Memories of the Cottage by the Sea

MEMORIES OF THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA AN UPLIFTING AND EMOTIONAL PAGE-TURNER FILLED WITH FAMILY SECRETS REBECCA ALEXANDER BOOKS BY REBECCA ALEXANDER The Island Cottage Series Secrets of the Cottage by the Sea Memories of the Cottage by the Sea Dreams of the Cottage by the Sea CONTENTS Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Epilogue Dreams of the Cottage by the Sea Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Hear More from Rebecca Books by Rebecca Alexander A Letter from Rebecca Secrets of the Cottage by the Sea Acknowledgements To Wren, my adorable and charming grandson, and his parents Sam and Becky. PROLOGUE Isabelle stepped into the beehive-shaped stone hut on the beach, coming straight from work with a bag of shopping. The floor was swept clean as usual, the recycled yacht window was open, and a lazy curl of smoke drifted up from the chimney. The only suggestion that there was something wrong was the way her grandfather was lying down on his bed, fully clothed, as if he needed a nap. The bench was barely wide enough to contain his shoulders; Isabelle’s mother had softened it with cushions and blankets. On the table, just big enough for two people to eat at, were his framed photographs. One was of her mother’s wedding, the other was of Isabelle as a child, sat on the sand arranging shells. She walked forward to check he was really dead, but everything about him suggested he had gone. His face was pale, his lips grey, his eyes and mouth a little open. And he hadn’t leapt out of his wing chair and shouted, ‘Welcome, child!’ as he had done throughout her life, even when she brought her own daughter Margaret, or her granddaughter, Lottie. She pushed the rock he used to keep the door open into place, and touched his half-filled mug. It had been a gift from her, years ago, but now the tea was cool. She took his hand, warily, because she hadn’t touched a dead person before. His fingers were cold, too, but no more than usual for a man who lived half-wild, all year round, facing the Atlantic winds and storms. She kissed his hand, put it by his side. ‘Bye, Poppa,’ she whispered, even as she realised that she would have to tell Mam and Dad now, and that she would never see him again. 1 PRESENT DAY, 16 MARCH Charlotte Kingston leaned against the glass of the ferry window, her dark curls cushioning her forehead. She remembered this from her childhood. The lift of the ship with each wave, the moment of feeling lighter as it dropped, the clanging and jarring of the deck under her feet. Even the smell of salt and exhaust fumes made her happier, recalling the excitement of travelling from Bath to see Grandma Isabelle on Morwen Island. The stays were usually disappointing, though, as they were out of season, filled with constant wind, mist and rain blown off the sea. Grandma’s house was too small, so they usually rented one of a row of damp chalets back from the sea. The bunk beds she shared with her sister were narrow and hard, and she ended up freezing against the outside wall. The room was so small she could step from the top bunk onto the window sill, and out onto the hummocky grass. But this time would be different. She hadn’t been to the island for fifteen years, since her grandma’s funeral in the old church off the quay. At the time, she had been standing hand-in-hand with a younger Zach, her impossibly glamorous and clever boyfriend from university. They had been twenty, just kids, convinced they were soulmates and destined to be together forever. She felt a pressure in her chest at the thought of him, and closed her eyes for a moment. Zach. The sea, in grey-green rollers, continued to challenge the boat, with a few passengers already looking uncomfortable. Her phone beeped again – presumably it had caught a moment of signal. She looked out the window, thick with salt crystals, to see the first of the small islands floating as if above the water, hunkered down in the distance. She listened to the voicemail message: ‘Call me. Don’t leave it like this. It’s not over.’ There was a choke in Zach’s voice, and she could imagine his anguished face as he spoke. She closed her eyes against this latest heartfelt message. Maybe he’d broken up with Flower or Willow, or whatever her name was. Charlotte knew he had met the tie-dyed, tattooed temptress at a surfing competition at Cocoa Beach in Florida and, while she could try and be cynical, the truth was Zach wasn’t a heartless womaniser. She knew he still loved her, but he had probably loved the girl, too. She turned her attention back to the file in her leather messenger bag, a legacy from Grandma Isabelle, softened by decades of use. Her brief from the local education authority was simple: to make all the necessary assessments to see if the school was viable. Otherwise, it would close at the end of the summer term. The timing was perfect, a project that would give her a complete change of location while she adjusted to life without Zach after fifteen years of him by