Coming Home to Sturcombe Bay (Sturcombe Bay #2)

Chapter One

“Well, here we are. Home sweet home.”

Cassie leaned over and kissed her brother on the ear.

“Thanks for picking me up. You’re a sweetheart.”

Paul laughed.

“That’s not what you used to call me.”

“That was ten years ago.” Her eyes danced.

“But I’m not guaranteeing I won’t call you a few choice alternatives again — especially if you’re still as irritating as ever.”

“Me — irritating? Never!”

“Huh!”

They both climbed out of the car, and Paul went round to the boot to fetch Cassie’s backpack.

“You really do travel light,” he remarked, hoisting it onto one shoulder.

“You get further that way.”

Halfway round the world.

And now she was home.

The house rose above her, big and solid.

Most of the large Victorian townhouses on Cliff Road had been converted into holiday flats, but not number nineteen.

Three storeys of ruddy- brown brick, trimmed with sandstone quoins, with dormer windows in the roof.

Three stone steps led up to the front door, bay windows on each side.

The front garden had been gravelled over to provide extra off-road parking space, but several tubs of bright geraniums lent it a defiant touch of colour.

But her first move wasn’t towards the house.

Instead, she walked across the road and stood for a moment by the cliff wall, her hands resting lightly on the rough stone, still warm from the sun that was setting across the bay.

Sturcombe.

Her home for the first eighteen years of her life — until the need to see more of the world than this little seaside village in South Devon, however pretty, had sent her off in search of adventure.

Which she had found — in spades.

She had seen the sun set over the Golden Gate bridge, over the wide planes of the Serengeti, over the huge red monolith of Uluru in the dry, dusty outback of Australia.

But though they had all been spectacular, there had never been a sunset to compare with the sunsets of home.

The sky was deepening to a soft cobalt blue, streaked with idle paint strokes of magenta and gold.

Far out across the bay the sun was sinking slowly below the horizon, a great golden ball casting a path of shimmering sequins across the sea.

Some thirty feet below her the waves were breaking in frills of white lace that whispered softly across the sand.

A couple of black-headed terns were swooping down to look for a late dinner, their mournful wheep-wheep cries echoing across the water .

.

.

A man was riding a horse along the edge of the beach, the last long rays of the sun gleaming on the horse’s russet flanks.

The man had risen in the stirrups, perfectly balanced, moving as one with the powerful animal as it galloped through the shallows, all smooth, elemental power.

“Who’s that?” She really didn’t need to ask.

Paul strolled across and glanced down at the beach.

“That’s Liam. You remember him? Liam Ellis.”

Liam Ellis.

Oh yes, she remembered him very well.

At seventeen, eighteen, she had thought he was the love of her life, but the tug of the great wide world had been equally strong.

Liam had had a different dream.

He loved horses — he’d had no interest in travelling the world.

He’d started helping out at the local horse rescue society from when he was about ten years old, and his commitment to them had grown over the years.

It had led him to train as a vet, like his parents and his brother, with the intention of taking over from the society’s elderly vet who was past due for retirement.

She’d known she couldn’t ask him to give that up.

Which had left her with an almost impossible choice — leave him behind and follow her dream of adventure, or give up on it and stay here with him.

She had known that she couldn’t have both.

And though it had almost torn her heart in two, she had known that at eighteen she was too young to settle down.

So, in the week when she would have been starting at Exeter University, she had taken off in a big white bird from Heathrow for the long flight to Orlando.

Gazing out of the window at England’s green fields rolling past beneath the wing, she had wished that she could go up to the cockpit and beg the captain to turn the plane around and fly it right back home again.

But by the time they had landed at Orlando’s stunning airport she had forced herself to look to the future, not the past.

And within a week she had been so absorbed in completing her advanced PADI Divemaster certification that she had been able to tuck her memories into a small corner of her heart, only to be revisited rarely.

She turned at the sound of the front door behind her opening.

Her mum and dad, and her sister Lisa, piled out of the house to welcome her.

She found herself instantly swamped in hugs, her mother’s warm arms around her, her father standing close by trying to pretend that wasn’t a tear in his eye.

Her mother had no such reticence — tears streamed down her face.

“Ah, my baby’s home safe at last.”

“Mum!” Cassie was protesting, though her own eyes were blurring with tears too.

“I only went round the world — I didn’t leave the planet.”

“Ten years. Let me look at you.” She held her daughter at arm’s length, then cupped her face in her hands.

“You haven’t changed a bit. Except you’re so brown! Did you get that tan in New Zealand?”

“It’s winter there at the moment, though in the summer it was glorious. Hello, Dad.”

She turned to hug her father — big, calm Richard Channing, kindly and much-respected headmaster of the local Community College.

“You’re looking well.”

His grey eyes crinkled into a smile as he wrapped his arms around her.

“So are you, my lovely. Welcome home.”

“And my big sister!” She laughed.

“Though I’m still taller than you.” She caught Lisa round the waist and lifted her off the ground, swinging her around as she had been able to do since she was eleven years old.

“Hey, put me down,” Lisa protested.

“I’m a respectable married woman.”

“Huh! You — respectable? I don’t believe it.” Cassie’s eyes danced.

“Where are the babies? Have you brought them down to meet their Auntie Cassie?”

“They’re at home with Ollie — it’s a bit late for them to be out.” Lisa beamed with maternal pride.

“You can see them tomorrow.”

“Right.” Cassie hesitated, steeling herself for the big question.

“And . . . how’s Nanna?”

Sombre looks replaced the smiles.

“Not good,” her mother admitted.

“I think she’s holding on for you to come home.”

Cassie felt the guilt twist in her gut.

She should have come home sooner.

“We can go up to the hospital to see her tomorrow. Anyway, come on indoors,” her mother urged, dropping an arm around her shoulders.

“You must be tired after that long flight.”

“Well, yes I am,” Cassie admitted.

“I don’t know why, but sitting in an aeroplane seat for twenty-four hours is more tiring than rafting down the Shotover rapids!”

Her sister laughed.

“I’ll take your word for that!”

They climbed the steps to the front door.

And there in the hall, waiting to welcome her, so eager that his whole back end was wagging along with his tail, was Barney, the small brown Border Terrier who had been little more than a pup when she had gone away.

“Barney!” Cassie dropped to her knees to hug him.

“You remember me?”

An enthusiastic pink tongue lapped away the tears that had sprung to her eyes.

She hadn’t quite dared to hope for this, to find him still here, the mischievous bundle of fun who had raced with her on the beach, chasing waves and seagulls, or snuck into her bed at night when he was supposed to stay in his basket down in the kitchen.

“Of course he remembers you. He missed you.”

“Oh, Barney. I missed you too.” She fussed the little dog, tickling his ears and reducing him to a bundle of ecstasy.

That warm, wriggling body, that coarse brown fur, those eyes still bright with intelligence gazing adoringly into hers.

She held onto the moment until she was sure she wasn’t going to cry, then rose to her feet and glanced around the hall, taking in the changes.

“You’ve decorated in here.”

Her mother laughed.

“Of course.”

The hall was long and bright, with a gleaming wooden floor and high ceiling.

The old wallpaper she remembered had gone — now one wall was painted a rich dark blue, the other ivory cream.

“Very smart,” she approved.

“We’ve done most of the house since you’ve been away. Come and look at the sitting room.”

The walls had been painted a warm terracotta.

It could have been overpowering, but in such a large room, running from the front to the back of the house, it had an air of opulence enhanced by the high ceiling and decorative cornices painted the same ivory as the hall.

The light fittings were new — brass and pearlescent globes.

Two dark-red leather Chesterfield sofas and two comfortable armchairs were arranged before the fireplace, and the mantlepiece and sideboard were lined with family photographs.

The marble fireplace itself was original to the house, and had been well cared for by the generations — the house had been owned by her mother’s family since it was built, just as Nanna’s family had owned her house three doors up the hill.

“It’s lovely,” Cassie approved, gazing round.

“Glad you like it.” Her mum hesitated.

“We haven’t done your room, because . . .”

Ah, there it was.

The unspoken question she’d been expecting.

How long was she going to stay?

Would she stay for good?

To be honest, she didn’t know the answer to that herself.

“Anyway, you can see the rest of the house later. You must be hungry. Come on through and get something to eat. We’ve got your favourite — lasagne.”

“You waited dinner for me? Oh, Mum, you didn’t need to do that. I could just have had cheese on toast or something.”

Her mother looked horrified.

“You think I’d let you make do with cheese on toast?”

“Don’t be daft!” Lisa laughed.

“The prodigal has returned — Mum’s killed the fatted calf.”

“Well, yes — I am pretty hungry,” Cassie admitted.

“They fed us well enough on the long-haul from Wellington, but it was only coffee and biscuits on the hop to Exeter.”

“We’re eating in the kitchen.” Her mum laughed dryly.

“Nanna has taken over the dining room.”

* * *

Liam coaxed The Bandit up the concrete ramp from the beach.

Sometimes the high-bred racehorse would take exception to the slope, but this evening he behaved perfectly.

Trotting easily, they picked up the South West Coast Path, skirting the Memorial Gardens with its neatly-clipped lawns and colourful flowerbeds, and past the white front of the Carleton Hotel.

A short distance further on he came to a low stone wall and an open gate.

He rode through and across the front yard to the side gate leading to the stable yard behind the house, slipping down from the saddle and latching the gate shut behind him.

Most of the horses were out in the back paddock, but a couple were in their stalls, and at the sound of The Bandit’s hoofs on the cobbles, they stuck their inquisitive heads over their half-doors like nosy neighbours eager for gossip.

As Liam led The Bandit across the yard his dad strolled out of the tack room, pausing to study the elegant horse with an expert eye.

“How did he go, son?”

“Pretty good. Another few days and he’ll be ready to go back to his training yard, I reckon.”

Graham Ellis nodded.

“You’ve done a good job with him. He’s a fine horse. Leave him — I’ll see to him now.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Liam strode over to the house, entering by the back door — they rarely used the front.

In the kitchen the rich aroma of coffee drifted to his nostrils from the coffee maker in the corner.

His parents had no aversion to modern appliances for convenience, though his mother drew the line at an air fryer.

He poured himself a strong mug, not bothering with milk or sugar, and strolled into the sitting room.

His mother was knitting, her feet up on a footstool, a springer spaniel on one side of her on the sofa, and a young grey lurcher on the other.

She glanced up as he came in.

“Hello, love.”

“Hi, Mum.” He leaned over the back of the sofa to drop a kiss on her cheek and ruffle the dogs’ heads, then he settled into the sofa on the opposite side of the fireplace with a contented sigh, sipping his coffee.

The sitting room was cosy, with rough white-painted walls and dark oak beams across the low ceiling.

The big stone fireplace held a coal fire in winter, but now it was filled with ragged sprays of lilacs and irises from the garden, their scent almost overlaying the faint aroma of damp dog that always seemed to pervade the house.

The furniture was comfortable rather than stylish, with piles of mismatched cushions and an ancient wooden cabin-trunk that served as a coffee table.

He shifted his nephew Ben’s toy car and leaned over to switch on the lamp on the table beside him.

The room had changed little since he was Ben’s age — the cushion covers had been replaced from time to time, and the television set was at least twice the size, but he was sure that some of the clutter was still in the same place as it had been twenty-five years ago.

His mother was watching a quiz show, impatiently calling out the answers while the contestants were still furrowing their brows.

He smiled to himself.

That hadn’t changed either.

They were a good team, the Ellises.

His father and older brother Luke mostly worked with farm animals, his mother ran a small animal clinic, while Luke’s wife Julia managed the business side.

For himself, his main love was horses, but there was no clear demarcation between them — they could all back each other up when necessary.

His mother sighed as one of the contestants fluffed a simple question.

“Honestly, I think they must have to fail an intelligence test to get on this show.” She slid her hand under Hobo, the lurcher, and pulled out the remote to change the channel.

The dog huffed and settled down again, his tail banging against the cushions.

“How’s The Bandit?”

“He’s doing well. I gave him a good gallop, and he was moving perfectly. Dad’s dealing with him.”

She nodded, her knitting needles clicking rapidly as she watched the wildlife programme she had switched to.

“I heard Cassie Channing’s coming home.”

“Oh?” Yes, he’d heard.

But he didn’t want to get into a discussion about it.

“She’ll have come to see her grandmother. They were always close.”

“Not close enough that she couldn’t make it home for ten years.”

If she caught the acid note in his voice, she didn’t make an issue of it.

“No . . . Well . . .” She got to the end of the row and stopped to count the number of stitches to decrease.

“The old lady’s pretty much coming to the end now. Ninety-three — not a bad innings. Still, it’s sad to see her go. First Molly Marston, now Edie Channing. Not many left of that generation.”

“Except old Arthur Crocombe.” Liam laughed.

“He’ll go on for ever. He’s planning to reach his century.” He finished his coffee and rose to his feet.

“I’m just going to look in on Robyn, then I think I’ll have a bath.”

“OK, love. There’s plenty of hot water.”

The house was big and old, with thick granite walls and a slate roof — it had been thatched in his grandfather’s time.

It was effectively three houses linked together, with two staircases and several rambling corridors.

His brother Luke lived with his family in one wing, but Liam and Robyn lived in the main house.

He had been more than grateful for that these past few years.

He climbed the stairs and turned down the passage to his right.

His small daughter’s room was at the end, next to his own, the door slightly ajar the way she liked it, the soft glow of a pink night-light keeping all the shadows away.

A room fit for a princess.

Robyn was all girl — everything had to be pink, preferably with sparkles.

On silent feet he crossed to her small pink-covered bed.

He had read her a bedtime story earlier, and watched her fall asleep.

That was always the best part of his day.

She was sleeping now, her breathing soft and steady, her pale blonde hair drifting on the pillow, long dark lashes brushing her round cheeks.

On the bedside table — painted pink, of course — was a photograph in a silver frame.

He picked it up, smiling sadly at the image.

Robyn, on her mother’s lap.

One of the last photos of them together.

The were sitting on a sun lounger beside the pool of their hotel in Greece.

Robyn, two years old, in a yellow swimsuit — that was before the pink obsession had kicked in.

Smiling into the camera as her daddy had taken the picture — a smile so like her mother’s.

Natalie was squinting slightly in the sun — she had taken her sunglasses off for the picture.

Holding back her blonde hair with one slim hand, the other was wrapped around her small daughter’s middle, trying to stop her wriggling.

So happy — no idea that she only had a few hours to live.

That was probably a good thing, he mused — there had been no darkness.

He was the one who had been left with the darkness, from the moment the paramedic in her blue uniform had knelt beside the broken, bloodied body in the dusty street, shaking her head.

He had already known that there was nothing that was going to bring her back.

He put the photo down, touched a light kiss to his sleeping daughter’s forehead, and crept from the room.

In his own room he peeled off his clothes and strolled into the bathroom to fill the bath.

As his mother had promised, there was plenty of hot water and the room was soon filled with steam.

The mirror was misted up.

He rubbed his hand over it to clear it and stared at his reflection.

It was three years now that Natalie had been gone, and the darkness had mostly faded.

He had even tried a few dates — there were plenty of opportunities online to meet attractive women — but none of them had clicked.

And now Cassie Channing was coming home.

There had been darkness there too, but that was ten years ago.

And it had faded quickly.

He had been young, resilient, and if she had bruised his heart when she had chosen adventure over a life with him, he had soon come to realise that she had probably been right.

They had both been too young, they had had different dreams.

And now?

No, there would be no going back there.

If he only had himself to consider, maybe .

.

.

A brief fling before she jetted off again to some exotic location.

Casual, fun, no strings.

But now he had a little girl to consider, a little girl who had lost her mother.

There would be no going back.

* * *

Cassie sat on the cushioned bench seat in the dormer window of her bedroom, her feet tucked beneath her, Barney curled up beside her.

His small brown head was resting against her thigh, and he was snoring quietly.

From up here she could see the whole wide expanse of the bay.

The moon was waxing towards the full, tracing a silver path across the inky water, and the stars twinkled in the velvet sky like diamonds scattered by a careless hand.

Far out on the invisible horizon, the lights of a large ship glowed as it made its way slowly out towards the wide Atlantic.

It was the view she had known for the first eighteen years of her life.

The rather grandly named Esplanade curved in a wide crescent above the beach, strings of coloured lights swinging from lamppost to lamppost.

She could make out the windows of the Smugglers — the most popular pub in town — lit up with a warm amber glow.

A little further on was the flashing red, blue and green of the amusement arcade on the corner.

And at the far end, perched on top of a low cliff of reddish sandstone, was the elegant white facade of the Carleton Hotel, bathed in uplights from its lush gardens.

With one finger she traced the edge of the window frame.

When she was fifteen she’d painted the walls and the sloping ceiling a dramatic shade of purple, the door and the window frame black.

She’d been immensely proud of herself, though there were quite a few wobbles where she hadn’t been quite accurate when cutting in with the paint brush.

This room, with so many memories.

All the familiar items: the narrow single bed with its purple-and-black duvet cover, the pale oak dressing table where she had conducted her first experiments with makeup, the big wardrobe where some of her old jeans and tops still hung.

On the table beside the bed was the illuminated globe of the Earth — a Christmas present from her mum and dad when she was ten.

She had loved to turn it slowly, tapping with her fingertip all the places she longed to visit, imagining that she could fly to them in a magic bubble whenever she wanted.

And the bookshelves jammed with the books she had loved reading far into the night, with a torch under the covers — ready to swiftly switch it off and lie still at the warning sound of a parental footfall outside her door.

Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit .

A whole stack of Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series with their colourful phantasmagorical covers.

Maybe it was those books which had first ignited the spark of wanderlust in her.

It had been a secret she had hugged to herself, afraid that people would think it was a stupid dream.

You didn’t live your life like a fantasy tale.

The only person she’d ever told had been Nanna — she would understand.

And Nanna had encouraged her to believe in her dream.

She’d even bought her a scuba-diving course for her seventeenth birthday.

Dancing her fingers along the spines, she came to the anthology of poetry which she had reluctantly bought for her English A level and had fallen in love with.

And tucked inside, marking her favourite Shakespeare sonnet — ‘When , in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes’ — was a strip of small photographs, passport size, from a photo booth in Exeter.

Three photos.

The fourth, her favourite, was still in the back pocket of her wallet.

She hadn’t taken it out for years.

She and Liam.

How young they looked.

She had worn her dark hair long then, halfway down her back — now the tips just brushed her shoulders.

His hair, also dark and curling over his ears, was just long enough to brush his collar.

His dark eyes were laughing, that firm, sensitive mouth smiling.

Four years older than her, already studying at Bristol for the career he had been aiming for his whole life.

She had never told him about her dream of travelling the world.

When she was with him, she had put it to the back of her mind — she hadn’t wanted to think about leaving him.

She had just wanted to be with him, to live in the fantasy that it could be forever.

Although she had known that it couldn’t.

Had she made the right choice?

If she had stayed, she would have had Liam, and love.

But if she had stayed, would it have grown, that niggling frustration with the limited horizons of this little South Devon town?

Would time have turned it to resentment?

Would a couple of weeks holiday a year have been enough to satisfy her thirst for adventure?

With a small sigh she shook her head.

There was no point in revisiting that decision now.

It was ten years past.

Slipping her hand into the side pocket of her backpack she pulled out a small plastic folder.

Inside was her return ticket to New Zealand, dated 25th September.

Six weeks.

She drew it out of the folder and placed it carefully in the poetry book, next to the photographs.