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Back The House by the Sea Save as PDF
Chapters (71)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  69. MORE FROM LOUISE DOUGLAS
  70. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  71. ABOUT BOLDWOOD BOOKS

‘I felt responsible for them,’ she’d replied. ‘I understood why they were angry. It didn’t seem fair that I had everything and they had nothing.’ Then she’d taken another sip and she’d laughed. Her teeth had been stained red. ‘It wasn’t real of course! It was all made up. I was just a lonely, introverted, stupid little child!’

Now I wondered if part of the reason for her bequest to us was to protect the graves of these lost children, these siblings who had never drawn breath but who had been such an important part of Anna’s early years. And another thought came to me, one so crazy that I pushed it away and wouldn’t acknowledge it.

Still, it was there.

If three stillborn DeLuca babies could come back to life, even in a small way, at the Villa della Madonna del Mare, was it possible, was there the faintest, smallest hope that I might be able to find Daniel there too?

13

Joe and I returned to the car and drove back along the spine of the headland, through flat, marshy land at the base of the cliff. The sun glinted from pylons and mechanical equipment at an electricity station in the distance. A giant billboard with a picture of a blonde woman modelling Intimissimi lingerie marked the junction with the coast road, which climbed steeply. I tried to relax but the cliff side fall to the left was perilous. There was no barrier and Joe drove quickly, one palm flat against the steering wheel, his fingers not even closed around it. I couldn’t help imagining the Fiat bouncing down against the rocks, somersaulting, crashing into the backs of the holiday villas that were built along the beach. I was used to travelling at Fitz’s ponderous pace, she gripping both sides of the steering wheel of her ancient VW camper, leaning forward, her foot hovering over the brake pedal, tensed and alert to any forthcoming potential hazard, real or imaginary. I could barely remember the last time I’d ridden in a vehicle driven by anyone other than Fitz. My life was mostly lived within a few square miles: Fitz’s house, the school, the places I walked the dogs, the shops and the library, all of it travelled slowly, safely. My comfort zone.

This was different. Two thousand miles from home, the headland on which the villa stood was silhouetted against the dazzling sea, shimmering like a mirage, and Joe and I zipped along the coast road in the Fiat, he having no regard for the fact that a blown tyre or a patch of oil would send us hurtling to our deaths.