Chapters (48)
- Cover
- The LastSummer
- Dedication page
- Glossary
- Map
- Prologue
- BEFORE
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- AFTER
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Acknowledgements
- The Hidden Beach
- The Spanish Promise
- The Greek Escape
- The Rome Affair
- Summer at TIFFANY’S
- There’s a Karen Swan book for every season . . .
- The LastSummer
- Also by Karen Swan
The old proverb turned out to be true. Absence really had made their hearts grow fonder and over the following couple of weeks, Effie and her father settled in well to their new home. As the shock of their abrupt move began to abate and the news of Frank Mathieson’s death became muttered fact, she and her father settled into a new rhythm that passed off as remarkably normal. The cottage was bigger than anything her father had ever known before; Felton had done a fine job of the repairs, keeping the warmth in and the cold and rain out. It had no damp, which stopped her father’s bones from aching so much, and sunlight seemed to squirrel its way into the furthest corners. His mood was higher than it had been in years, even motivating him into digging some lazybeds in their garden while Effie worked up at the house. She had arranged the furniture into a homely setting, and every few days she would pick wildflowers – cow parsley, heather, violets – growing at the edges of the wood behind them and place them in an old milk bottle. It had seemed strange to her at first. Much like birds’ eggs, she felt flowers were intrinsically best left untouched and most beautiful when left where they grew, but she couldn’t deny they brought a certain cheer into the little home. Jayne’s quiet, unwitting influence upon her, she supposed.
Jayne, Flora, Mhairi . . . She missed her old friends desperately. Effie had written to Flora and Mhairi, sending them her address and asking for their news by return. Flora had yet to reply – which was no surprise at all – but Mhairi had come back, talking flatly about their new house and the jobs at the factory: Mrs Buchanan was a ‘harridan’; Norman Ferguson had been promoted to deputy foreman at the forestry; Mad Annie now had a bike; her siblings were enjoying the village school playground . . . but like Effie, she made no mention of the things that really mattered between them – secrets that couldn’t be put to paper – and Effie had finished the letter feeling more isolated from her friend than before.