That Summer Hideaway (Betancourt Bay #4)

One

Jemma Granger took one last look around her home office to ensure she hadn’t left anything behind that she might need. She was leaving her two-bedroom, ground floor flat in Orpington for a whole month – the longest she had ever been away from home in her entire life, and although her destination was less than a two-hour drive away, she didn’t want to travel back and forth just because she had forgotten to pack something or other. She was spending the month in a tiny village called Betancourt Bay. A village she had never heard of until her editor had called her a week ago with news that had made Jemma’s day.

‘Hey, Jem!’ Clarice had been unable to hide the excitement in her voice. ‘You know you said, when we last spoke, that what you really needed to finish writing this book was an escape to somewhere peaceful? Well guess what? I’ve got the perfect place. It’s exactly what you wanted. An idyllic cottage available to rent for at least a month. Tick. Near the sea. Tick. In a quaint little village. Big tick. With lots of open space and tranquil places for you to walk, and think, and breathe fresh air. Tick and gold star.’

‘Really? Wow. It sounds perfect.’ Jemma couldn’t believe her ears. She’d scoured the internet on and off for several days after that conversation, and hadn’t found anything even vaguely close to what she wanted. ‘How did you find it? None of my searches came up with anything suitable. All the good places were already booked.’

‘I know. And I wasn’t even looking. But the moment I heard about it I knew it was right up your street. It’s owned by a friend of a friend. My friend’s always saying she wants to move to a place like that one day – although between you and me, she never will. It’s just a fantasy. The only way she’ll ever leave London is if she’s dragged away, kicking and screaming. Anyway, I met her for cocktails last night and she was telling me that a friend of hers from her school-days has recently inherited a picture-postcard-perfect cottage. My friend showed me a couple of photos of the place, and I have to say, it’s beautiful. Even I could be tempted to stay there. And you know how much I dislike that whole quaint English village vibe. Apparently, it was left to her by her gran and she doesn’t want to live there but she’s not ready to sell it either, so she wants to rent it out while she makes up her mind what to do with it. I think it must be Fate.’

‘Or simply perfect timing.’ Jemma had never really believed in Fate. She adhered to her beloved gran’s mantra of, life is what you make it. ‘Where is this dream cottage?’

‘The village’s called Betancourt Bay. It’s nestled between woods, open fields, and the sea, and it sits on top of the white cliffs that go all the way to Dover, so not only will you have the tranquil walks in the open air you said you long for, you’ll have some spectacular views too. Or so I’m told. But most important of all, there’s a pub at the end of the road, so you won’t die of thirst. And it serves food, plus there’s a café less than a five-minute walk from your door, so you won’t have to cook, unless you want to.’

‘This sounds too good to be true.’ Cooking was not something at which Jemma excelled. Spaghetti Bolognese was about as far as her skills went. And even then she didn’t stick to the recipe. Having both a pub and a café close by was an added bonus.

‘It gets better. If you get sick of being hidden away in a tiny village, the town of Folkestone’s a few minutes’ drive away. I’ve never been to Folkestone – or to Betancourt Bay, of course, but they both look pretty perfect to me, judging from my friend’s photos, and my own subsequent online searches, just to check the place out. I’m sending you the details, so open your email, and get it booked!’

Clarice had been right. Oak View Cottage did look perfect. As did Betancourt Bay. Even so, Jemma had made one of her lists – as she did for every eventuality in her life – this time the pros and cons of leaving home for such a long time, and then another list for renting a cottage. But Clarice had sent her a follow up text saying, ‘Forget the lists, Jem. Just do it!’ and Jemma had laughed because Clarice knew her so well.

For once in her life, Jemma had torn up her lists, called the number she had been given, spoken to a lovely young woman called Molly, and booked herself a summer hideaway before she had time to change her mind.

Since then, Jemma had written lists to help her pack, and had begun to do so two days ago, ticking off each item as she placed it into one of her three suitcases. But she couldn’t quash a niggling doubt that she had forgotten something. A doubt that had awoken her in the early hours for the last two mornings. Along with the one that kept questioning if she was doing the right thing. And the one that wondered if the residents of the neighbouring cottages might not be elderly people pottering in their well-kept cottage gardens as she had imagined, but instead be loud and obnoxious, or nosy, gossipy, and bothersome. Or possibly even … murderous.

The latter, of course, was highly unlikely, such thoughts having no doubt been brought to the fore due to Jemma having binge-watched an entire series of both Miss Marple , and Midsomer Murders one particularly wet and dreary weekend a few weeks before.

Jemma repeatedly told herself that worrying about it wouldn’t help, and she would soon discover who the neighbours were. But after two nights of intermittent sleep, she was now both eager and anxious in equal measure, to get to Betancourt Bay to find out, one way or another.

She had made a new list for her ‘last-minute’ items, like her toothbrush and toothpaste, shower gel and shampoo, and such, which she had checked and double-checked this morning, along with the previous two lists. Yet she still could not rid herself of the niggling doubt that she had forgotten something important, hence the final check of her home office.

She cast her gaze slowly over the bulging bookshelves, festooned with warm-white fairy lights that she had set, via her Google Nest Hub – together with some other lights in her flat – to switch on and off at various times of the evening on each day for the month she would be away, so that passers-by wouldn’t think the place was empty. Her upstairs neighbour, Joanne, would keep an eye out for anything suspicious, and Jemma had left her a spare key, just in case, but it wasn’t the lights, or security that she was thinking of now. She had been tempted to take her bumper-sized, Oxford English dictionary with her but had decided she could use the online one instead as it was far more practical than lugging a massive hardback around, yet as her gaze landed on it, her hand instinctively reached out. She tutted and gave herself a mild rebuke. The dictionary could stay where it was.

The large bookshelves left little space for anything else in the small room, except her ancient wooden desk and Captain’s chair – both charity shop finds ten years ago.

Her desktop computer, large monitor, and keyboard (which she would not be taking) sat in the centre of the desk, and to the right were a box of tissues and a potted plant. To the left sat a sparkly silver lamp with a massive round bulb, and in front of that a silver-framed photo of her beloved, long-departed, gran, Esme Granger.

Jemma made a loud gasp. How had she forgotten that? She had known there was something. That niggling doubt had been right.

Venetian blinds blocked out most of the early afternoon sunshine streaming through the panes of the large sash-window, but one narrow beam shone on the photo. She grabbed it, and hugged it to her. She had photos of her gran on her phone, of course, but having Esme’s smiling face in front of her while she worked was imperative. Esme was her inspiration. And so much more than that. Everything in the room – even the room itself – had been purchased with money Jemma had inherited from Esme, the bulk of which had come from the sale of Esme’s cottage, and most of that had paid the large deposit on Jemma’s ground floor, two-bedroom flat.

It was as if that beam of sunshine was a message from Esme herself, saying, ‘I’d like to share this adventure with you.’

For once, Jemma was grateful for the sunshine stealing through the blinds, although it that had been a constant problem for the last ten years. No matter how often Jemma rearranged her desk and chair the sun always managed to find a way to cast a ray of light across her screen. To avoid that completely, she would have had to directly face the window, but then sunshine would have hit her full in the face, plus her back would have been towards the door; something she would never do. It was wise to be able to see who might be approaching as she beavered away at her desk, even though she lived alone – in fact, especially as she lived alone, and had done so since moving into the flat in Orpington. Her upstairs neighbour told her it was unlucky to sit with one’s back to the door, but Jemma had seen enough slasher movies and so-called, cosy crime series, to be aware of that. Not that there were many murdering maniacs in Orpington. But as her gran had so often pointed out, it was better to be safe than sorry. A motto Jemma lived by. The best positions for her desk, chair, and screen were the ones they were in now, but still a ray of sunlight crept across her desk. A good thing today, as it happened.

Had she forgotten anything else?

She scanned the large whiteboard fixed to the wall behind her desk, on which various ideas, plot themes, names of characters and places, along with other details, had been scrawled, together with one or two reminders. Nothing there that she needed during the coming month, although she had already copied a couple of the reminders into a notepad, just in case.

Beside the whiteboard, a calendar hung at a slight angle and Jemma reached out and straightened it, tapping the date she’d highlighted in green, with the tip of her forefinger. Today’s date, the first of June.

A small lump formed in her throat and a tear pricked at her eye. She had moved into this flat ten years ago today, six months after her beloved gran had passed away, and Esme’s tiny cottage, in which they had both lived, had been sold.

The cottage was in serious disrepair, but was snapped up by a developer, no doubt due to the generous size of the garden and the bargain asking price. Jemma briefly considered keeping the cottage, but neither she, nor Esme, had sufficient savings, and a new roof was just one of the many things on an extensive list that needed replacing or repairing.

On top of that, it broke her heart to live there without her gran. Jemma had never felt so alone or lonely as she had during those first few months after Esme’s passing, although the place was filled with Esme’s belongings, and their shared memories. Or, perhaps, it was because of that fact. The memories Jemma wanted with her always, were the memories she held in her heart.

At the time, she thought a fresh start in a new home might do her good. And it had. Yet she had wept inconsolably when she returned to the cottage just two years later to find six small houses crammed onto the land and garden on which the home she and Esme had shared for so many years had stood. She had not been back there since.

But selling the cottage had been the right thing to do; the only option in the circumstances. And the sales proceeds had enabled her to put down the large deposit on her flat in Orpington.

For ten years Jemma had sat in this office, typing, dreaming, sometimes cursing when writer’s block took hold, often struggling financially even though her mortgage was not that large. For the first two years she had also worked in her local supermarket to help pay the bills, but as royalties from her book sales came rolling in and reached a regular sum that was ample to meet all her needs and then some, she gave up the supermarket job to write full time.

Now her life had changed more than she could ever have imagined. With twenty steamy, historical romance novels emblazoned with her name, and a deal to adapt them all – and more – into a TV series, Jemma had fame and fortune. She would never have to worry again about how she would pay the mortgage. She no longer had one. Not only had she paid it off, her flat was on the market and a move to somewhere better was on the cards.

But that wasn’t why she was leaving it right now. The TV deal had brought her more than fame and fortune; it had brought her constant attention.

She was worn out from all the interviews, book signings, and social media postings. Even people who had walked right past her on the street now recognised her as the author of ‘those sexy, historical romance novels’, thanks to the TV series, and stopped to say hello, or to have a selfie taken with her.

She loved meeting fans, but a few months ago, someone had leaked her address on social media, and now not a single week went by without somebody ringing her doorbell, or attempting to peek through a window.

At first she was thrilled by all the adulation, but one or two of her ‘visitors’ had made her feel uneasy, and a few posts on social media had given her cause for concern.

Not everyone was happy about her so called ‘overnight’ success. Some people were clearly jealous, and some were simply nasty. A few were a little frightening. She lived alone in a ground floor flat, after all, the only security being the burglar alarm and the locks on the windows and doors. Hence her decision to put her flat on the market, and move.

But that was for another day. Today she was leaving to spend a month in the tiny village of Betancourt Bay, where, thanks to Clarice, Jemma had got exactly what she wanted. An idyllic cottage near the sea where she could hide from all the attention, and write her next book in peace and quiet. A book for which there was a looming deadline.

‘I need it asap, Jem,’ Clarice had said, two weeks before. ‘We want it to hit the shelves in time for the start of season two of the TV series, so the clock’s ticking.’

Season two was scheduled for next summer, and although that seemed a long way off, it would arrive before Jemma knew it. The next book was the last in the series, and the final book for what would, hopefully, be season three of the TV series, scheduled for the year after next. Her publishers wanted to garner all the publicity and pre-orders they could.

‘I’ll definitely get it to you by the end of June,’ Jemma had agreed, having already requested an extension from the end of May.

With continued interruptions, she had found it difficult to write and if she didn’t get some peace and quiet to enable her to concentrate, she would have to ask for another extension.

Which was why she had mentioned to Clarice that she was planning to scour the internet for a little hideaway from all the madness fame brought with it. Preferably, an idyllic cottage by the sea, with somewhere tranquil nearby where she could walk. But her search had not been fruitful. And then, by some miracle, Clarice had come up trumps, with Oak View Cottage.

Better yet, the cottage had been a real bargain. Not that Jemma needed to worry about the cost. Money was the one thing Jemma would never need to worry about again. She loved her growing bank balance; the increasing attention … not so much.

Jemma now smiled at Esme’s photo. She blew it a kiss and placed it carefully in the outer pocket of her laptop bag. Both the bag and the laptop were newly purchased for this getaway, as were several beautiful notebooks, and an eye-wateringly expensive, but exceedingly gorgeous fountain pen, all of which were going with her to the cottage.

She had also purchased some new clothes and was particularly pleased with a wide-brimmed purple and white hat. She had never owned a hat – at least, not one like this. She did have a couple of bobble hats for the winter, but a hat for summertime was something she had not realised she might need, until the sales assistant had suggested it.

When Jemma sat outside to read, or while away an hour with a morning coffee, an afternoon tea, or an early evening cocktail or glass of wine, she had a parasol that slotted into the hole in the centre of her patio table, shielding her completely from the glaring rays in her small, south-facing suntrap of a back garden. Not that there had been much sunshine so far this year.

But Jemma was hopeful that ‘flaming June’ would live up to its name, and her new hat would be perfect for shading her eyes as she sat on the beach in Betancourt Bay, writing in one of her beautiful new notebooks, or typing on her brand-new laptop.

Esme would be so proud of her if she could see Jemma now. And of her work ethic. Esme was the one who had encouraged Jemma to write her stories down, and to never give up on her dreams. Jemma’s only regret was that her gran hadn’t lived long enough to see her fulfil those dreams. Jemma missed her every day, but Esme wouldn’t want her to be sad.

‘Life is for living,’ she had told Jemma during her final days. ‘Don’t be sad when I’m gone. I’ll still be with you in your heart, and I’ll be watching over you, you can count on that. You should sell this cottage and buy something closer to town. Surround yourself with people instead of hiding away out here. I know you’ll be a huge success one day and I’m so proud of you, my darling. Name a character after me.’ She had giggled. ‘A saucy one who always gets up to mischief.’

Jemma had done precisely that, and the proud and superior, yet lovable, Lady Esmeralda Fitzglover, the matriarch of the Fitzglover family had been based on her gran, Esme Granger.

Lady Fitzglover had quickly become a favourite with Jemma’s readers, and now also with the viewers of the TV series. Esmeralda, like Esme herself, was a force to be reckoned with, but she had a fun side too, and her witty and often cutting one-liners had been turned into memes on social media. Jemma was certain her gran would have loved that.

Jemma often heard Esme’s voice in her head when she was typing Esmeralda’s dialogue, and it made her feel that they were sitting side by side as they’d done when her gran was alive.

The sitting room in Esme’s cottage had been tiny but in addition to the small sofa and single armchair either side of the fireplace, they had squeezed in a little table and chair in front of the window, where Jemma had sat and written her stories, while Esme napped in the armchair by the fire.

Would the cottage Jemma was renting feel similar to the cottage she had lived in with her gran? Would it bring back wonderful memories? Or would it make her miss Esme even more than she did each and every day?

Jemma had seen photos of Oak View Cottage, but it was difficult to get a feel for it from those. It did look as if it was trapped in the past – a good thing as far as Jemma was concerned. It appeared to be clean and tidy and well furnished, but it seemed to lack character somehow. From the photos, it looked more like a museum-piece than a home someone had loved, and Jemma wondered what the former owner had been like.

‘I inherited it from my grandmother,’ Molly, the young woman who now owned the cottage had said, her tone devoid of emotion when Jemma had called her to rent it. ‘I’m renting it out until I decide what to do with it, although I think I’ll probably sell it. I just need some time.’ Other than that, Molly hadn’t mentioned her late grandmother.

‘Of course,’ said Jemma knowing how it felt to lose a beloved gran. ‘I understand completely. I was devastated when my gran died, even though I’d known for several months that it was coming. It’s still such a shock, isn’t it? But you’ll always have your happy memories. And I promise to take good care of the cottage during my stay.’

She had been surprised by Molly’s strangled laugh. ‘Happy memories? I don’t think so. But yes. It was certainly a shock. I’ll meet you at the cottage to hand over the keys. Give me a call when you turn off the motorway at the junction for Folkestone. You’ll see the signpost for Betancourt Bay and it’s just a few minutes from there. I live in Folkestone and it’ll take me about the same amount of time to get from my home to the cottage, so neither of us will have to hang around for long. There’ll be a welcome pack with necessities like tea, coffee, bread, butter, and milk. Oh, and a bottle of wine. But you’ll need to go to Folkestone for the nearest supermarket, or bring what else you need, with you. Do you prefer red or white wine?’

‘Oh. I like both. That’s very kind.’

‘It’s included in the rent. If you’re anything like me, wine is definitely a necessity. Especially on a Saturday.’ This time Molly’s laugh was more cheerful.

‘Absolutely,’ Jemma had replied. ‘I look forward to meeting you, Molly. And to seeing Oak View Cottage. It sounds idyllic and it looks gorgeous in the photos.’

Molly cleared her throat and her serious tone was back. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday June 1st, around four p.m. depending on traffic. Call me if there’s anything you need to know between now and then. Have a safe journey. Bye for now.’

Jemma had been both surprised and pleased that Molly had not reacted when Jemma had given her full name, especially as Clarice’s friend had no doubt told Molly who she was. Recently, more often than not, people squealed with delight when they heard her name, and said something along the lines of, ‘Oh. Are you the author of ‘The Fitzglover Legacy’ books and TV series?’ A few people tutted disparagingly. But Molly hadn’t reacted at all. Perhaps Clarice had informed her friend, who in turn had passed it on to Molly, that Jemma was trying to escape all the attention her books and the TV series had brought. Or perhaps Molly simply wasn’t interested. Historical romance novels, and TV adaptations of them, weren’t everyone’s cup of tea, after all.

Molly hadn’t commented on it when she had emailed Jemma the booking confirmation letter either, together with a map of the village, and Jemma was relieved that Betancourt Bay might indeed be the perfect escape she had been hoping for.

The map was helpful, not only because it showed Jemma how to get to the cottage from the motorway but also because it had arrows drawn on it pointing to Oak View Cottage, The Royal Oak pub, Betancourt Bay Café, Lookout Steps leading down to the beach, and the roads from the motorway, and to Folkestone.

But what really piqued Jemma’s interest was the stately home called Betancourt that sat on the clifftop between the cottages and the sea. From the image on the map, it looked like a smaller version of the fictional home of the Fitzglover family in Jemma’s books. She would love to look inside. Would that be possible?

Forgetting both Oak View cottage, and the book she should be writing, Jemma had spent most of that day trawling the internet for information regarding Betancourt, and had found there was rather a lot.

She was delighted to discover that Betancourt Bay was named for the Betancourts and that the family still resided in their ancestral home. They had lost their title centuries before, thanks to the last Baron Betancourt having picked the wrong side, and been fortunate that he had only lost his title and most of his land and not his home, nor his head.

Over the years since, they had lost much of their wealth and power, although they still retained considerable amounts of both, from what Jemma read, because in addition to the stately home, they also owned a thriving auction house in London, the offices of which were in a rather grand former home in the heart of Mayfair, selling fine arts and antiques, along with books, wine, and jewellery.

Someone in the village – if not everyone – must know the Betancourts well enough to be able to ask if Jemma could have a private tour, and Jemma was determined to find out who that might be, because achieving that would be a highlight of this trip. Maybe Molly knew them? That would be simply perfect.

But this was not a holiday, or research for her new book, and she had to remind herself that the whole point of spending a month away from home was to finish writing her book, and submit it to Clarice well within her extended deadline of the end of June.

After one final glance around her home office, Jemma closed the door and made her way along the hall to the front door. Although this trip was for work, she couldn’t help but feel excited. She hadn’t had a holiday for years and even if she spent all her time working on her book, and didn’t get the opportunity to visit Betancourt itself, she could still enjoy the change of scene the village would give her.

‘A change is as good as a rest,’ Esme had often said.

And Jemma could certainly do with a rest.

Once this book was written she would treat herself to a real holiday. Maybe somewhere exotic. Definitely somewhere hot. It seemed as if it had done nothing but rain since the end of February. March was particularly wet, although the sun shone a little over Easter. April showers were more like April downpours, and May came in and went out like a lion, with gales, chilly days, and no sun to be seen. The first of June had started off with grey skies and unseasonal temperatures, but the sun had come out just after lunch. And Jemma was desperately in need of some sunshine.

She could afford to take a break even though her flat was on the market and she needed to look for her new home. The property market wasn’t great right now and her flat might take a while to sell. She’d have plenty of time to find somewhere new.

The only problem was, she wasn’t sure where or what she wanted that new home to be. She had lived on the outskirts of the village of Chislehurst with her gran but couldn’t afford to buy there even with the money Esme had left her, and a mortgage. She had bought her flat in Orpington simply because it was a place she knew well, and property was more affordable there. Now she had enough money to live almost anywhere she wanted. She could even live abroad. Although she loved the UK far too much to do that. She had no family left, and only a few friends, so she had no ties to speak of.

Her mum had died when Jemma was born; her dad had followed shortly after. Her dad’s mum, Esme Granger, the only grandparent and family member Jemma knew, had brought her up. Jemma’s paternal grandfather, Esme’s husband, had died in the same car accident that had taken her dad, when she was a baby. Her mum had been an orphan, so Jemma never knew her maternal grandparents, and had no wish to find them. She had no aunts or uncles as far as she knew. Her gran had been everything to her and although Jemma had tried to make friends, some people found her situation odd; others just found Jemma odd.

She had to admit, she was a little out of the ordinary. Her fiery and often wildly curly, red hair, mass of freckles, and startling green eyes, made her stand out from the crowd. Her shyness and timidity were the opposite of what everyone expected when they met her. Her stutter during her youth had not helped. And neither had the glasses she had worn to correct an astigmatism in one eye. When she said at the age of nine that she wanted to be a writer, even she wasn’t surprised everyone had laughed at her.

‘Ignore them all,’ her gran had said. ‘Different isn’t bad, my darling. Different is special. Who wants to blend in with the crowd when you can stand out and make them all wish they were you?’

Jemma wanted to be like everyone else, and she was quite sure not a single person wished they were her, but Esme made her feel that her difference was what made her special and all the bullying, name-calling, and isolation only made her stronger and more determined to achieve her dreams despite what she saw as the odds stacked against her. With Esme by her side, Jemma could do anything. She conquered her stutter and, with her gran’s encouragement, she began to write down all the stories that danced in her head.

Life got harder when her gran passed away, and doubt created chinks in Jemma’s armour, but the photo on her desk was a beacon of hope and a constant reminder of her dreams. Dreams her gran had been confident Jemma would one day make a reality. Which she had.

But being a writer was a solitary and sometimes lonely occupation, especially as Jemma had always been an introvert and making friends had never been something she had been particularly good at.

Even so, it seemed Esme had been right all along. Now people did wish they were the famous author, Jemma Granger. She still had her fiery red hair, but now it was styled to perfection and her mass of freckles were barely visible beneath the expertly applied make up. Laser eye surgery had corrected her eyesight and removed her need for glasses, making her green eyes even more startling. She was still shy, and her stomach churned whenever she had to speak in public, do a book signing, or an interview, but she put on the imaginary armour she had created as a young girl and went into battle regardless.

Now she was a little more capable of making friends, although she still had no one she could call a best friend. Clarice, her editor, was the closest to that. Along with Jemma’s upstairs neighbour, Joanne.

But for someone who wrote romance novels for a living, albeit historical romance, her love life left a lot to be desired. She had been on a few dates over the years, and even had a boyfriend for a short time, but writing had always been – and still was – the only constant love of her life now that her gran was long gone. Jemma hardly ever met anyone she wanted to date; possibly because she rarely went out. She had considered online dating, but hadn’t got around to signing up. It was always something she would do another day. The days drifted into months and then years and she still hadn’t done anything to improve her romantic prospects. Perhaps half the problem was that she was certain no living man would match up to the men she wrote about in her books. Her head and her heart were locked in the past and she had little time to think about the present, as far as romance was concerned. Or the future. Perhaps, once this book was done, she would give it some serious thought. Along with a holiday in warmer climes. Although finding a new home should be her first priority.

For now though, what she needed to concentrate on was writing this book, and to that end, she locked the front door to her flat, after making a last-minute decision to grab an umbrella from the coat rack in her hall. It might be ‘flaming’ June, but as her gran had often said, it was always wise to be prepared.

The shared hall beyond her door was relatively large, and the wheels of her suitcases clicked against the tiled floor as she dragged each case to the main front door of the two-storey house in which her flat and her upstairs neighbour’s flat, were situated. She heaved each case outside, and tossed all three into the boot of her recently purchased new car. She then placed her laptop bag and handbag on the passenger seat, hurried around to the driver’s door and climbed in, eager now to be on her way. She clicked her seatbelt in place, took a deep breath, and pressed the ignition start button.

‘Oak View Cottage, here I come,’ she said. ‘And this is going to be an adventure.’

She gunned the accelerator, pulled out of the two-car driveway, and headed off in the direction of Betancourt Bay and the idyllic cottage that was to be her summer hideaway.