Now, in the cool morning light, she looked down into the water, where the fat wooden stumps of an ancient jetty were still visible when the tide was out. Some larger stones, too, that had once been part of the harbour walls, littered the wet sand, and to her they summed up life in Port Charles: things withered, evolved, collapsed and aged, but if you looked hard enough, you could see they never truly disappeared.

She heard the front door downstairs shut and turned to watch her husband lope up the open-plan stairs, using the thick rope bannister for support before coming into view. The sight of him was still a wonder to her, this man who had sprung from the sea on the day Loretta and she had built a bridge. She smiled and waved.

Alex opened the sliding glass door and came to stand behind her. He slipped his arms around her waist and placed them on the large mound of her stomach.

‘So, what’s going to arrive first, do you reckon?’ He kissed the back of her neck. ‘Our new baby or our new bed?’

‘I don’t know.’ She placed her hands over the back of his palms. ‘And it doesn’t matter too much; what will be will be.’

‘True that.’ He reached forward and took the mug of tea from her hands, sipping it. He had learnt that in Kellow homes, tea was communal.

‘I was just saying to Jarvis, I’ve heard juicy gossip today. Some of the staff were talking about Loretta Mortimer, who’s the chair of the board of governors. They reckon she was born in a field on the outskirts of town and that old Guthrie Mortimer only married her because his father made him marry someone, and that he drank because he never got over his one true love, Helen. No wonder she’s so spiky! What do you think of that?’

She turned to face him, the man who held her hand across the mattress at night. The man she loved beyond words and would love beyond life.

‘I think that it’s a shame folk still find the need to talk about someone at all, sad that she should be the brunt of gossip and tittle-tattle for all these years. And I think you’ll find the girl Guthrie loved and who loved him in return was called Ellen, not Helen.’

‘Hah! Your gran was called Ellen.’ Alex smiled at the coincidence.

‘Yes she was, my love, yes she was.’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amanda Prowse is an international bestselling author of twenty-eight novels published in dozens of languages. Her chart-topping titles What Have I Done?, Perfect Daughter, My Husband’s Wife, The Coordinates of Loss, The Girl in the Corner and The Things I Know have sold millions of copies around the world.