Secrets at the Last House Before the Sea

by Liz Eeles

  ‘How much is that?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘No, I want to pay.’ Rosie reached for the purse in her basket.

  ‘If you insist, fifty pence will cover it,’ said Liam, vaguely registering that Katrina hadn’t paid for her eggs.

  He took the coin that Rosie proffered and dropped it into his jeans pocket. ‘When are you going back to Spain?’

  ‘Not for a little while.’ She paused and screwed up her face, as though she was wrestling with a decision. Then she said: ‘I went to see Jackson Porter, the solicitor, like you suggested. But he couldn’t help me. So… I went to see Charles Epping today, at his house on Dartmoor.’

  Liam stared at her. Writing to Epping about the house was one thing, but visiting him at home? No one in the village had actually spoken to the man for years – although he was discussed often enough by those adversely affected by his business decisions and rent hikes.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. You went to his house?’

  ‘I did and I saw him and his wife and talked about Driftwood House and about them building a hotel in its place. Had you heard about the hotel idea?’

  Liam nodded.

  ‘From Belinda?’

  ‘Who else? So how did your chat with the Eppings go?’

  ‘Badly, at first. His wife looked like she wanted to kill me. But I ended up striking a kind of deal with him.’

  Liam folded his arms, admiration for Rosie’s chutzpah overshadowed by unease. ‘What on earth have you agreed to with a man like that? You’ve struck a deal with the devil.’

  Rosie blanched at that, and maybe it was a little strong, but she’d been away and didn’t know the Eppings like he did.

  ‘I suggested that Driftwood House didn’t need to be demolished because converting it into a guesthouse could be a money-spinner instead.’

  ‘What gave you that idea?’

  ‘It’s an idea I had ages ago and when I met Nessa she said guests would go mad for all the original features.’

  ‘Nessa’s been saying rather a lot, by the sound of it.’ Liam rubbed at his eyes. He’d hardly slept last night and tiredness was beginning to catch up with him. ‘So is Charles Epping going to reprieve Driftwood House and turn it into a guesthouse now?’

  ‘Not exactly. He’s thinking about it and I’ve got four weeks to make some changes and persuade him – or rather, his wife, who’s very posh and pretty scary.’

  ‘What sort of changes?’

  ‘I don’t know. A lick of paint, some repairs, a good tidy-up.’

  It would take more than a good tidy-up to bring Driftwood House up to scratch and fit for paying guests. Liam frowned.

  ‘I can make a difference. I’m sure I can.’

  ‘And who’s going to make all these changes?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Who’s paying for them?’

  ‘I will. Paint and polish won’t cost too much, and I’ve got some savings.’

  It was a crazy notion and she was wasting both her time and her money. Epping would sweep in at the end of her efforts and knock the damn house down anyway. But Liam’s retort telling her so died on his lips when he spotted Rosie’s clenched fists. She was trying very hard to hold things together.

  Heartbreak and grief could make people go a little crazy – he was proof of that – but keeping busy helped. For months after Dee left, he’d worked from sunrise to sundown, with no time off at weekends. So maybe a project, even a hopeless one for a no-good cheat like Charles Epping, was just what Rosie needed right now.

  ‘Good luck with it, then,’ he told her.

  She nodded. ‘Thanks. By the way, do you know someone around here whose name begins with J?’

  Her random question took him by surprise, but he racked his brains. ‘There’s Jackson, you’ve met him. And Jimmy Collins in Field Lane. Or Joanna Johnson.’

  ‘Jimmy’s in his eighties, isn’t he?’

  ‘His nineties, I think. Why?’

  ‘Someone left flowers on mum’s grave and signed the card with a J. I’m just interested to know who J is. Maybe it is Jackson.’

  ‘He was definitely at the funeral. He was really upset.’

  ‘Which is a bit strange.’

  Liam frowned. ‘Not really. A lot of people get upset at funerals.’

  ‘Is Jackson married?’

  ‘I think so. Why?’

  ‘Sofia!’ suddenly boomed across the farmyard, and Liam cringed when he spotted his dad. He’d opened the front room window and was leaning out. ‘Sofia, I haven’t seen you for a while,’ he called. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Liam to Rosie. ‘Dad gets a bit confused these days and you do look a lot like your mum.’

  Some people would take offence or burst into tears but Rosie simply gave a wobbly smile. ‘Hello, Mr Satterley. I’m Rosie, Sofia’s daughter. How are you keeping these days?’

  ‘Oh, can’t grumble, though I have to go to the dentist later today.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound great but it’s good to look after your teeth.’

  ‘Definitely, even at my advanced age.’ Robert laughed. ‘Look after yourself, Rosie, and give my best to your mother.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Liam again, as his dad pulled the window shut, but Rosie waved away his concern.

  ‘It really doesn’t matter, and it was good to see your dad again.’

  Liam smiled at her, gratefully. ‘So when does the painting, repairing and tidying start?’

  ‘As soon as I’ve sorted out a bit more of Mum’s paperwork, so I’d best get on. Thanks for the cabbages.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  She gave him a small wave when she reached the gate and he watched her walk along the lane towards the village, her trainers shedding mud with every step.

  Katrina was wrong, thought Liam, picking up his broom to finish sweeping the yard. Rosie Merchant wasn’t weird. She was quiet, and her determination to leave Heaven’s Cove made her unusual around here. But it turned out she was kind and thoughtful – and boy, was she brave. Not many villagers would have confronted Charles Epping in his own home. Liam felt bizarrely proud that she’d trusted him with the news of her deal over Driftwood House, but he still feared that her trust in Epping was misplaced. He’d never keep to his end of the bargain.

  ‘But it’s none of my business, is it,’ he told Billy, stroking under the dog’s chin, just where he liked it best. ‘She’ll find out her mistake soon enough, and then she’ll be gone.’

  CHAPTER 11

  It took a few moments for Rosie to remember where she was when she woke up the next morning. The bed was less lumpy than hers in Spain, the light filtering through the curtains was softer, and there were no rhythmic snores from Matt.

  She rolled over and stretched, suddenly acutely aware of the silence. Usually, she was woken at Driftwood House by the screech of seagulls and, if she listened carefully enough, the dull boom of waves pounding into the foot of the cliffs carried through the air. But this morning there was no sound at all.

  She padded from her bed to the window and pulled back the curtains. Instead of sun-streaked sea stretching to the horizon, there was nothing. The house was cocooned in a dense blanket of sea mist that curled around the building and suffocated all noise. She laid her hand flat on the window and traced a tendril of white that pressed against the glass. Heaven’s Cove may as well not exist. The world had shrunk to her, standing alone in her mother’s dressing gown in a house that was on borrowed time.

  Yesterday, her agreement with the Eppings had seemed rather overwhelming, and turning to Matt for comfort wasn’t an option. She wasn’t sure how he’d react to the news, so it was just as well he hadn’t called her last night. But chatting with Liam – simply telling someone else about the whole crazy idea – had galvanised her. She’d gone to sleep with a head full of plans, and with time running out for Driftwood House, today was the day to start putting those plans into action.

  Rosie
had a quick shower and forced down a slice of toast. Her appetite was still off. Then she grabbed a notebook and pen and started going from room to room, noting down what needed to be done to spruce up the house. Some things were beyond her – new furniture would be essential if the house were to welcome paying guests, along with a modern boiler for hot baths, and an updated kitchen to replace the scuffed cupboards and chipped counters.

  But there was a lot that Rosie could do to freshen up Driftwood House and enable Charles Epping to see its potential. Cecilia’s good opinion was already a lost cause, she feared. Mrs Epping had taken against Rosie and her guesthouse idea from the start.

  After an hour, Rosie had quite a list of what she needed in order to get the tidy-up started: cleaning materials, sandpaper, paint, silicone for around the baths, and bleach for the yellowing grouting between the bathroom tiles. The front door, with its swollen timbers, was almost beyond repair, but she was determined to save it. Every Christmas, her mother would make a wreath of holly, ivy leaves, and driftwood from the beach and pin it to the storm-scoured wood. The wreath would welcome visitors and always gave Rosie a warm festive feeling, until it finally disintegrated in the wind and salt spray.

  Tucking the list into her bag, Rosie stepped outside and blinked. The village was still shrouded but higher up, on the cliffs, the fog had been burned away by the sun, and Driftwood House was now an island in a sea of mist that swirled far below her. It really was beautiful up here, but she didn’t have time to linger. Buttoning her jacket, Rosie walked down the cliff and was enveloped by fog.

  She’d almost reached Shelley’s hardware store when Katrina, in a leopard-skin coat, came out of the newsagent’s, fastening her beautiful handbag that Rosie just knew was made of soft Italian leather.

  Rosie ducked into the doorway of the ice-cream parlour and peered through the curls of mist blanketing the narrow lane. Having already had one run-in with Katrina, she wasn’t keen on having another.

  It was daft to be nervous because school was long gone and Katrina had never been a bully. Not really. But her steady drip-drip of snide comments – about Rosie’s absent dad, ‘spooky’ Driftwood House and her inability to fit in with the ‘in’ crowd – had made Rosie feel that she wasn’t good enough. And judging by Katrina’s comments yesterday on Rosie’s appearance and the brags about her own life, she hadn’t changed a bit.

  Now it seemed that Katrina was cosying up to Liam, the village’s most eligible bachelor. Two golden people together. Who would outshine the other? Rosie wondered, before deciding that skulking in the doorway of an ice-cream parlour at the age of twenty-nine was rather pathetic. Act like the grown-up you are! she told herself, stepping back into the street. But she heaved a sigh of relief when Katrina glanced at her watch and wandered off towards the grocery store, her footsteps muffled by the fog.

  When Rosie reached Shelley’s, the sun was starting to burn through the mist. Another half an hour and the village would be bathed in bright sunshine, but for now it was cold and damp, and Rosie shivered as she looked at the store that was open for business.

  It was just as she remembered: a gleaming, dark-wood shopfront, with buckets and spades in bright colours stacked outside, along with deckchairs, beach balls and, a perennial favourite on the breezy Devon coast, striped windbreaks.

  When she pushed open the door, the inside was familiar too. A smell of linseed oil and polish hung heavy in the air, and wooden shelves were lined with plugs, lightbulbs, hooks, doorbells, paint and, rather incongruously, fake flowers and a glass display case of watches.

  ‘I reckon those watches fell off the back of a lorry,’ said Nessa, closing the novel she was reading and pushing it under the counter. ‘Scaggy turned up with them a couple of months ago. I’ve no idea why ’cos no one comes into a hardware store to buy a watch, do they? Especially not knock-offs.’

  Rosie smiled, genuinely pleased to see a friendly face. ‘I thought you might be here.’

  ‘I’m always here.’ Nessa tugged at her Shelley’s-branded apron as though she was embarrassed to be seen in it. ‘So what brings you to Scaggy’s hardware emporium? I thought you’d be packing up Driftwood House and heading for Spain.’

  ‘Not yet. I need a few things.’

  Rosie passed her list across the counter and Nessa read through it, wrinkling her nose. ‘A few things? What are you up to? I thought you were leaving soon?’

  ‘I am, but I want to spruce up Driftwood House first.’

  ‘Why?’ Nessa leaned against the counter and folded her arms, which Rosie noticed were a darker orange shade of Saharan Chic than before. ‘I don’t mean to be harsh but is there much point if the place is going to be demolished by old misery-guts Epping?’

  ‘It might not be demolished, you never know.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune.’

  ‘I’ve just had a think about it,’ said Rosie, reluctant to talk about the bargain she’d struck with the Eppings. Not when Liam had made it patently clear through body language, if not words, that he thought she was barking mad. ‘This is just something I have to do.’

  Nessa sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. ‘I get it. I went a bit nuts after my mum died too. Though that involved drinking lots and smoking spliffs rather than home improvement. But whatever helps to get you through.’

  She started collecting together items on Rosie’s list and piling them onto the counter. There were rather a lot and Rosie began to wish she’d brought the car with her, even though parking in the centre of Heaven’s Cove, with its narrow streets, was often a nightmare.

  ‘You’d better come and choose your paint colours,’ called Nessa from the back of the store. ‘What do you fancy? Daffodil Yellow? Hyacinth Blue? Epping Ebony that’s as black as the old bugger’s heart?’

  Rosie grinned for the first time in ages and started searching through the paints. She needed light, bright colours that would make Driftwood House seem large and welcoming.

  Shelley’s range of shades wasn’t huge but Rosie finally chose white with a hint of taupe that reminded her of bleached driftwood on the beach. That seemed appropriate.

  ‘We don’t have enough of that colour in stock but I can order more in for you,’ said Nessa, piling the tins next to the sugar soap, filler, paint brushes and rollers. ‘This really is a lot of effort for a house that’s due to be demolished. Sorry to be a bit brutal, Rosie. But this is going to cost a shedload.’

  ‘I know,’ said Rosie, brandishing her credit card with more confidence than she felt. ‘But it’s something I need to do. For Mum and for all of the memories there. The thing is…’

  She hesitated, wondering whether she should tell Nessa and risk her bargain with the Eppings being all round the village by lunchtime.

  ‘The thing is what? Oh, don’t worry. I can keep a secret. I’ve been the subject of gossip too often to indulge in it myself.’ When Nessa shrugged, Rosie glimpsed the hurt beneath her brash exterior and decided to trust her. She’d already told Liam after all.

  ‘There’s a chance that Driftwood House can be saved.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It’s partly thanks to what we were talking about at Sorrell Head. I went to see Mr and Mrs Epping and—’

  ‘Whoah!’ said Nessa, shoving the palm of her hand towards Rosie’s face. ‘Stop right there! I never suggested going to see them.’

  ‘No, but you agreed that Driftwood House would make a fabulous guesthouse.’

  ‘I’m not sure the word “fabulous” was ever used but yeah, I did agree with you on that. But you said the house belongs to the Eppings.’

  ‘It does. That’s why I went to see them and tried to persuade them to consider converting Driftwood House into a guesthouse rather than knocking it down.’

  ‘So what did they say?’

  ‘They said I’ve got four weeks to spruce the place up in the hope they can see its potential as a guesthouse, rather than just a prime building spot.’

  ‘Wow, that’s amazing,
Rosie, and just a little bit bonkers. Who’s paying for this make-over?’

  ‘Me, but it’s just cosmetic stuff. Nothing too heavy duty.’

  ‘Hmm. I still can’t believe that you actually went to see the Eppings. Did you go to their spooky house up on the moors?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘That’s brave. So what’s it like? All Wuthering Heights, I bet, with mad women in the attic.’

  Wasn’t that Jane Eyre? Rosie grinned. ‘It was a bit creepy and isolated and grand, but I only saw a couple of rooms. Do they live there on their own?’

  ‘Apparently, apart from staff, I suppose. They never had kids which isn’t surprising. I bet they’ve never had sex. I really can’t imagine those two getting jiggy.’ Nessa shuddered. ‘What were they like?’

  ‘Well…’ Rosie thought for a second. ‘He was cold and grumpy and…’ She remembered his icy blue eyes. ‘A bit sad, really.’

  ‘And his wife?’

  ‘One hundred per cent terrifying.’

  Nessa snorted. ‘She’s mega-scary all right. Mr Epping never comes to Heaven’s Cove. I’ve only ever seen him in photos and he was on the local news once, when one of his businesses won an award. But his wife comes to the village occasionally, swanning around in her Mercedes as though she owns the place. Which, to be fair, she pretty much does. I’m surprised she’s changing her hotel plans.’

  ‘She isn’t keen on changing them at all but Charles – Mr Epping – was more open to the idea. He was the one who pushed to give me some time to change their minds about the hotel.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Nessa pushed Rosie’s credit card into the machine. ‘You want to be careful.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they’ll screw you over. You’ll end up doing loads of work and spending lots of cash and then they’ll knock the place down anyway. Being ruthless is how rich people make their money.’ Nessa winced at Rosie’s expression. ‘Sorry. I’m being blunt again. I just don’t want to see you being taken advantage of and upset.’

  ‘As I told my boyfriend yesterday morning, I’m upset anyway.’

  ‘Exactly. And you don’t want any more upset on top.’ Nessa’s smile was sympathetic. ‘Why do you want to save the house anyway? I know I said it’s a Heaven’s Cove icon and we’ll be sorry to see it go, but you’ll be back in Spain, so it doesn’t make sense.’