Page 5 of Coming Home to Sturcombe Bay
And tucked inside, marking her favourite Shakespeare sonnet — ‘When,in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes’ — was a strip of small photographs, passport size, from a photo booth in Exeter. Three photos. The fourth, her favourite, was still in the back pocket of her wallet. She hadn’t taken it out for years.
She and Liam. How young they looked. She had worn her dark hair long then, halfway down her back — now the tips just brushed her shoulders. His hair, also dark and curling over his ears, was just long enough to brush his collar. His dark eyes were laughing, that firm, sensitive mouth smiling. Four years older than her, already studying at Bristol for the career he had been aiming for his whole life.
She had never told him about her dream of travelling the world. When she was with him, she had put it to the back of her mind — she hadn’t wanted to think about leaving him. She hadjust wanted to be with him, to live in the fantasy that it could be forever. Although she had known that it couldn’t.
Had she made the right choice? If she had stayed, she would have had Liam, and love. But if she had stayed, would it have grown, that niggling frustration with the limited horizons of this little South Devon town? Would time have turned it to resentment? Would a couple of weeks holiday a year have been enough to satisfy her thirst for adventure?
With a small sigh she shook her head. There was no point in revisiting that decision now. It was ten years past.
Slipping her hand into the side pocket of her backpack she pulled out a small plastic folder. Inside was her return ticket to New Zealand, dated 25th September. Six weeks. She drew it out of the folder and placed it carefully in the poetry book, next to the photographs.
Chapter Two
“Come on then, lad. Let’s see how you’re doing.” Liam rose in the stirrups and urged the powerful racehorse into a full gallop, listening intently to the rhythm of his hoofs and feeling for any hitch in his movement.
It was peaceful out here on the beach at this time of the morning, long before any tourists had even thought of rolling out of bed. The pale-lemon sun was just above the horizon in a sky of silvery blue, the sea shimmering like mother-of-pearl. The air was cool, the only sounds were the quarrelling of the gulls and the soft hush of the waves sliding up over the sand.
They reached the far end of the beach beneath the rocky cliff and the caravan site, then turned and galloped back. As they turned again beneath the cliff on their third run, he realised that they weren’t quite alone after all.
An early morning swimmer was rising like Venus from the waves. And he didn’t need a second look to know who it was.
She was wearing a vibrant orange-and-purple swimsuit which, soaking wet, left nothing to the imagination. As a teenager she had been almost skinny, but now there were curves in all the right places.
Her skin gleamed golden brown, her legs were long and elegant, and on her shoulder was a tattoo about six inches long, in shades of blue and green and purple. It looked like a flower and a feather, delicate, but with a hint of classic Maori styling.
She was watching her footing, but as she waded into the shallows, she tipped back her head and slicked her dark hair from her face. Then she saw him.
The Bandit was prancing, impatient, but it would be impolite to just ride off without at least saying hello. “Hi.”
“Oh . . .” She hesitated, a little uncertain. “Hello.”
Yes, he’d remembered right — her eyes were green. Not hazel, but pure green, the colour of forest moss, and fringed by long, dark, silky lashes. She wasn’t quite beautiful — her bone-structure was strong, her chin betraying a determined streak in her nature. Though her lips were soft and . . . tempting.
He pushed that thought aside. “You’re out early,” he remarked lightly.
“I like a morning swim.”
“Isn’t the water cold?”
“Not too bad.” She glanced out at the distant horizon and back again. Deliberately avoiding his eyes? “You’re out early too.”
“I can only gallop him when the beach is empty.”
“Of course.” She took a couple of steps up the beach and picked up her towel, wrapping it around her body, sarong-style. “Is he friendly?” she asked, approaching the horse with the calm respect of someone familiar with large animals.
“Very friendly. He’d sign autographs if he could hold a pen.”
She put up her hand and stroked down The Bandit’s sleek neck. “He’s a nice-looking boy.”
“He’s a beauty.” Maybe it was just as well that she’d wrapped herself up in that towel. “So . . . you’ve come home?”
“Yes. To see my grandmother.” She was still avoiding his eyes.
“Oh, yes. How is she?”
A crooked smile curved that soft mouth. “Not good. I’m going to see her this afternoon.”
“Wish her well for me.”
