Chapter 9
The café was warm enough to make Erica pause just inside the door. Heat, sugar, and cinnamon hit her all at once, chasing out the cold that had settled deep in her bones.
Along the window ledge, a string of tiny pumpkin-shaped fairy lights cast a soft amber glow against the glass, where raindrops slid lazily downward.
Outside, the wind howled through the harbour, sending ripples across the water.
But in here, the storm was something to be admired from a safe, snug distance.
The place had fully embraced the season. On the counter, spiced muffins sat beneath a glass dome, each topped with tiny icing pumpkins. Beside the till, a black cauldron overflowed with chocolate ghosts and sticky toffees.
Maisie traced lazy shapes in the whipped cream of her hot chocolate, spoon clinking softly against the mug. Her eyes kept drifting upward to the paper bats hanging from the ceiling beams, swaying slightly whenever the door opened and let in a gust of cold air.
Their little corner by the window had become theirs, a ritual of sorts.
Hot chocolate, a shared slice of something sweet, and the slow, ever-changing view of the sea.
Today, a small yellow fishing boat had just moored between two pristine white yachts, like a splash of honest working charm among all that polished wealth.
Maisie sighed, sinking deeper into her chair.
“I like it here.”
Erica smiled, wrapping her hands around her mug. “I know.”
She’d come to enjoy these last few days of picking Maisie up from school – their stroll down to the harbour, the way they lingered by the water, feeding ducks and swans with whatever breadcrumbs they’d saved from breakfast. But now the sky had darkened into an early autumn dusk, and the little yellow boat stood out against the gloom like a marker of time passing.
Erica checked the time, the light already starting to fade. They should head back.
“You just make sure you eat your dinner,” Erica said, nudging her niece’s cup away before she could dig into the cream again. “I don’t want this hot chocolate and its ton of whipped cream to make your mum hate me.”
Maisie licked the spoon, considering. Then her nose wrinkled.
“Trust me. I’ll eat it. Unless it’s stew. I hate stew.”
Back at the house, the scent of cooking greeted them as soon as they stepped through the door. Something rich and herby hung in the air.
Maisie turned to her, nose screwed up. “Oh no – stew.” Then she froze, her body like a cat’s mid-step, listening.
From the kitchen came the low clink of cutlery and the hum of voices.
Maisie didn’t even bother with subtlety. She slipped her hand from Erica’s and broke into a run.
“Daddy!”
Dylan looked up from the stove just in time. He still had his apron on, sleeves rolled, wine glass abandoned on the counter as he caught her mid-launch and lifted her easily into his arms.
“There’s my girl,” he said, pressing his face into her hair. “I missed you.”
Leah stood beside him, wooden spoon in hand, watching them with a soft smile that seemed to settle across her whole body. For a moment, it felt like Erica had walked into the middle of something. She stayed where she was, letting them have their moment.
“They gave me a week off early,” Dylan said, still holding Maisie, his voice bright. “And I’ve got extra time off too. Just us for a bit.”
Maisie wrapped herself tighter around his neck, her cheek pressed to his shoulder.
Erica hovered near the doorway, suddenly aware her coat was still on, her bag still over one arm. She hadn’t even taken her shoes off.
“That’s great news, Dylan,” she said, meaning it. Then she sniffed the air. “Something smells incredible.”
“Stew,” Leah said. “The celebratory kind.” She lifted her glass slightly, already halfway through it. “Sit down, you two. You must be freezing.”
Maisie finally slid down from her dad’s arms, only to latch on to his hand instead.
“I got us a chocolate cake as well,” Dylan added, glancing at Erica. “So you’re not allowed to escape.”
Erica smiled, but it felt thin around the edges.
“I might actually skip dinner tonight,” she said lightly, fingers still curled around the doorframe. “I’ve got some emails I need to catch up on. I’ll just go upstairs for a bit,” she added. “Let you all have some proper family time.”
There it was. The word sat between them, unspoken but obvious.
Leah opened her mouth, then closed it again. “It’s your family too.”
“Of course, but you know what I mean.” Erica waved a hand. “Honestly, that hot chocolate earlier has absolutely finished me off. You enjoy your dinner.”
She turned to leave, but just as she stepped into the hallway, she heard Leah’s voice behind her.
“What hot chocolate?”
Erica didn’t wait to hear the rest – she made a quick escape to the stairs, biting back a smile.
Her heart was thudding with a mix of relief or maybe just the realisation that this wasn’t her rhythm anymore. This wasn’t her house, not really. She was starting to feel where she didn’t quite fit.
She reached the hallway and finally slipped off her coat.
And that was when she saw it.
An envelope poking from the letterbox. No stamp. Just her name, written in blue biro – slightly slanted. Not Leah’s.
Her heart gave a small, unexpected jolt.
She pulled it free and opened it where she stood.
Hi Erica,
I hope you’re doing a bit better these days.
I don’t know if this is a strange thing to suggest, given where we met, but I wanted to let you know the cottage on the cliff is available.
I remember you saying you liked it up there, and since you’re staying with your sister, I thought you might be looking for something more long-term.
I’d rather have someone living there than turn it into another holiday let, so I could offer you a good deal.
I’ll be up there tomorrow, or you can reach me on the number below.
Cheers,
Gabriel
Erica turned the letter over, scanning for the number.
For a second, she just stood there, the sounds of dinner drifting from the kitchen behind her – cutlery, voices, Dylan’s laugh – and let the idea settle.
Her own place.
Not a spare room. Not a borrowed life. Somewhere that wasn’t temporary.
To wake up to the sea. To look out over the hills. To exist without feeling like she was in the way.
Her fingers tightened around the paper.
She pulled out her phone and typed:
Thanks for the letter – your timing is kind of perfect. Yes please, I’d love to stay in the cottage. Erica x
She hit send without hesitation. Immediately, she felt lighter. This was it. She couldn’t stay here – Dylan was home now, and this was their home. She had been clinging on too long, existing in a life that wasn’t hers.
It was time to move on.
Her phone buzzed.
Great, I’ll see you tomorrow then. Gabe x
Erica blinked.
X?
She scrolled up.
Oh no.
She’d put one first.
Heat rushed to her face. Her stomach flipped in that ridiculous, treacherous way it used to. She shoved her phone into her pocket like it had personally betrayed her.
Professional, she told herself. He’s your landlord. Not a flirtation. Not a saviour. Just a man with a cottage.
But still.
As she climbed the stairs, the sounds from the kitchen felt softer somehow. Less like something she was avoiding and more like something she was gently stepping out of.
And for once, the thought didn’t make her want to retreat.
It made her want to see what was next.
The next morning, Erica set off for the cottage, a flurry of excitement buzzing through her. With her sister’s family off for a full day of soft play and the cinema, she had nothing but time and possibility ahead of her.
By the time she reached the top of the hill, the wind had picked up, whipping her hair into her face and tugging at her coat as if trying to nudge her back down the path. She laughed, breathless, and pushed on.
And there it was.
The cottage stood snug between a thicket of bushes, its whitewashed walls slightly weathered but still holding their own against the hillside.
A little wooden gate, slightly lopsided, enclosed a patchy garden with a low stone wall wrapping around the edges.
It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect. But it had charm.
Circling the cottage, she took it all in – the dirt track trailing off behind it, the parked Land Rover with its boot haphazardly filled with paint tins, tools, and even a vacuum cleaner. A project, then. Gabriel wasn’t just letting it sit.
Cocktails at sunset out here would be perfect, she mused, running a hand along the cool stone wall. Then, with a wry smile, she corrected herself. More likely tea, wrapped in a scarf so thick I look like a bundled-up burrito.
She reached the front door, black paint peeling at the edges, and rapped her knuckles against it.
It opened a moment later, revealing Gabriel, broad-shouldered and slightly hunched to fit within the narrow frame. He blinked at her, almost as if he hadn’t expected her to actually show up.
“So,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “here it is.”
She bit back a smile. He was a big man in a small cottage, filling the space in a way that made the place seem even smaller. Or maybe he just really was that big.
“You’ll remember the living room,” he said, stepping aside as she went in.
The space was as she remembered – compact, a little dark, but not without promise. The stone fireplace sat empty, but she could already imagine curling up beside it on colder nights. A few mismatched pieces of furniture stood awkwardly around the room, as if unsure of their purpose.
Gabriel cleared his throat. “I’ll show you the bedroom.”
He ducked slightly as he led her down the narrow hallway. The bedroom was small, with white walls and a basic bed frame. No pictures, no warmth – just a blank slate waiting to be filled.
Gabriel pressed his lips together, glancing around as if seeing it through her eyes. “I, uh … figured you’d want to put your own stamp on it.”
Erica stepped inside, trailing a hand along the cold wall. “It’s got potential.”
He nodded once, then gestured to the kitchen.
They rounded the corner into the compact, functional space. Exactly as she remembered – nothing special, but enough. Then he motioned to another door.
“The bathroom’s new.”
Her eyebrows lifted in pleasant surprise.
Unlike the rest of the cottage, which still held a rustic, slightly neglected air, the bathroom was fresh.
The tiles gleamed, and the bathtub was a proper deep one – the sort she could sink into for hours.
Positioned beside a little cubby window, she bent to peer outside and saw the hills stretching into the distance, sunlight spilling over them like a soft blanket.
“Wow,” she murmured.
She turned slowly, the weight of possibility settling in.
The cottage wasn't perfect. Nothing like the sleek London flat she'd sold. But maybe that was the appeal. That place had been all glass and white walls and minimal furniture, so bright it had felt almost clinical. Like she’d never quite settled in it.
This felt different.
This felt like something she could grow into.
“I think,” she said, smiling, “this could work.”
“Brilliant. I'll email the paperwork over later.” He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “You don’t mind if I keep doing a bit of work on it? I’ll try not to get in your way.” He hesitated, then added, “Oh, one thing I should probably mention—”
Her eyebrows shot up. “It’s haunted?”
Gabriel huffed a laugh. “No, but close. The internet’s terrible up here. Practically non-existent.”
“I think that makes it even better.”
“I know people say that,” he said, raising his hands, “but when you’re stuck here on a stormy Tuesday night, trust me, you’ll miss it.”
“Honestly,” she said, cutting in, “I never want to look at anything online again.”
Silence followed.
Gabriel’s expression shifted, something thoughtful passing through it, but he didn’t push. “Alright then,” he said lightly. “Guess that settles it.”
He pulled the keys from his pocket, fumbling slightly as he handed them over. She turned them in her palm, glancing at the attached keyring – a tiny, slightly battered plastic witch’s broom, the sort you’d find in a Halloween clearance bin.
“Cute,” Erica said, smiling despite herself.
“Oh – uh.” Gabriel rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just always been on there. Seemed wrong to change it.”
“Here was me thinking it was the last tenant’s. You said she worked here over the summer?”
“If I was less honest, I’d let her take the blame for the keyring,” he admitted.
“But no – my dad had it before me, and …” He laughed.
“I’ve no idea where it came from. Probably some terrible free gift from a cereal box.
He used to fall for those – buy ten boxes of something awful just for a rubbish prize. ”
Erica twirled the tiny broom between her fingers.
“Tradition,” he said with a shrug. Then, nodding towards the door, he added, “Oh and there’s a back road you can use. Tourists never find it. Single track, full of potholes, barely any passing places but it’ll get you here.”
Erica only half listened, already picturing herself in a bubble bath, a podcast playing softly while the wind battered the windows.
Gabriel watched her for a beat, then clapped his hands together. “Right. I’ll leave you to get acquainted.”
Before he reached the door, he turned back. “I’ll come by later with a bed and a few bits to make it feel more lived-in.” He gave a quick salute and was gone, boots crunching on gravel before the Land Rover rumbled to life and disappeared down the track.
The cottage settled into silence.
Erica stood in the middle of the room, listening to the hush around her. She hadn’t expected to be alone so quickly, but it felt different up here – knowing her sister was close, yet feeling perched at the edge of everything.
Exactly where she needed to be.
She took off her boots, unbuttoned her coat, and draped it over the back of a wooden chair. Then, with a quiet little smile, she climbed into the empty bathtub, stretching out as she gazed at the hills beyond the window.
Bliss.