Annie flicked through the book. A slip of paper marked each story: “The Mezzotint” by M. R. James, “The Old Nurse’s Story” by Elizabeth Gaskell, and “The Open Door” by Charlotte Riddell.

“I can’t wait, a Victorian spook fest!” Gemma gushed.

Annie was rather looking forward to getting started. The idea of reading ghost stories in an old smugglers’ haunt was quite thrilling . . . although she decided she would check that all the bolts on all the doors were secure before she started.

—

The walk home was chilly, even with alcoholic insulation. At closing time, they began to move en masse, and little by little as revelers turned left and right and trickled away to their houses, the group became smaller, until by the time it reached halfway down the hill it amounted to a small gaggle. When the last person turned into their drive, having been reassured by Annie that she didn’t need escorting to Saltwater Nook, Annie was left alone.

The moon appeared white and bulbous from behind a shaggy cloud and lit the way with its cold blue gleam. Annie shivered and walked on. As she rounded the corner at the bottom of the hill, the promenade splayed out before her, empty and silver in the moonlight. The beach was as black as the sea but for the twinkle of moon-rays catching on the tips of the waves. Annie marveled at the place she now called home. She had somehow stumbled into this life and it almost felt too good to be hers. Today had been a good day, one of the best she could remember for a long time.

Chapter 43

She was woken the next morning by the sound of the doorbell ringing. It punctured her post-wine sleep, continuing relentlessly until she fumbled into her dressing gown and, smarting at the waft of cold air that whistled up the stairwell to meet her, stumbled, grumbling, down to the front door.

“Did I wake you?”

It was John Granger, of course, looking fresh and designer-stubbled in the kind of smart casual attire that Annie had thought existed only in cardboard cutouts at Zara Man. For some reason his attractiveness annoyed her intensely. Why is it only gay men or arseholes know how to dress well? Annie squinted up at him; the morning seemed impossibly bright.

“No,” she answered sarcastically. “This is how I dress on Sundays.” Her naked toes curled backward against the spiky breeze.

“Right,” John said. He continued to look at her and then away toward his car and then back at her again.

Annie frowned at him, waiting for him to speak. “Do you need something?” she asked, hoping to speed along whatever this was; she was braless under her pajamas and had folded her arms below her boobs in an attempt to make them look less like they were resting below her ribs.