Chapter 2
NOW
The morning arrives too bright. I wake to sunlight forcing its way around the edges of the curtains I forgot to close properly, and for three blissful seconds I don’t remember where I am.
Then the unfamiliar ceiling comes into focus – too high, too perfect, unmarked by cracks or water stains – and it all crashes back.
East Hampton. The new house.
The fresh start I don’t deserve.
I lie very still and count my breaths until the panic subsides from a roar to a hum. The therapist – the one I saw twice before deciding I couldn’t bear sitting in that too-big room answering questions about feelings – said I should establish routines. Predictable patterns. Structure.
So I get up. Shower in the ensuite where the water pressure is perfect and the tiles gleam like teeth. Dress in jeans and a sweater that doesn’t quite hide how much weight I’ve lost. Go downstairs to the kitchen, where I stand in front of the shiny new coffee maker I have no idea how to operate.
Instant coffee, then. I can manage that.
I’m halfway to making it when I see them.
Two women, walking past my house towards the park.
They’re both in expensive-looking activewear – the kind with discreet designer logos – and they’re deep in conversation, heads bent together like they’re sharing secrets.
One is blonde, hair pulled into a high ponytail.
The other is darker, her jacket a violent shade of pink that probably looks better under different circumstances.
When not wearing activewear, the women of East Hampton seem to dress like they’ve wandered off a yacht – all white linen and gold jewellery.
But there’s a brittleness to their elegance.
A tightness around the eyes that suggests the effortless look requires enormous effort.
I watch them air-kiss on street corners and wonder how many of those smiles hide affairs or addictions or God knows what else.
Money doesn’t solve problems – it just gives them nicer packaging.
They glance at my house as they pass. Just a flicker of attention, nothing more, but my pulse kicks up for no good reason.
They’re just walking. Just talking. This is what neighbours do.
I steady myself by learning to use the machine, make a decent coffee and take it to the living room. Then I settle on the couch – cream leather, spotless, the sort of thing you’d never let children near. Not that children are a concern. Not any more. Never, really.
The coffee goes cold while I sit there, staring at nothing, trying to work out what normal people do on their first full day in a new house.
By noon, I’ve unpacked three more boxes and hung pictures in the bedroom.
I’ve rearranged the kitchen cupboards twice.
I’ve done everything except what I know I should do, which is leave this house and face East Hampton in daylight.
Because I can’t hide forever. That would look strange. Suspicious.
You’re not hiding. You’re simply… adjusting.
I pull on a coat – charcoal grey, costly, bought in the frantic weeks after the fire when I needed a new wardrobe and couldn’t bear to think too hard about any of it – and force myself out the front door before I can change my mind.
The air is crisp, smelling of autumn and chill. The sycamore trees lining the street are turning gold at the edges, their leaves rustling in a breeze that’s pleasant rather than cold. Everything looks painterly. Perfect. I force a smile and walk towards the park, keeping my head down.
The park itself is exactly as the realtor described: an oval of grass so perfect it looks like carpet, surrounded by houses that could be tear-outs from Architectural Digest. There’s a fountain at the centre – switched off now – and benches positioned at regular intervals.
A few people are scattered about: a man in running gear stretching against a bench, a woman with a stroller, the two women from this morning now sitting on a bench, still talking.
I follow the path around the perimeter, trying to look like I belong here.
‘Excuse me?’
I turn. It’s one of the women from the bench – the blonde one. Up close, she’s younger than I thought, maybe early thirties, with the kind of bone structure that photographs well.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ she says, smiling. ‘But you’re the new resident at number seven, aren’t you? I’m Emma.’ She gestures to the woman in pink, who’s walking over. ‘And this is Natasha.’
‘Kelly,’ I manage. ‘Kelly Reynolds.’
‘Lovely to meet you properly.’ Emma’s smile doesn’t waver. ‘Caroline mentioned she’d popped round yesterday. I hope she wasn’t too forward. She takes her homeowners’ association duties very seriously.’
There’s something in her tone – not quite mockery, but close. Natasha laughs, a bright sound that seems too loud for the quiet street.
‘Don’t mind Caroline,’ Natasha says. ‘She means well. Just… invested in town life, shall we say.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘She seemed nice.’
‘Oh, she is. Mostly.’ Emma tilts her head, studying me with friendly curiosity. ‘What brings you to East Hampton? If you don’t mind my asking.’
And there it is. The question I’ve been dreading and preparing for in equal measure.
‘Just needed a change,’ I say, keeping my voice light. ‘Somewhere quieter. Fresh start, you know.’
‘God, don’t we all.’ Natasha sighs dramatically. ‘I moved here three years ago thinking it would be peaceful. Turns out town life is just as chaotic as home, only everyone knows your business.’
Emma laughs. ‘She’s not wrong. But you’ll get used to it. And if you ever need anything – recommendations, directions, whatever – we’re both nearby. I’m at number twenty-one, Natasha’s at eighteen.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘That’s kind.’
We chat for a few more minutes – surface-level pleasantries about the weather, the best place to get coffee (there’s a café not far from here), whether the homeowners’ association meetings are actually worth attending (opinions are divided).
They’re friendly without being intrusive, warm without asking too many questions.
Normal, I think. This is what normal neighbours are like.
When I finally excuse myself and continue walking, my shoulders feel a fraction lighter. I’m halfway round the park when I nearly collide with him.
‘Sorry!’ We say it simultaneously, then both laugh, awkward and startled.
He’s tall – taller than Daniel was – with broad shoulders and dark hair just beginning to grey at the temples.
His eyes are brown and warm, crinkled at the corners like he smiles often.
He’s wearing jeans and a grey pullover, nothing fancy, but he carries himself with the kind of ease that comes from being comfortable in your own skin.
‘My fault entirely,’ he says. ‘I was miles away.’ He extends a hand. ‘Richard Bancroft.’
His handshake is firm but gentle. His palm is warm.
‘Kelly Reynolds. I just moved into number seven.’
‘Ah, the new arrival. Welcome to East Hampton.’ His smile feels warm and real. ‘I’m at number nine, just a few doors down. And I’m the local doctor, so if you need to register with a clinic, I promise the paperwork isn’t as dreadful as it usually is.’
‘Thank you. I’ll… I’ll need to do that.’
We lock eyes, neither of us moving. He has one of those faces that’s easy to look at – not handsome in an obvious way, but pleasant. Safe. The sort of face you’d trust.
‘Well,’ he says eventually. ‘I should let you get on. But it really is nice to meet you, Kelly. And if you need me – as a doctor or something else – I’m just up the road.’
‘Thank you. That’s really kind.’
He walks away, and I continue towards my house, acutely aware that my cheeks feel warm.
Perhaps he was just being neighbourly, but there had been something in the way he looked at me.
Not the assessing gaze Caroline had worn, or the friendly curiosity from Emma and Natasha.
Something softer. Something that felt, bizarrely, like recognition.
The next few days blur together in a haze of unpacking and pretending to settle in.
I register with Richard’s clinic – an online form, impersonal and easy.
I walk round the park each morning, learning the rhythms of the town: who jogs at what time, which houses have dogs, where the cleaners’ trucks park.
I see Richard twice more in passing. Both times he waves, friendly but not intrusive.
Both times I feel that same flutter in my chest that may not be panic.
On Thursday evening, I do something I don’t expect.
I go to the homeowners’ association meeting.
It’s held in the community centre – a building that’s probably seen a hundred years of committee meetings and parish notices but has been renovated into something sleek and modern.
There are maybe twenty people scattered across chairs arranged in a loose semicircle.
Caroline stands at the front, clipboard in hand, looking pleased.
‘Kelly.’ She spots me immediately. ‘How wonderful that you’ve come. Please, sit anywhere you like.’
I take a chair near the end, next to Emma, who grins at me.
‘Brave of you,’ she whispers. ‘First meeting and everything.’
The meeting is exactly as tedious as I expected: discussions about Malory’s beach party, the timing of the fountain, someone’s complaint about ‘the awful new-money problem around here’, whatever that means. I let the words wash over me, focusing on looking engaged while my mind drifts.
That’s when Richard walks in.
He’s late, slipping into a chair across the circle from me with an apologetic nod towards Caroline. His gaze finds mine almost immediately, and he smiles. Not a big smile. Just a quick, warm acknowledgement that makes something in my chest loosen.
The meeting drags on. I contribute nothing, sign nothing, volunteer for nothing. But when it finally ends and people start dispersing into little conversation clusters, Richard makes his way over.
‘You survived the whole meeting,’ he says, voice low and amused. ‘Well done.’
‘Barely,’ I admit. ‘I zoned out somewhere around the trash rotation discussion.’
‘That’s when I arrived. Clearly I have excellent timing.’ He pauses. ‘Look, I know you’re still settling in and probably have better things to do, but there’s a decent bar in town. The Orchard. And I’m heading there now for a drink. If you’d like to join me.’
It’s not quite a question. Not quite a statement. Just an opening, gently offered.
I should say no. Should go home to my house and boxes and solitude.
Instead, I hear myself say: ‘That sounds nice. Thank you.’
The Orchard sits right on the beach, a weathered clapboard building with a wraparound deck overlooking the sand.
We take a table outside despite the slight chill, and Richard fetches a blanket from the basket by the door.
The ocean stretches out before us, grey-blue and endless, the waves a soft constant beneath our conversation.
It’s so quiet here – just a handful of locals and the gentle hush of water meeting shore.
Richard orders wine for me – white, dry – and a beer for himself, and we settle into a table that overlooks the waves.
‘So,’ he says, once we’re seated. ‘How are you finding East Hampton? Honestly.’
‘It’s nice,’ I say. ‘Quiet.’
‘That’s one word for it.’ He takes a sip of his beer. ‘It can be a bit much sometimes, but there’s good people here, once you get past the performance of it all.’
‘Performance?’
‘The perfection. The keeping-up-with-the-Joneses. The sense that everyone’s presenting their lives like an Instagram feed.’ He shrugs. ‘But maybe I’m cynical. Occupational hazard. You see people at their worst when you’re a doctor.’
‘Do you like it? Being a doctor here?’
‘Most days.’ His expression softens. ‘I like helping people. And town medicine has its advantages. You really get to know your patients. See them not just when they’re ill, but as whole people.’
There’s something in his voice – a gentleness that makes me believe him. That makes me think he’s the sort of doctor who actually listens instead of just prescribing some quick medication and moving on.
We talk about easier things: how he ended up in East Hampton (followed a job opportunity, stayed because he liked it), what there is to do around here (not much, but the beach is beautiful), the best walks if you don’t like sand or people.
And then, inevitable as sunrise: ‘What about you? What brought you here?’
I’ve prepared for this. Practised it.
‘I was married. My husband died,’ I say. Then, before I can shut my big mouth: ‘House fire. A few months ago. I just needed to start over somewhere new.’
The words come out smoothly. Almost believable.
Richard’s expression shifts – sympathy without disgusting pity. ‘I’m so sorry, Kelly. That’s… I can’t imagine.’
‘Thank you.’ I take a long sip of wine. ‘I’m managing. Some days better than others.’
‘Of course.’ He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask for details. Just nods like he understands that some things can’t be explained in a bar. ‘Well. If you ever need anything – and I mean anything, not just medical – please let me know. I realise we’ve only just met, but I mean it.’
And looking at him – at his kind eyes and his steady presence and the way he’s not demanding anything from me – I believe him.
We stay for another drink. The conversation flows easier now, lighter, touching on books and travel and the sort of inconsequential things that feel like relief after weeks of heaviness.
When we finally leave, the night is properly dark, the kind of country dark you don’t get in cities. Richard walks me back, our footsteps in sync, not quite touching but close enough that I can smell his cologne over the salty air.
‘Thank you,’ I say when we reach my house. ‘For the drink. For being kind.’
‘Any time.’ He smiles. ‘Really. I’m glad you came tonight.’
We linger there a little, not quite ready to say goodbye. Then he lifts a hand in a small wave and walks away towards his own house, a few doors down.
Inside, I lean back against the door and realise I’m smiling.
For the first time since the fire – since before the fire, maybe – something feels like it might actually be okay.