Chapter 20 #2
Meanwhile, the older boys had already begun closing the shop with the brisk efficiency of people who had done this a hundred times – flicking off lights, tidying the counter, stacking things neatly.
“Where’s Norman?” Margery suddenly asked, peering around.
“Norman?” Erica echoed.
“My fluffy menace,” Margery said. “The cat. Never mind. He’ll either turn up at my door or rob half the town for supper. That creature eats better than I do.”
Laughing, she ushered them all outside and locked up in a flurry of keys and scarves. The rain had intensified, slicking the cobbles as they hurried along the street. Her house really was close – tucked between a bakery and a boutique, its windows glowing warmly.
Inside, warmth wrapped around them like a welcome.
The hallway was narrow but alive with colour. A stained-glass lamp threw blues and golds across the walls. Dried lavender hung from hooks, and a carved wooden sun beamed down from above the doorway, its painted rays curling outward.
The air smelled of spice and old books and something sweet.
Erica slipped off her soaked coat before it could ruin anything else.
“You’re drenched to the bone,” Margery said, steering her to a fire-lit sitting room where the eldest boy was already coaxing the flames higher.
“What would I do without you, Ewan? Always looking after your granny.”
He grinned shyly and slipped away.
“Let me get you something dry,” Margery said. “Tea first, though.”
Erica stood there, taking it all in – the layered clutter, the soft chaos, the sense of a life lived in this space. Nothing like the places she’d grown up in. Those had always felt temporary, as though they never quite belonged to anyone.
Upstairs, footsteps thundered.
“Those scamps will be after their games before dinner.” Margery sighed. “I try to stop them, but the screens always win.”
She clicked the kettle on, leaving Erica alone with the warmth and the quiet realisation that she’d somehow already been folded into this family’s orbit.
The room was a mosaic of Margery’s life – shelves crammed with leather-bound books, candles burned down to uneven stubs, trinkets from places far beyond Rock Cove. A sun-bleached cow skull sat beside a ceramic goddess and an abandoned piece of embroidered needlepoint.
Then Erica’s gaze fell on a book left open on a side table.
It was large. Glossy. A photography collection.
Of nudes.
Before she could look away, Margery’s voice floated behind her.
“Ah. That old thing.”
Erica jumped. “Sorry, I wasn’t—”
“Oh, don’t fret. I’ve nothing to hide. If you turn to page ninety-two, you’ll see me.”
Erica blinked. “You?”
Margery gave a tinkling little laugh. “I was quite the beauty, once. Knew the photographer very well.”
Despite herself, Erica turned the page.
There she was – a younger Margery, bathed in soft green light, trees rising behind her like cathedral pillars. A sheer skirt draped low on her hips, her bare chest lifted, arms reaching upward as if reaching for something just out of sight.
Erica snapped the book shut.
That was … a lot.
“It was the seventies,” Margery said lightly. “People were naked everywhere. It didn’t seem so scandalous.” A glint of dry amusement crossed her eyes. “My husband didn’t quite agree. A wife and mother posing like that? We clashed over many things.”
“Oh.” Erica shifted, suddenly very aware of her own damp clothes.
Margery lifted two dresses from a hook, both stitched together from a riot of fabrics.
“Now. Which would you like?”
“Oh, I’m fine.”
“My dear, you’re practically dripping onto my floor. I insist.”
Erica chose the one that could almost be called grey, if you ignored the pinks and blues woven through it. In the bathroom, the fabric felt unfamiliar against her skin, soft and loose where she was used to structure.
When she came back, Margery beamed.
“Oh, that’s lovely on you. I had no idea what a figure you were hiding under all those creams.”
“I like other colours too,” Erica said, folding her pale sweater and stained white jeans.
Margery studied her, thoughtful.
“So … where are you from, really?”
“All over,” Erica said automatically. “My dad was in the military.”
“And Rock Cove?”
Erica hesitated. “Well we lived here for a bit. When I was little. My sister remembers it better. I think that’s why she came back.”
“They must have been good memories.”
Erica shrugged.
Margery stirred her tea. “You don’t think so?”
“Maybe. But a place is just a place. It’s who you are that matters. Whether you’re happy in yourself.”
Margery smiled, but something knowing flickered behind it.
“You might be right. But without other people … it can feel a bit empty.”
Erica felt herself stiffen.
Margery went on gently, “I had a friend once. Always moving. Always chasing something she couldn’t name. In the end, she came back to where she’d started.”
Erica pushed her cup away slightly.
“Some people just take the long way round,” Margery added softly.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs, breaking the moment as the children burst in, demanding food.
Margery clapped her hands. “Right, before one of you sets something on fire …”
As the room filled with noise and warmth, Margery glanced at Erica again. “Oh, before I forget. I saw your picture earlier.”
“My what?”
Margery pulled out her phone. “With the councillor. It was on his Facebook – and in the town paper too. When Rock Cove runs out of news, it borrows some.”
She held up the screen. There was Erica, smiling politely beside the man, the caption something pompous about “important discussions” and “welcoming celebrity Erica Hayes to Rock Cove.”
“I didn’t realise you were famous,” Margery said mildly.
“I’m not,” Erica muttered. “I just … have followers.”
“Well, then you’d better be careful,” Margery said with a twinkle. “This town gets curious when there’s nothing else to talk about.”
“I can’t wait,” Erica said dryly.
But a small part of her wondered whether being noticed might help.
The storm gathered outside, but Margery’s house stayed warm and bright.