Chapter Forty
On the second Tuesday in July, a gentle stillness settled over Sandy Lane.
By the time William returned from a training day at the station, the high-summer sun had burned away the last traces of sea fret, leaving Cliffside House bathed in warm gold.
As he crossed the yard toward the back door, he could hear the familiar sounds of family life drifting through the open kitchen window — the murmur of voices, the occasional burst of laughter, the scrape of chairs across the floorboards.
It was a sound that always settled something inside him.
He stepped into the scullery, hung his jacket on the peg, and walked through into the kitchen.
Jake spotted him first.
“Daddy!” he shouted, racing across the rug with his red car clutched in one hand. William scooped him up, pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and set him back down.
Sophie looked up from the table and gave him a small, warm smile.
Ollie waved a Lego brick in the air. “Dad, look — Lydia says the supports are perfect!”
Ethan glanced up from his geography book. “Hi, Dad.”
Jean sat by the window with her knitting, the steady click of her needles filling the spaces between conversations. Sam stood near the open door, absent-mindedly turning a wooden peg in his hands while watching the children.
And Lydia was sitting at the table as though her place there required no explanation. She had stopped by to ask Sam’s advice about a sticking window in the garden suite, but somehow she had been drawn into the children’s afternoon activities.
Ollie leaned against her shoulder, enthusiastically explaining the finer points of his Lego construction.
“Look, Lydia. If I overlap these four-stud bricks instead of using the flat ones, will it make the walls stronger?”
Lydia examined the structure with complete seriousness. “Much stronger. You’ve supported the corners properly.”
Ollie grinned and returned to his building.
Beside him, Sophie sat drawing with a black pen.
“Lydia, look,” she said without glancing up. “This is Harold. I gave him the shiny eye like we did at the stall. Can I keep it on the dresser?”
“Yes, you can, Sophie.”
Lydia reached over and tucked a loose curl behind Sophie’s ear. Mia sat beside her with her sketchbook open, carefully shading the outline of a lighthouse she’d started earlier, her pencil moving in slow, thoughtful strokes.
At the far end of the table, Ethan worked quietly on his assignment, glancing up now and then whenever Lydia spoke before returning to his work.
“Afternoon, Lydia,” William said as he crossed to the counter and poured himself a cold drink.
She looked up, her smile easy and unforced. “Afternoon, William.”
Jake wandered back to the table, racing his red car along the edge before climbing onto the chair beside Lydia. He leaned comfortably against her arm.
“Lydia,” he said, tapping her sleeve. “Can you read the lighthouse story tonight? The one with the big lamp that turns round?”
Lydia glanced at William. “Perhaps — if your dad says it’s all right.”
“I think he’d like that,” William said.
Jake nodded, satisfied, and went back to making his car zoom across the table leg.
Across the room, Jean exchanged a quick glance with Sam. Neither of them said anything, but Jean began gathering her knitting into her bag while Sam folded his newspaper with exaggerated efficiency.
“Right then,” Sam said, clearing his throat as he checked his watch. “We’d better head down to the garden centre before it closes, Jean. I need to see about those tomato feed sprays.”
“Oh, yes,” Jean agreed instantly, hurrying toward the scullery door. “And I promised Fiona I’d drop off that patterns folder before tea.”
William bit the inside of his cheek as his parents practically fled through the back door. The room settled again into its comfortable rhythm.
Ollie continued building. Sophie continued drawing. Mia shaded the lighthouse. Ethan worked steadily. Jake hummed softly as he drove his car along the skirting board.
“Dad,” Jake announced without looking up, “the men have finished Lydia’s bathrooms. They’re for the holiday people.”
“The plumbers finished this morning,” Lydia said. “Now I’m hanging curtains and making up the rooms. My first guests arrive next weekend.”
William wrapped both hands around his glass and looked around the kitchen. Ollie was building, Sophie and Mia were drawing, Ethan was working, and Jake was planning his bedtime story as though Lydia’s presence required no explanation at all.
Next weekend, The Gables would open its doors to strangers. Yet here, in the warm disorder of Cliffside House, Lydia was already at home.