just beyond the cute part of the village. Just one of a small cluster of houses—simple, rather stark houses—whose main function had been to provide homes for the poorly paid workers of Milmouth.
She slowed the car down. It made more sense to go home first. She badly needed to freshen up and let some air into a house she knew would be dusty with neglect. But instead she found herself indicating right, curious to see the small seaside town she had grown up in. The house could wait, but Shelley couldn’t. It had been too long, and she needed to see the sea again and breathe in the salty tang of the air which always made you feel so alive.
Nearly three years away in all, and in that time she had changed out of all recognition. Had the town changed alongside her? Old buildings torn down and replaced with shiny new ones? New families come to replace the ones she’d grown up with?
The sun splashed golden patches over the green, giving the place a curiously restful feel, and she eased the car into a vacant parking spot just behind the war memorial. There was scarcely a soul in sight. Still, it was Sunday afternoon and not much happened anywhere on a Sunday afternoon. Let alone Milmouth.
She got out of the car and locked it, thinking that it seemed like a long time since Marco had turned her untroubled world upside down with his news, but the reality was two days. Two days of cars and planes, delays and a few major readjustments along the way.
Shelley stretched her arms and began to walk towards the sea, passing a small boy clutching a football beneath his arm, his father at his side. With big eyes, the boy stared up at her as they walked past and she smiled back at him.
‘Who’s that woman?’ she overheard him asking his father.
‘Shh. I don’t know. Don’t stare, Michael. It’s rude.’
Did she look that remarkable, then? She supposed that maybe she did, in her linen suit and long leather boots—more suited to the high-fashion city of Milan than to this tiny backwater of a place.
It was a brilliantly cold autumn day and the wind tugged at her short hair as she walked past the tidy houses with their immaculate gardens and shamelessly corny name-plates. Sea-View. Island-View. Ocean-View.
And then the wind became stronger—the light shining and brilliant in the vast sky—and Shelley drew in a long breath as she reached the pebbly beach and got her first real glimpse of the sea.
The platinum-blue waters were topped with palest, purest gold and in the distance a scarlet-sailed boat bobbed up and down on the metallic waters, looking like an illustration in a children’s book. Directly ahead, the Isle of Wight lay crouched low in the water, like a sleeping cat. Although the island was four miles away, perspective tricked you into thinking it was closer and Shelley had spent many hours on the beach as a child, fruitlessly skimming stones towards it. Trying to hit the wretched thing!
Years later there had been moonlit parties on this same beach and later still, whipped by wind against the sea wall, Drew had first taken her into his arms and kissed her…
With only the mournful call of the gulls puncturing the rhythm of the waves, she stood staring at the water for ages, until a movement caught her eye and she slowly turned her head to look up towards the western shore.
The only activity was the dark shape of a man walking towards her, the pale blur of a dog frolicking beside him. Idly, she screwed up her eyes and watched them for a moment.
The dog kept running into the bubbling foam on the shoreline and then barking back to the man again, clearly trying to catch his attention. But the man remained oblivious, his head bent, deep in thought.
There was something terribly compelling about the duo and then Shelley found herself frowning with disbelieving recognition as they grew closer, her heart jerking painfully in her chest as suspicion became certainty.
Drew!
She shook her head. It was fantasy. She had magicked him up with her thoughts. She swallowed and looked away, then back again. He was almost upon her now and unmistakable, his long-legged stride effortlessly covering the distance, his head still bent as he crunched his way over the pebbles.
He still hadn’t noticed her but the dog had, and Shelley felt her mouth drop open in disbelief. ‘Fletcher!’ she breathed, and whistled to him before she could stop herself.
The dog pricked its ears up and then came charging at her full-pelt. Shelley shrieked as a flurry of pale gold fur and scrabbling eager paws almost knocked her off her feet. ‘Fletcher!’ she protested weakly.
And then she did go down, slap-bang hard as her bottom hit the stones. Her breath was jolted out of her as the dog attempted to lash its rough tongue over her cheeks. ‘Ow!’ she yelped. ‘Get off!’
‘Duke! Down!’ came a deep, furious command and the dog fell away immediately, dipping his head low and dropping his tail as the man approached. ‘Get off her, Duke!’ he yelled, and the dog, clearly unused to such a violent command, whimpered and slunk off to cower behind the wind-break.
Shelley blinked in confusion as she tried to catch her breath. Duke? She was winded, her legs sprawled out in front of her, the linen skirt riding high up her thighs as she gazed up into a pair of disbelieving blue eyes.
‘Shelley Turner,’ he stated flatly.
‘The very same,’ she whispered back, and braced herself for his reaction, unprepared for the soft venom which dripped from his voice.
‘And which big, bad fairy brought you back into town, kitten?’
The ‘kitten’ bit was habit, but it still hurt. The first time he’d ever said it to her she’d felt as if she’d hit the jackpot. ‘No fairy—bad or otherwise. Just a car,’ she smiled, as though she confronted men like dark, avenging angels every day of her life!
‘And what are you doing here?’
‘You mean right now? I’m sitting on these damp pebbles getting my bottom wet!’
His face stayed stony, but he automatically put his hand out to help her up. ‘Here!’
‘Thanks!’ She caught it. Her cold fingers seemed bloodless in his warm, calloused grasp and her breath was lost on the wind.
He bent and, with his other hand, cupped her elbow, so that he was able to swing her easily to her feet, but he didn’t let go. Not straight away. As if he could tell that her knees were still too shaky to support her. He didn’t speak again, either, just subjected her to a hard, silent scrutiny while she dragged the salty air back into her lungs.
She hadn’t seen him since her mother’s funeral—where he had stood in the shadows at the back of the church. He had been wearing a brand-new suit—the first time anyone in Milmouth could remember seeing him in a suit. He must have bought it specially. She had been moved by that. More than moved.
But they had hardly spoken—other than Shelley thanking him for coming, and him stiltedly saying that she knew how much he’d loved her mother. Which was true. And he had looked ill at ease. Not surprisingly. As if he had been dying to say something not very nice to her, but hadn’t been able to as a mark of respect.
Ever unconventional, he had sent a big bunch of tiny pale mauve Michaelmas daisies, with their yellow centres glowing like miniature suns. Her mother’s favourite flower. And when Shelley had seen those she hadn’t been able to stop crying…
Now her heart drummed with the vibrant reality of seeing him again. It had been a long time—in fact it gave her a real jerk when she realised just how long it had been.
She stared at him.
A couple of the lines on his face weren’t quite as faint as before. And the eyes had lines at the corners which had not been there before, either. Crinkly little laughter lines, which made Shelley wonder who had put them there. The hair was still thick, still ruffled—all dark and windswept with the ends lightened to honey by the sun.
He was taller than Marco—taller than nearly all the men she had ever met, and most