MIRANDA

 

One Friday morning in late-July, Miranda Waters paused in her habitual morning run to press the toes of her trainers into the sand of the Long Beach and take stock of her island.

Waves lapping gently against the sand? Check. Puffy white clouds bobbing overhead? Absolutely. The sounds of gulls calling and Albert Tuna singing down by the harbour and the shops on the promenade opening their shutters for the day? Yes, yes and also yes. The smell of salt and fried breakfasts and sun cream and ice cream and doughnuts? Strong.

She waved at Albert Tuna as he appeared on the stone jetty that surrounded the harbour, and he waved back, another part of her morning ritual. At this time of day, there weren’t usually too many people around, although that would change now the summer holidays were beginning. Soon the island would be alive with families and tourists, piling in to enjoy a quintessentially British holiday at the seaside.

She hoped.

It had been a long winter on Seashell Island, so named because of its shape, fanning out from the point of the harbour to a long curve along its far side. Easter and the May half term hadn’t been as busy on the island as in previous springs, continuing a slow decline that Miranda had tracked over the years she’d worked for Seashell Holiday Cottages.

But things would pick up this summer, she was sure. After all, who wouldn’t want to spend the summer somewhere as perfect as this?

Miranda turned on the spot, strands of her dark hair escaping from her ponytail in the wind and getting tangled in the arm of her glasses, and smiled at the familiar sights around her. Candy-coloured shops and cottages, all along the seafront. The harbour, right at the end of the promenade, with sailboats bobbing with the waves. The Welsh mainland, just in sight over the water, another world as far as Miranda was concerned. Seashell Island was exactly as it should be at the start of the summer holidays.

Apart from the dog racing across the sand from the harbour, towards her.

Miranda frowned. Dogs weren’t allowed on the Long Beach – only on North Beach and the Short Beach. Except, as the animal grew closer, she realised it wasn’t a dog. It was too woolly, and its neck was too long.

Wait. Did they have a rule about llamas on Long Beach?

She couldn’t remember one in the Seashell Island Guide and Rulebook. She’d helped to write the latest version two summers ago, and a rule like that would have stuck in her memory. Perhaps it was time for a rewrite.

Or maybe not. Since the llama did seem to be having a lovely time racing up and down the sand, and it wasn’t like it was hurting anybody. Well, except for the two poor men chasing after the creature.

Recognising her parents’ neighbours Max and Dafydd in pursuit, Miranda raced over to see if she could help.

‘A llama, Max?’ she asked, laughing, as she joined the chase.

‘Seemed like a good idea at the time,’ he panted back.

After another ten minutes of chasing the llama, even Max, twenty years older than Miranda but with more energy than she thought she’d ever had, was starting to look tired. Dafydd, meanwhile, had fashioned some sort of a lasso from seaweed and was chasing after the llama while yee-hawing like John Wayne.

Max and Miranda shared a look, stopped running, and watched.

‘So, I take it this is the latest addition to the smallholding?’ Miranda said.

Ever since Max and Dafydd had moved into the farmhouse next door to the Lighthouse, her parents’ bed and breakfast, they’d been doing it up and adding various animals and a campsite – including a glamping area – where Max ran stargazing courses and Dafydd prepared stone-baked pizzas in an outdoor oven. It was a nice addition to Seashell Island, Miranda thought, and the tourists who wanted to camp weren’t usually the same kind of people who’d book the B&B or one of the holiday cottages she managed as part of Seashell Holiday Cottages, so there wasn’t even any grumbling about competition.

Max nodded. ‘Dafydd thought the kids who visit would like it. So far, it’s spat at me and run away.’

‘So basically just like the kids, then,’ Miranda joked.

Max rolled his eyes at her. ‘I’ll have you know our guests are always polite and well mannered. Mostly. Anyway, we’ll never find out if the kids like the llama if we can’t get the bloody thing up to the farm in the first place.’

Miranda squinted against the morning sun as she peered up the beach trying to spot Dafydd and the llama. ‘I think he’s got him. Or . . . not.’

Even as she spoke, the llama broke away from Dafydd again, this time loping towards the breaking waves, frolicking in the water. Rolling her eyes, Miranda ran towards it. The last thing Seashell Island needed now was a reputation for drowning llamas.

Could llamas swim? She had no idea. Better not to take the chance.

Leaving Max and Dafydd behind, she raced into the water, wincing as the freezing spray hit her bare legs. The sea water would warm up as the season wore on, but right now it was as cold as it had been at Easter, for the charity harbour swim.

‘Come here, you blasted creature.’ She lunged forward to try and wrap an arm around the llama, but the animal danced away, far nimbler on its feet in the water than she was in her waterlogged trainers.

Miranda darted after it again, and once again it sidestepped her attempts, hopping over the waves.

‘Oh God,’ she groaned. ‘You think this is a game, don’t you?’

She wasn’t an animal person. She liked Misty, her mother’s rescue cat, well enough, but anything bigger wasn’t her sort of thing. But here she was, wrestling a llama in the ocean, because that was the kind of thing that happened here on Seashell Island.

Sometimes, she wondered why she loved it so much.

Miranda chased the llama all the way up the shoreline to the harbour before finally cornering it by the stone jetty. Max and Dafydd had followed them along the beach, shouting unhelpful advice and encouragement as they went. Dashing up onto the jetty, Dafydd tossed his makeshift lasso over the llama’s head from above, and led the animal out of the water and onto the sand again.

Bending at the waist with her hands on her thighs, Miranda tried to catch her breath. She’d lost feeling in her feet, her legs were splattered with wet sand, and there was a piece of seaweed wrapped around her right ankle. If she hadn’t been sweaty enough from her run, she was now. She definitely needed a shower before she made it to the office to open up in – she checked her watch – oh. Fifteen minutes.

Then she heard the applause and cheers from the beach, punctuated by laughter. Straightening up, she saw a crowd had gathered on the harbour wall to watch the antics of the llama – and Miranda. Ideal.

Giving the onlookers – most of whom she recognised as amused locals, people she’d have to deal with during the course of her normal week – a weary wave, she headed up to join Max, Dafydd, and that bloody llama.

As she walked closer, she could see the beaming smile of pride on Dafydd’s face. Closer still, and Miranda spotted the filthy looks the llama was throwing at his captor.

‘Thanks, Miranda,’ Max said. ‘Sorry you got all wet.’ He picked a piece of seaweed out of her hair, showing it to her before tossing it back in the water. ‘I’m sure the silly animal will prefer its stall and field to the sea, once we get it up to the farm.’

‘Have you named him yet?’ Miranda wasn’t at all convinced that this llama would be staying on Seashell Island very long – especially given its escapologist tendencies – but she made it a point of pride to know all the names of the island’s permanent residents. Including llamas.

‘I’m thinking Lucifer,’ Max told her, and she snorted with laughter.

‘You just don’t understand the animals the way I do,’ Dafydd told his husband. ‘Anyway, she’s a girl, aren’t you, cariad.’ He ruffled Lucifer’s wool. Lucifer’s glare grew more withering. ‘So it would have to be Lucy. Lucy the Llama.’

‘Lucy it is,’ Max agreed easily. ‘Short for Lucifer. Now, let’s get this demon beast home, OK?’

They waved their goodbyes as they led Lucy the Llama to the truck waiting beside the harbour, Max swearing as she spat at him again.

Miranda turned back towards the beach, still shaking water from her trainers.

‘You look like you might need this.’ A towel was tossed down from the harbour, and Miranda caught it automatically. Squinting up through the early morning sunshine, she spotted her friend Christabel up above, and smiled.

‘You are an angel.’ Rubbing the towel over her chilly legs, Miranda asked, ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a hot shower and a change of clothes up there, have you?’

Normally, she ran along the beach then towards the edge of the town, back up to the flat she shared with Paul, always leaving plenty of time to shower, change, and make it in time to open the office for nine o’clock. Today, all of her morning routine had been swallowed by an escapee llama.

‘Afraid not. But I can go fetch the clothes for you, if you’re OK with the beach shower.’

Miranda shuddered. The beach shower – a jerry-rigged feature of the Long Beach, set up by the steps from the high street – provided icy cold water in sharp, knife-like droplets. It was fine for rinsing the sand from your feet after a walk on the beach, but you wouldn’t want to actually shower in it.

Fortunately, she had another option. ‘It’s OK. I’ve got a change of clothes at the office, and the holiday let above us is empty this week. I’ll nip in and use the shower there.’

Finally, an advantage to not having a fully booked roster of cottages and flats this month.

In the main square, the church clock chimed half past the hour. As Max and Dafydd pulled away with Lucy, the crowd around the harbour began to disperse too, ready to go about their day, just as she needed to. Seashell Island was as it should be again, and it was time for her to get to work.

‘So, it’s Friday. Can I assume you have wild and wonderful plans for the weekend?’ Christabel fell into step with her as she headed towards the office.

‘Of course!’ Miranda lied. ‘I thought I’d go over to the mainland, sing karaoke at a strip bar, gatecrash a stag party then catch a plane to a mystery destination.’

‘Sounds like a few weekends in my twenties,’ Christabel replied. ‘So, same as always then?’

Miranda nodded. ‘Friday lunch with Paul, closing the office early, checking in on the B&B for Mum and Dad, then home to bed. We might go to the farmers market at the church on Sunday, though.’

Christabel clutched at her heart. ‘The excitement is too much for me, Miri!’

Miranda rolled her eyes. ‘Well, you might not like it. But it’s fun for me.’

‘Lunch with Paul? Fun?’ Christabel shot her a look of disbelief.

‘He’s a nice guy. And he can be funny, sometimes.’ Hmm, that didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic, did it? Especially not about the man she was planning to marry. ‘And I love him,’ she added, belatedly. Not that it made any difference to Christabel.

Christabel had arrived on the island eighteen months ago, planning on staying for a week but loving it so much she decided to stay. That, Miranda understood no problem – she felt exactly the same way about Seashell Island, after all.

It was also the only thing the two of them seemed to have in common, but that hadn’t stopped them becoming fast friends. On an island this size, Miranda knew full well that you had to make friends with everybody – and women her own age she got on with were few and far between. Most of the girls she’d gone to school with had settled down and married and were busy with their families, their lives. The one or two she’d actually got on well with, however, had moved to the mainland as soon as they were eighteen – like Miranda’s younger sister Juliet had done.

‘What about you?’ Miranda asked. ‘What wild plans have you got this weekend?’

Christabel stretched her arms above her head and reached up towards the sky, her long, lean body strong and at ease with itself in the sunlight. Then she shrugged. ‘Actually, very little. You know me, I like to be spontaneous. But it does feel like it might be time for a little fun with a new companion . . .’

Miranda followed her friend’s gaze, and found it landing on the figure of a man carrying a box into the Flying Fish Deli and Restaurant.

Rory Hillier.

‘Not Rory,’ she said, instinctively.

Christabel raised an eyebrow. ‘Why not?’

‘Because . . .’

Why not? Actually, Christabel’s brand of relationship therapy might be good for him, since he’d been moping around the island now for the last ten years.

‘Because he’s still in love with your sister,’ Christabel finished for her, obviously remembering the drunken conversation they’d shared about Miranda’s family, around Christmastime.

‘Yeah. Poor sod.’ Because Juliet wasn’t coming back to Seashell Island, certainly not for longer than an obligatory visit. And Rory didn’t want to leave.

Just like Miranda.

‘Maybe it’s time for him to move on,’ Christabel said, still eyeing Rory speculatively, as he came back to retrieve another box. Then he saw them watching and waved. Miranda waved back.

Christabel blew him a kiss.

‘I know you think you have some magic touch with men,’ Miranda told her. ‘But I think you’d have your work cut out with Rory.’

‘It’s not magic,’ Christabel said, with a shrug. ‘I just like to get to know a guy, have some fun together. And then we get talking and, well, I help them see what they really want from life. Refocus, if you will. Then they’re free to go and chase it, and I get to go on with my own life, too. I think it’s a legacy from my past life working in the City. I know how to get people where they need to go.’

‘Aren’t you ever worried that one of them will decide that what they really want from life is you?’

‘Hasn’t happened yet.’ Was it her imagination, or was Christabel’s smile just a little sad as she shook her head? ‘Anyway, if not Rory, then who? I’m running out of eligible men on this island. Unless you’re trying to get rid of me . . .’

‘Never!’ But she did have a point. Men in the relevant age range, who were also single, straight, and vaguely attractive in appearance or personality, were in short supply on Seashell Island. Which was one of the reasons Miranda was so lucky to have Paul. ‘It’s a shame my brother isn’t here,’ Miranda mused. ‘Leo could definitely use your special brand of refocusing.’ Seemed to her that, since his divorce, the only thing Leo had been able to focus on was work.

‘Ha! No thanks,’ Christabel replied, as they reached the offices of Seashell Holiday Homes. ‘You’ve told me too much about him already. I mean, I like a challenge, but even I have my limits. And right now, my body is telling me I’m at my lower caffeine limit. I’m off to fetch coffee. Enjoy lunch with Paul – if you can!’

She pressed a swift kiss to Miranda’s cheek and sped off across the road, towards the Crab Leg Cafe.

Miranda smiled, watching her friend dart around the town like she’d always been there. Christabel was a breath of fresh air on the island and, as much as Miranda normally liked things to stay exactly the same, she couldn’t deny that life had been a lot more fun since she arrived.

With a last glance back at the town behind her, Miranda unlocked the office door and set about finding her spare clothes, showering in record time, and being behind the reception desk again by 9 a.m. sharp.

Seashell Holiday Homes had been set up thirty years ago by Miranda’s father-in-law-to-be, Nigel, and had been helping families, couples, singletons and friends holiday on the island ever since. Miranda had worked for them since she was fourteen, helping clean properties in the holidays at first, then taking over reception duties once she turned sixteen. Now, she practically ran the place – although she still let Nigel believe he was in charge. He was going to be her father-in-law, after all. As soon as she and Paul finally tied the knot. She supplemented her income with some virtual assistant work for companies as far away as London, New York and even Sydney, which helped make ends meet during the slower, colder seasons when the office didn’t need to be open full time. But Seashell Holiday Cottages was where her heart was.

It could have grown old, working for the same place all these years, but somehow it never did. When she pushed open the office door and heard the seashells hanging in the window clatter against the glass, she knew she was home. And there was always something interesting to deal with – a new property to photograph and list, a family needing advice on the perfect place to stay, even a nervous boyfriend with a ring wanting tips on the perfect spot on the island to propose.

But, if she was honest, Miranda knew that what kept her going the most was the knowledge that one day, soon, this would all be hers.

She and Nigel had a deal, a plan. Once she and Paul were married, he’d retire, and she’d take over the family business. Just as soon as she was actually family.

Until then, she just ran the place unofficially.

By 10 a.m., she’d dealt with a TV that couldn’t get CBeebies in one cottage, found a romantic dinner reservation for a nervous fiancé-to-be, arranged for her favourite photographer to take photos of a gorgeous new cottage she’d just got on the books down by Gull Bay, and helped rescue a runaway llama. Miranda was pretty sure she’d earned a coffee break herself, when the phone rang again.

‘Seashell Holiday Homes,’ she said brightly, while stretching the office phone cord towards the kitchen and vowing, not for the first time, that when she was in charge, they’d go cordless.

‘Hey. Are we still on for lunch?’

The sound of her fiancé’s voice should make her smile, Miranda knew. Today, the harried tone in his voice – and the yelling she could hear in the background – told her that work was not going well, and that lunch would probably be a chance for him to tell her all about it.

All the same, she made herself smile. She and Paul had been together for nineteen years – since they were sixteen – and she was used to his moods, the same way he was used to hers. And when they finally got married, she’d promise good times and bad, which included a lousy day at work at the very least, she was sure.

She didn’t let herself dwell on how many bad days at work there’d be. Or whether the good days would ever make up for it. Paul and his whole family were a Seashell Island institution, like she’d striven to be. They made sense together, from a purely logical point of view.

However boring Christabel thought he was.

‘Absolutely! I’m looking forward to it,’ she lied, wishing she could just take a sandwich down to the seafront and enjoy the peace instead. Checking through the front window of the office to make sure no tourists were about to wander in, she lowered her voice and said the words that were guaranteed to brighten his mood, no matter how bad his day.

‘The last of the B&B’s guests left this morning. So I can stay at home tonight.’

Her parents’ trip of a lifetime to Australia had been a bone of contention between her and Paul from the start. Well, not the trip itself – they had both agreed that, since they hadn’t had a proper holiday in over three decades, Josie and Iestyn Waters deserved a decent break away. But while Miranda thought the logical extension of that was that she’d move into the Lighthouse B&B while they were gone and manage the early summer bookings, Paul seemed to believe that they should have just closed down for the duration and cancelled any existing reservations.

Miranda had held firm, but she had to admit it had caused some tension. Still, the B&B was unoccupied between now and her parents’ return on Sunday, so they could put that behind them and she could move home. Maybe they could even start discussing wedding dates again. They’d been engaged for years, now. It was only sensible to move on with the plans, so Nigel could retire and she could take over the business properly.

‘Right,’ Paul said, in a distracted monotone. ‘So I’ll meet you at the office at twelve thirty. OK?’

‘That’s fine.’ She’d tell him again over lunch, when he was listening properly. That would cheer him up. ‘Love you.’

‘Yeah, bye.’ Paul hung up.

Miranda frowned. She might have been with the same guy her whole adult life, but even she didn’t need Christabel to tell her that that was not a good phone call with a man who was supposed to love her. Who she was supposed to love.

Outside, a cloud passed in front of the sun, casting shadows through the front window. And suddenly, Seashell Island didn’t feel quite as perfect as it normally did.

 

 

• Text Copyright © 2020 by Sophie Pembroke
• Cover Art Copyright © 2020 by Orion
• Permission to reproduce text granted by Orion. Cover art used by arrangement with Orion. All rights reserved.

LEO

‘OK, so you’re absolutely sure you know what you’re doing?’ Leo’s gaze darted away from the road ahead of him to check the confidence of his assistant’s expression.

Tom, sitting in the passenger seat, rolled his eyes. Leo decided that counted as certainty.

Good. At least one of them should know what they were doing this summer.

‘I’m accompanying you guys to the ferry terminal then, once you’re on board, driving approximately three metres to the secure parking garage I booked—’

‘It’s more than three metres,’ Leo interrupted. He’d checked on a map, once Tom had showed him the place he’d booked. After all, he needed to be certain his baby would be safe.

‘Fine. Thirty metres to the parking garage, then.’ Tom’s eyes were basically permanently rolling now. Leo ignored it. ‘I’ll park your precious car very carefully without dinging it at all, lock it up securely, then catch the train back to London.’

‘I wish we could have taken the train,’ Mia moaned from the backseat. ‘Abby doesn’t get travel-sick on trains.’

‘Abby hasn’t been sick in the Mazda either, have you, sweetheart. Smoothest ride ever.’ Leo glanced up at the rear-view mirror to double check that the upholstery of his car was still unstained. All safe. Although he had to admit that six-year-old Abby was looking a little green around the edges as she clutched the stuffed bear in a wedding dress that was her current pride and joy. ‘Nearly there now, anyway.’

He’d only wanted to drive his pride and joy convertible along the M4 for one last jaunt before he had to say goodbye to it for the summer, with the top down as they reached the coast. Was that so bad? What was bad was the ridiculous rules Seashell Island had about cars. No vehicles unless strictly necessary for island work, and even then, they needed special permits agreed months ahead of time.

He blamed his elder sister, Miranda, for that one. The islanders had reviewed the car policy just a couple of years ago, and she’d fought for keeping their arcane and restrictive rules. She’d even started a new bike-borrowing system to make it easier for tourists.

Bikes. Seriously.

This was what happened when a person like Miranda never left Seashell Island. They became institutionalised. That was just one of the reasons he’d been so determined to make his life on the mainland, instead.

 ‘I’m perfectly fine with all the arrangements for the car,’ Tom said, continuing the conversation seamlessly. ‘The part I don’t understand is how you expect to work full time from Seashell Island while also looking after both your kids. I mean, I thought this was supposed to be a holiday.’

‘So did we,’ Mia muttered. Leo decided to pretend he hadn’t heard that.

The girls were just children. They didn’t understand the pressures of work. Nobody who ran their own business actually took holidays, right? They were for wage slaves and slackers.

His business was a success because he put everything he had into it. He couldn’t stop that now.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Leo said. ‘My parents are always saying they want to spend more time with the girls, so they’ll take them out and entertain them while I work – and then we can have lots of family time together the rest of the time.’ He raised his voice for the last part, hoping it might mollify Mia.

He checked the mirror. She did not look mollified.

When had his little princess grown so difficult? Emily, her mother, would probably tell him she was still processing the divorce. But since even his ex-wife had managed to move on enough to marry someone else in the three years since the decree absolute came through, it seemed unlikely that Mia was still being difficult about that.

Maybe she was acting out because of her mum’s new marriage. A marriage that, incidentally, had resulted in him being stuck in sole charge of the girls all summer while Emily and Mark headed off on their honeymoon.

Which meant, basically, it was all his ex-wife’s fault. Which made for a nice change.

Leo was well aware that he was the one who couldn’t make a marriage work, couldn’t compromise his ambition, his wants, to make everyone happy. He focused on what mattered most, and that, practically, had to be keeping a roof over all their heads and food on the table for the girls. Yes, Emily had worked too, and yes, perhaps they could have managed with less if they had to. But why should they have had to?

Besides, he loved his job. He was good at his job.

It was love and parenting he sucked at.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t make it work this summer. He’d missed the girls, even knowing that he probably spent more time with them now he only saw them every couple of weekends than he had when he lived in the same house. Still, when he got home from the office at night, not being able to sneak upstairs and look at their sleeping faces still caught him in the chest, sometimes.

Of course, times like this – when Mia was looking like a mardy teenager a good four years before she had any right to – he was glad that Emily still took care of the bulk of the parenting. He got to do fun stuff, like bowling and pizza and movies, and she got to deal with school work and mood swings and fallings out with friends. Fun stuff he could manage. So long as it didn’t interfere with work.  

Emily had emailed him a lengthy list of rules and regulations for the summer – including limits on how many ice creams Abby was allowed – but Leo hadn’t paid it too much attention. What was the point of summer holidays if the girls couldn’t stay up too late and eat too much ice cream? Besides, he knew he’d need to provide some treats to make up for all the work he had to do.

Everything would be fine. His parents would deal with the day to day, just like Emily normally did, and he’d be able to do the fun stuff with them like normal.

He definitely had the better part of the parenting deal with Emily, even if he did hand over a serious chunk of cash every month for the privilege. He didn’t mind that part. It reassured him that he was taking care of his family. After all, that was why he worked so hard, right?

He frowned, remembering that Emily wanted to talk to him about that when she got back. Now that she was remarried, she’d hinted that Mark would be taking over some of the financial obligation. Which made logical sense, and Leo knew his lawyer and accountant would both be thrilled.

Except . . . Leo wasn’t sure he wanted Mark taking care of his family, nice as the guy was.

He hadn’t wanted to like his ex-wife’s new partner, but Mark was one of those guys who was just likeable. Laid-back, impossible to offend, and he made Emily happy. He also looked after the girls, including them in stuff he did with his own son from his first marriage.

It had taken a little while for Leo to see all that, of course. But now whenever he felt the irritation rising, he reminded himself of what was really important: he got to do the work he loved, and his family were happy. That wasn’t nothing.

It hadn’t always been an easy road to where they were now, but one of the things Leo was proudest of in his recent life was that he and Emily had found a way to make separated life as easy as possible on the girls.

That and his thriving business, of course. The business he hoped would continue thriving in his absence over the summer.

‘If there are any problems, you will call me immediately, OK?’ he told Tom. ‘My parents will be there with the girls; I can be back in London in four hours if I’m needed. Maybe five,’ he corrected, as the car slid to a halt in the mass of traffic around the tiny ferry terminal that had the only boats that docked at Seashell Island. He’d forgotten how crazy the place could be at high summer. In his memories, the summer days were often overshadowed by the long, empty winters when no one visited at all, and the population of the island shrank down to just the locals, battening down the hatches against the weather and the isolation. He and his baby sister Juliet would hide in the attic at the Lighthouse, planning for the day they’d escape the island and live in the real world for a change.

He’d escaped; they both had. And even now, just the thought of returning for a whole summer was making him edgy. Seashell Island sucked people in, he’d seen it plenty of times before. Visitors who came for a weekend and ended up buying a house there as the island got their grips into them.

His parents had been two of them.

It wasn’t that Seashell Island wasn’t a lovely place to visit. But after growing up there, Leo was far too aware of its flaws to view it through the rose-tinted glasses that Miranda and his parents wore.

Mia grumbled again in the back seat – about the traffic or the trip to the island where he’d grown up, Leo wasn’t sure. He ignored her.

This was how life was. He had a job he loved, and he was going to do it. That didn’t make him a bad father.

The thought popped into his head that there were probably plenty of other things that did that. Leo ignored it, too.

Focus, that was the key. That was what was going to get him through the summer. He’d do his job, spend time with the girls, and be back in London before September. It would all be fine.

Quicker than he’d expected, they pulled into the ferry terminal, and Leo parked in the waiting bay, Tom already jumping out to grab the bags from the boot. Leo took a moment to stroke the steering wheel as he said a personal farewell to his beloved silver convertible.

With a last handshake goodbye for Tom, Leo reluctantly handed over the car keys, loaded the girls up with their rucksacks, grabbed the suitcase handles, and headed into the ferry terminal.

As he glanced back one last time, Abby asked, ‘Are you going to miss Tom, Daddy?’

Leo sighed. ‘I’m going to miss my car.’

But mostly, he knew, he’d miss the freedom it represented. In London, he could go anywhere, anytime – traffic permitting.

On Seashell Island, there was nowhere to go. And he’d just committed himself to six whole weeks there, with his parents telling him he was working too much and Miranda berating him for not visiting often enough, even though she never even left the place to visit him.

Steeling himself, Leo led the girls forward to the ferry.

It was five weeks. He’d managed most of his childhood there, he could manage one summer.

Then he’d get back to his real life again.

• Text Copyright © 2020 by Sophie Pembroke
• Cover Art Copyright © 2020 by Orion
• Permission to reproduce text granted by Orion. Cover art used by arrangement with Orion. All rights reserved.