Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
ISLA
The cottage is still warm when I get back from the boat.
My hair too – wind-tangled, damp with spray.
I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror and barely recognise myself.
No makeup. Cheeks pink from cold and sun.
Wearing Maggie’s cardigan over jeans that have actual mud on them.
Smiling like an idiot because Kit Harding held my hand in front of his daughter and didn’t let go.
I look like I belong here.
The thought should terrify me. Should send me running back to London, back to the sterile safety of my Hampstead flat where no one asks questions and nothing feels real.
Instead, I kick off my boots and pad barefoot into the kitchen, still buzzing.
That’s what it feels like – buzzing. Like I’ve had too much coffee or champagne, except I’ve had neither. Just Kit’s hand in mine. His mouth on my hair. The way he looked at me when Maisie wasn’t watching, like I was something precious he was afraid to break.
I haven’t felt this in years. Maybe ever.
Not with Reid, whose idea of romance was bringing me to premieres and forgetting my name when photographers weren’t around. Not with the handful of others before him – safe, boring men Marcus approved of because they wouldn’t threaten his control.
Definitely not with Marcus.
My stomach twists at the thought of him. The articles speculating about what I’m hiding, why I ran, whether I’m lying about everything.
I silence my phone before it can buzz again. Piper will have to wait.
The kitchen is still exactly like Maggie just popped out. Tea towels folded on the rail. Her favourite mug – the one with the chipped handle, which she refused to throw away – sitting by the sink. The windowsill lined with shells and sea glass she collected over fifty years of walking this beach.
I should have been here when she died.
The grief hits sudden and sharp, stealing my breath. I grip the counter, knuckles white, and force myself to breathe through it.
She died alone. In hospital, with nurses she didn’t know. Because I was too ashamed to come home. Too controlled. Too broken.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper to the empty room. ‘I’m so sorry, Gran.’
The cottage doesn’t answer. Just the tick of the old clock on the wall, the distant crash of waves.
I dry my eyes on the hem of Maggie’s cardigan and make myself move.
The bedroom is hardest. Her clothes still hang in the wardrobe – cardigans and sensible skirts and the one good dress she kept for weddings. Her reading glasses sit on the nightstand.
I should pack it all up. Give them to charity. Clear the space so it feels less like I’m sleeping in a shrine.
But my hands shake as I reach for the first cardigan.
Start small, I tell myself. One drawer at a time.
The top drawer of her dresser is full of scarves – silk and wool, some so old they’re practically disintegrating. I fold them carefully, setting them in a box I found in the hall cupboard.
The second drawer: stockings, handkerchiefs, a small velvet box containing her wedding ring. I open it, touch the thin gold band. She never took it off after Grandad died. Wore it for thirty years, refusing every well-meaning suggestion that she might find someone else.
‘I had my love,’ she used to say. ‘That’s more than most people get.’
I slip the ring onto my right hand. Too big, but I’ll get it resized. Keep it with me.
The third drawer sticks – swollen wood that hasn’t been opened in months, maybe years. I yank hard and it finally gives, spilling contents onto the floor.
Photos. Dozens of them, loose and fading.
I sink onto the carpet, gathering them up. Maggie as a young woman, dark hair pinned back, laughing at the camera. Grandad in his fishing gear, arm around her waist. My father as a baby, then a toddler, then a sullen teenager who couldn’t wait to leave Cornwall behind.
And me.
So many photos of me.
Building sandcastles at five. Gap-toothed at seven. Skinny and sun-browned at twelve, all elbows and knees. Fifteen and trying too hard to look sophisticated in Maggie’s old sun hat.
And Kit.
Kit’s in half of them – background or foreground, always there. Pulling faces at the camera. Holding up a crab like it’s a trophy. Standing beside me at the harbour, both of us squinting into the sun.
One photo stops me cold: me at seventeen, Kit’s arm slung over my shoulders.
We’re both grinning, faces pressed together. I’m wearing his jacket – too big, sleeves rolled up. His hand is on my waist, casual and certain, like he had every right to touch me that way.
Like I was his.
I was, for a while. That last summer before everything went wrong.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it.
I keep sorting. Photos in one pile, papers in another. Birth certificates, old bills, a programme from a village fete in 1987.
But no recipe binder.
I frown, sitting back on my heels. Maggie’s recipe binder – the old green one with the broken spine, pages stained with flour and jam.
She kept every recipe she’d ever made: handwritten notes passed down from her mother, clippings from magazines, annotations in the margins about what worked and what didn’t.
It should be here somewhere. In the kitchen or the bedroom or tucked in with the other books.
I’ve been through the kitchen twice. Nothing.
Strange.
I make a mental note to keep looking, then gather the photos back into the. drawer. This is enough for today. More than enough.
I’m closing the drawer when my phone buzzes again. And again. And again.
Finally, I grab it.
Seven missed calls from Piper. Three from Richard. A string of texts from Piper that escalate from ‘call me’ to ‘ISLA CALL ME NOW’ in the space of an hour.
My stomach drops.
I sit on the edge of Maggie’s bed and call her back.
‘Finally.’ Piper answers on the first ring. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Out. On a boat. What’s wrong?’
‘Marcus’s team issued a statement. They’re calling your support of Jemima “reckless and defamatory”. They’re threatening to sue unless you publicly retract.’
I close my eyes. ‘I’m not retracting.’
‘I know. I told them to fuck off in the most professional way possible.’ A pause.
‘But Isla, it’s getting worse. The speculation.
People are digging into your past, looking for dirt.
Someone tried to bribe your old drama-school classmates for stories.
The tabloids are offering money for old photos of you when you were with Vale in the early days. ’
My stomach twists. Photos.
‘Let them look,’ I say, voice steadier than I feel. ‘They won’t find anything because there’s nothing to find. I did my job. I stayed quiet. I was the perfect victim.’
‘Were you?’ Piper’s voice is gentle. Careful. ‘Because the Isla I know wouldn’t have stayed quiet for ten years. Something kept you silent. And if you don’t tell that story yourself, Marcus will tell it for you.’
My throat tightens. ‘I can’t.’
‘You mean you won’t.’
‘I mean I can’t.’ My voice cracks. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like? Knowing that if I tell the truth, everyone will see me differently? Kit will see me differently?’
‘Kit Harding?’ There’s curiosity in her voice now. ‘Isla, what’s going on?’
I can’t answer that. Don’t know how to explain that Kit Harding is the only thing making sense right now. That his hand in mine felt like coming home. That for the first time in a long, long while, I don’t feel like I’m pretending to be human.
‘I need more time,’ I say instead.
‘You don’t have time. Marcus is circling. He knows you’re vulnerable right now. He’s going to strike.’
‘Then let him.’ I stand up, moving to the window. The sea is grey and churning, beautiful and violent. ‘I’m not running anymore, Piper. I’m done.’
‘Isla—’
‘I have to go. I’ll call you later.’
I hang up before she can argue.
My hands are shaking. My heart’s pounding. But underneath the fear is something else – something that feels almost like anger.
I’m done hiding.
Kit said I should go to Dot’s shop. Face the village. Stop letting shame keep me locked in this cottage like I’m the one who did something wrong.
He’s right.
I grab my jacket – actually it’s Maggie’s, but who cares – and head for the door before I can talk myself out of it.
The village shop is exactly as I remember: cramped, overstocked, with a bell that jangles when you open the door and Dot Pendleton presiding over it all like a benevolent dictator.
She looks up when I enter, eyes widening behind her glasses.
‘Isla Quinn,’ she says, voice carrying across the shop. ‘Maggie’s favourite girl has come in at last.’
Every head turns. The two women browsing the magazine rack. The elderly man buying tobacco. Even the teenager restocking shelves stops mid-reach to stare.
My instinct is to flee. To mumble an apology and back out the door.
Instead, I lift my chin. ‘Hello, Mrs Pendleton.’
‘Dot,’ she corrects, coming around the counter. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony in Sea Salt Bay, as you well know.’ She’s looking me up and down, assessing. ‘You’ve got thin. London food doesn’t suit you.’
‘I’ve been told that before,’ I manage, lips twitching.
‘Well, come here then.’ She opens her arms, and before I can process what’s happening, she’s pulled me into a hug that smells like peppermints and washing powder. ‘Welcome home, love. About bloody time.’
My throat goes tight. I hug her back, probably too hard.
When she releases me, her eyes are damp. ‘Your gran would be so happy to know you’re here.’
‘I should have come sooner,’ I whisper.
‘Should-haves don’t feed the cat,’ Dot says briskly, wiping her eyes. ‘You’re here now. That’s what matters.’ She gestures around the shop. ‘Now, what do you need? And don’t say “just browsing”. I’ve known you since you were knee-high to a grasshopper. You came in here for a reason.’
I grab a basket, suddenly nervous again. ‘Just … supplies. I haven’t really stocked the cottage yet.’
‘Right then.’ Dot nods approvingly. ‘Bread’s fresh this morning. Nina brought over some of her shortbread – that girl’s a miracle with butter and sugar. Milk’s in the back. Tea’s where it’s always been.’
I move through the shop, loading the basket. Bread. Milk. Eggs. Tea. Biscuits. The basics.
‘Heard you went out on Jessie’s Dream yesterday,’ Dot says casually, rearranging a display of tinned beans that doesn’t need rearranging. ‘With Kit Harding.’
Here it is. The real reason I’m nervous.
‘I did,’ I say carefully. ‘It was nice. Kit’s been very kind.’
‘Kind.’ Dot makes a humming noise that could mean anything. ‘That’s one word for it.’
The other woman – Mrs Harper, if my memory serves me correctly – edges closer, pretending to look at jam. ‘My daughter saw you two at the harbour. Said you looked quite cosy.’
‘Did she now,’ I say, keeping my voice light.
‘Oh, leave the girl alone, Sandra,’ Dot chides. ‘If Kit Harding’s finally taking an interest in something other than boats and grief, we should all be grateful.’
‘I wasn’t prying,’ Mrs Harper protests. ‘Just making conversation.’
‘You were prying,’ Dot says. ‘Now off with you. Some of us have work to do.’
Mrs Harper huffs but moves towards the till with her shopping. I catch Dot’s eye and mouth, ‘Thank you.’
She winks.
I’m adding a few more items to my basket – chocolate, because why not, and a bottle of wine – when the bell jangles again.
I don’t look up. Just keep browsing, trying to project casual confidence I don’t feel.
‘Isla.’
I freeze.
That voice. I’d know it anywhere.
I turn slowly.
Kit’s in the doorway, still wearing the dark grey wool jumper he had on earlier at the beach, hair wind-messed. He looks surprised to see me, but also pleased. Like finding me here is the best thing that’s happened to him all day.
‘Hi,’ I say, suddenly breathless.
‘Hi.’ He steps inside, letting the door close behind him. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Taking your advice. Facing the village.’ I gesture at my basket. ‘Buying supplies like a normal person.’
His smile is slow and devastating. ‘Proud of you.’
Dot clears her throat loudly. ‘If you two are quite finished making eyes at each other in my shop, some of us have businesses to run.’
Kit’s ears go red. I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
‘Right,’ Kit says. ‘I’ll just – I came to get—’ He’s staring at me, clearly forgetting what he came for.
‘Milk,’ Dot supplies helpfully. ‘You always get milk on a Sunday evening so Maisie can have cereal in the morning.’
‘Milk. Right.’ He doesn’t move.
I take pity on him. ‘I should pay for this. Let you get on with your evening.’
‘Actually,’ Kit says quickly, ‘I was coming to find you after this. To ask—’ He glances at Dot, who’s watching with undisguised interest. ‘Could we talk?’
‘Outside?’
‘Of course.’
I pay for my shopping, trying to ignore the knowing look Dot gives me. Kit holds the door and follows me out into the growing twilight.
We walk a few steps from the shop before he stops, running a hand through his hair.
‘I wanted to ask you something,’ he says. ‘And I wanted to do it properly. Not just … assuming.’
My heart starts beating faster. ‘Okay.’
‘Would you like to go out with me?’ The words come out in a rush. ‘On a proper date. Not just sailing or walking on the beach or running into each other. An actual date. Dinner at the pub. You and me.’
He looks so nervous. Kit Harding, who jumps into storms to save people, who lost his wife and raised a daughter and kept going – nervous about asking me on a date.
‘It’s okay,’ he continues when I don’t answer immediately. ‘I know you’ve got a lot going on. I’m not asking for – Christ, I’m making a mess of this.’
‘Kit,’ I interrupt gently.
‘Yeah?’
‘You’ve already seen my boobs. I think a date will be okay.’
His grin is indecent. ‘It’s true, I have.’
I nod slowly, laughing. ‘You have.’
‘And they were perfect, for the record.’
‘So a date, then.’
He’s grinning, rocking back and forth on his toes. ‘Yep.’
‘Perfect.’
I start to walk away. The grin on my face is the goofiest shape.
‘Isla?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Any chance I can see your boobs again on the date?’
I laugh and just keep walking.
‘I’ll take that as a maybe!’ he calls after me.