COVER

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Marcia Willett’s early life was devoted to the ballet, but her dreams of becoming a ballerina ended when she grew out of the classical proportions required. She had always loved books, and a family crisis made her take up a new career as a novelist – a decision she has never regretted. She lives in a beautiful and wild part of Devon.

ALSO BY MARCIA WILLETT

Also by Marcia Willett

FORGOTTEN LAUGHTER

A WEEK IN WINTER

WINNING THROUGH

HOLDING ON

LOOKING FORWARD

SECOND TIME AROUND

STARTING OVER

HATTIE’S MILL

THE COURTYARD

THEA’S PARROT

THOSE WHO SERVE

THE DIPPER

THE CHILDREN’S HOUR

THE BIRDCAGE

THE GOLDEN CUP

ECHOES OF THE DANCE

MEMORIES OF THE STORM

THE WAY WE WERE

THE PRODIGAL WIFE

THE SUMMER HOUSE

THE CHRISTMAS ANGEL

THE SEA GARDEN

POSTCARDS FROM THE PAST

INDIAN SUMMER

SUMMER ON THE RIVER

THE SONGBIRD

SEVEN DAYS IN SUMMER

HOMECOMINGS

DEDICATION

To Vivien

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The town is waking and stretching, gearing up for the day ahead. No traffic moving. No tourists. It’s a warm, golden September morning: shreds of mist lying along the estuary, white wings skimming low over the water; the trees’ canopies touched to flame with early sunlight. Outside the house in Buckley Street, Cara closes the front door quietly behind her, crosses the road and goes quickly down the flight of stone steps beside the Fortescue Inn. Pausing for a moment on the quay, she gazes across the harbour to the smooth sands and wooded coves on the further shore, and then, impulsively, turns and makes her way along Fore Street. At the bottom of the Ferry Steps the small passenger ferry is already waiting and Cara boards, pays her fare and goes forward to sit in the bows. Several more locals join her on their commute to work, the engine throttles up, and the boat heads out across the harbour to East Portlemouth.

It’s odd, she thinks, how being only a few feet away from land seems to bring a sense of freedom, of detachment from reality.

She glances towards the mouth of the estuary where the silvery, silken skin of the sea stretches towards the misty, indistinct horizon. A small boat is heading for harbour, hugging the deeper channel as it crosses the hazardous spit of sand called The Bar.