, how she spoke, what she drank, the way she held herself. Did she really want to be a part of that world for the rest of her life?

  ‘Willow,’ Don said gently, pulling her out of the thoughts spiralling in her head. ‘We should get going. There’s a whole church full of people waiting for you.’

  She nodded, shaking away her thoughts as the driver opened the door for her to step out of the car. This was just pre-wedding jitters. Everybody got them.

  Don offered her his arm. ‘You look beautiful, love,’ he said as she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

  Kate was waiting for them outside the church just as she’d promised, and she greeted Willow with a gentle hug. Kate had been in a strange mood all day so it was nice to see her smile. Willow wanted to ask her what was wrong, but she thought she knew. Once Willow and Charlie were married, Kate would be the only single one in their group. It shouldn’t matter in this day and age but somehow it seemed to matter to Kate, and Willow wondered why.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Kate said.

  Willow peered into the church, allowing her eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. She saw the huge crowd of people that were waiting for her, most of whom she didn’t even know, and at the other end of the aisle she saw Charlie, standing with his brother, laughing at some joke or other. As she watched him that feeling of unease or fear washed over her again as she remembered the little digs and jibes Charlie had made about her over the years, as though he was telling her she’d never really fit in – the way he didn’t like her to drink too much, the way he’d spoken to Skye that afternoon all those years ago…

  ‘I can’t do it,’ Willow said.

  ‘What?’ Kate replied, her face changing to something that looked like anger.

  ‘Love?’ Don asked, his brow furrowing.

  Willow started to walk away from the church then, her heels clicking on the paving stones as she strode back towards the limousine – the limousine she hadn’t wanted in the first place. She turned to look over her shoulder.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ she repeated. ‘You’ll have to tell Charlie.’ Just before Kate turned away to go into the church Willow saw the look on her face, her mouth a hard line, her eyes like steel.

  The driver was leaning against the bonnet of the car smoking a cigarette.

  ‘We need to leave,’ she said, panic rising in her throat. ‘Now!’

  The driver stubbed out his cigarette and Willow felt her father
’s hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Just take us back to the hotel, mate,’ Don said. Then he turned to Willow. ‘I’ll phone your mum and get her to meet us there.’

  Later when Willow thought about the moment she decided to walk away, she hadn’t been able to work out what she’d wanted instead, or where she had wanted to go. All she had known was that she couldn’t go through with the wedding. It was a gut reaction, instinctual, as though all those Neanderthal fight-or-flight impulses had kicked in at once. She’d wanted to be anywhere other than a village church in Surrey on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

  When her mother had met them back at the hotel, she asked Willow what she wanted to do but Willow had no idea. She couldn’t go back to the Great Portland Street flat she shared with Charlie because she couldn’t face him if he was already there and, tempted as she was to go to America with her dad, her passport was back at the flat. In the end Willow had hitched up the ridiculously over-the-top skirts of her wedding dress and stepped into her mother’s Jeep to go back to the Isle of Wight – a journey she hadn’t made since she had moved to London with Charlie over eight years ago. A journey she had never imagined making again, especially whilst wearing five thousand pounds’ worth of surprisingly heavy wedding dress.

  1

  Willow

  Four days later…

  Willow sat on the shop counter looking out of the window at the beach beyond, at the sun motes glinting off the sea and the white cliffs in the distance. Her phone had been beeping incessantly for days, sending her a stream of endless texts, WhatsApp messages and Facebook requests all of which she’d been trying to ignore. She couldn’t reply because she didn’t have the answers.

  She didn’t know why she’d run away from the church. She didn’t know why she hadn’t been able to go through with the wedding.

  Pushing her phone aside she picked up her father’s old mandolin, her fingers tracing the strings, and wondered if she could still remember how to play it. The sensation of the instrument in her hands again made her shiver – music was as much a part of her past as the beach, the cliffs and the sea. Ending up back here after all these years was confusing, as though she didn’t know which version of herself to be anymore.

  The bell above the door of the shop jangled, jarring the silence. She must have forgotten to lock the door when she shut the shop.

  ‘We’re closed,’ she called, without looking around.

  ‘Still trying to figure out how to play that thing?’ asked a voice that Willow hadn’t heard in a very long time. She could almost hear that crooked smile in his words. She’d seen the posters plastered all over the place – the Island’s prodigal return from America to play the Seaview Folk Festival. She’d known he was coming back but she’d been hoping to have a little bit more time to pull herself together before she actually saw him.

  ‘It’s been a long time Willow,’ the owner of the voice said. He spoke more softly this time and it sounded as though he was standing closer, even though Willow hadn’t heard his footsteps draw nearer. His voice was unmistakable, even with the American lilt he’d picked up over the years. ‘Turn around and let me see you.’

  She did as he asked, needing to see him even though she knew exactly what he looked like these days. Everybody had heard of him now.

  He was wearing scruffy jeans and boots, an un-ironed shirt and a grey herringbone waistcoat, his hair carefully sculpted into a quiff. He was barely recognisable from the boy who left twelve years before, but his face still held the ghost of who he used to be – a dimple on the left side of his mouth, a crooked smile that could melt hearts, eyes as green as the grass on the clifftops.

  Of all the times he had to walk back into her life.

  ‘How are you, Willow?’ he asked without taking his eyes off her. ‘How are you after all these years?’

  The last time she had seen Lucien Hawke he still went by the name of Luc Harrison and they had both been eighteen. They’d left the Island on the same week and, as far as Willow knew, Luc had never returned.

  Until now.

  He had tried to contact her in the aftermath of what happened on that unseasonably warm September night when everything unravelled, writing her letters addressed to her department at university, letters that she had never replied to. She’d ripped them up and put them in the bin at the Student Union so she wouldn’t be tempted to piece them back together again late at night when the loneliness became overwhelming.

  ‘It’s been twelve years,’ he went on, his lips curving into a smile – lips Willow had loved so much once. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Why are you here, Luc?’ she asked, finally finding her voice.

  ‘I’m here because of the festival,’ he began, seeming surprised she was asking.

  ‘I know that,’ Willow replied, her voice sharp and unwelcoming. ‘What are you doing here in this shop right now?’

  He hesitated and Willow noticed his eyes flick away from her for a moment. ‘I was looking for Cathy,’ he said.

  ‘Mum’s not here.’

  ‘Can you tell her I was looking for her?’ he asked. ‘I tried calling but her phone was off.’

  Cathy Cole’s phone was always off. Willow had no idea why she had one at all.

  ‘What do you want her for?’ she said, turning to face him again.

  ‘I just wanted to…’ Luc hesitated again, cleared his throat. ‘I wanted to…’

  ‘I’ll tell her you were here,’ Willow replied willing him to leave.

  But instead he started to wander around the shop, his fingers stroking the guitars that hung on the walls.

  ‘It hasn’t changed at all,’ he said softly.

  ‘The Island or The Music Shop?’ Willow asked.

  ‘Both.’ He moved towards the rack of sheet music, carelessly flicking through the musical scores. ‘So many memories,’ he whispered as he turned to look at her again.

  Please leave, she thought.

  ‘Isn’t it strange to be home?’ he asked quietly, but Willow didn’t reply. It was strange to be back in the small village of Seaview on the east coast of the Isle of Wight. It was the place where both she and Luc had grown up and where her mother’s small business, simply known as The Music Shop, was located. As she watched Luc all those memories of her childhood, of her parents and of him, came flooding back.

  ‘I heard about what happened on Saturday,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She could feel the blush creeping up her neck at the shame of what she’d done, the reason she was back on the Island, the reason her phone wouldn’t stop beeping. Everybody knew that she’d run away from her own wedding, even Luc.

  ‘I…’ she began, searching for an explanation. ‘I just…’

  He stepped closer to her.

  ‘I just needed to be on my own for a while,’ she said. ‘That’s why I’m here, I guess.’

  That and the fact that she had nowhere else to go. But Luc didn’t need to know everything.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Luc said but Willow didn’t want him to leave after all. When he stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder at her again, she felt a wave of relief.

  ‘Have you seen Skye?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m only going to be here for a few more days,’ Willow replied as though that was an excuse. She still cringed inside when she remembered what had happened the last time she’d seen Skye and what Charlie had said.

  ‘You should see her,’ he said. ‘I think she’d like to see you.’

  ‘Have you seen her?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘It was good to catch up,’ he said with a smile. ‘You never know, you might even enjoy it. It might take your mind off…’ he hesitated ‘…things,’ he said, waving a hand vaguely.

  Willow felt suddenly and irrationally angry. Who was Luc Harrison to walk in here after all these years telling her what to do? Had he and Skye been talking about her, about the wedding, about what Charlie had said to Skye all those years ago?

  But perhaps he w
as right. At the very least Willow owed Skye a long overdue apology.

  They stared at each other for a moment as though neither of them wanted to be the first to say goodbye.

  ‘Think about it at least,’ he said eventually as he turned and opened the door. The little bell rang again as he walked away.

  *

  They had grown up together. Luc’s mum and Willow’s parents had been in a band called The Laurels and when the band were touring Luc and Willow went too, living in each other’s pockets, never meeting any other children while being inexpertly educated by a private tutor who was stoned more often than not. Going to school when they were eleven had been a relief to both of them, an order to the chaos of their messy lives.

  The last time Willow had seen Luc Harrison, he’d broken her delicate teenaged heart and she’d left for university early. She’d always regretted not waiting to hear his side of the story, always regretted not saying goodbye properly.

  Luc had moved to Nashville with his mother, Krystal Kane, and after a few years Krystal had put out a record of covers of well-known country songs that had flown up the charts on both sides of the Atlantic. But nothing had been heard of Luc, and Willow had been surprised that he hadn’t recorded anything, hadn’t made a name for himself in Nashville’s music scene. He’d always been so talented, even more so than his mother.

  Then eighteen months ago he had appeared as if from nowhere, wowing the judges in the early auditions for the US TV talent show American Stars. He’d gone on to come second in the final of the show and had been picked up by a major record label. Lucien Hawke, as he called himself now, played to sell-out audiences on a regular basis and his first record went platinum in the States. Seeing Luc again in her mother’s music shop – somewhere the two of them had played together as children – had left Willow feeling disorientated.

  ‘Is that you, Willow?’ Cathy called as Willow let herself into her old childhood home.