The light was fading and the tiny lights that her mother had wound around the trees glowed like stars. Liza had always considered the fairy lights to be a surprisingly romantic touch from someone she’d never considered romantic. Her parents had never been tactile or demonstrative. She’d never seen them hug. And yet her father had been devoted to her mother, and Liza understood now that the deep love had been returned.

“So how are you enjoying your new life?” The way he was looking at her played havoc with her senses. She knew she was on the edge of something deliciously dangerous. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to step forward or back.

“Not exactly a new life. A break from the old one.” She felt breathless. Could he hear that in her voice?

“Are you saying you’re going to give up painting when you get home?”

She thought about how much she’d enjoyed the past week. She’d woken each morning eager to return to the canvas she’d left with reluctance the night before.

In London it would be different. She wouldn’t have the summerhouse, or the sound of the sea, or the space and time to indulge herself. But still...

“I’m not going to give it up.” Even the thought of going back was enough to dampen her mood, and not only because of the painting. She’d miss wearing flip-flops to the beach, eating simple food that didn’t require her to spend time in the kitchen, summer dresses and a good book. Most of all she’d miss the simplicity. She had things to think about—she knew that. Things to address. She’d been putting it off, but she was running out of time.

She paused as she heard the sound of a car pulling up.

Finn put his glass down, alert. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No.” Liza stood up. “Stay there. I’ll see who it is.”

“I can—”

“No, it’s fine.” She put out her hand to stop him. “Better not show yourself.”

Who could it be? If it was Angie then she was going to have some explaining to do.

Telling herself that she had no reason to feel guilty, Liza walked through the garden to the front of the house.

Two young women stood there.

“We’re looking for Finn Cool.”

Liza adopted a vacant expression. “Excuse me?”

“Finn Cool.” One of the girls grinned. “You’re probably too old to have heard of him.”

Cheek! “Is he famous?”

“Seriously? He’s only, like, the best musician ever.” The girl pushed her blond hair away from her face, her armful of bangles jangling.

“Oh. Well, I think I’d know if I was living next to a musical legend.”

“He was spotted in a pub up the road from here a few weeks ago.”

“Which one?”

“The Smuggler’s Arms.”