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    Escape to Darling Cove
    Escape to Darling Cove
    Escape to Darling Cove
    Ebook352 pages6 hours

    Escape to Darling Cove

    By Holly Hepburn

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    About this ebook

    Perfect for fans of Cathy Bramley and Katie Fforde. Originally published as novellas, this paperback contains all fours parts of the story from irresistible beginning to heart-warming conclusion. 

    Eve has always lived on Ennisfarne, an idyllic island just off the coast of Northumberland and only accessible when tides are low. There she runs a bar overlooking Darling Cove, a heavenly horseshoe-shaped beach named after her seafaring ancestors, whose links to the Farne Islands stretch back centuries.

    Logan is a famous photographer desperate to evade the limelight after a difficult break-up. Renting a cottage from Eve, he chooses Ennisfarne in the hope of anonymity but is immediately spellbound by its natural beauty.

    The pair don’t get off to the best start, butting heads over Eve’s adorable but boisterous Chocolate Labrador. But when Logan's true identity is revealed, Eve realises her new tenant isn’t quite the man she thought he was. Is it too late to start again or will Logan’s island escape be over almost before it’s begun?

    The brand new novel from Holly Hepburn, author of Coming Home to Brightwater Bay, will whisk you away to a sublime seaside retreat you’ll never want to leave.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSimon & Schuster UK
    Release dateJan 5, 2023
    ISBN9781398511934
    Author

    Holly Hepburn

    Holly Hepburn is the author of seven novels including The Little Shop of Hidden Treasures, Coming Home to Brightwater Bay, and A Year at the Star and Sixpence. Follow her on X at @HollyH_Author.

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      Book preview

      Escape to Darling Cove - Holly Hepburn

      PART ONE

      New Horizons

      Chapter One

      Logan

      It looked like the road to the edge of the world.

      Logan Silk leaned against the bonnet of the second-hand Toyota Hilux he’d bought especially for this trip and considered the view before him. Tide-rippled sands stretched towards the gunmetal grey horizon, split by the narrow causeway – a black ribbon of road flecked with green algae and the occasional flash of silvery sea water left behind by the tide. Dotted on either side were algae-strewn rocks and boulders that might have been carelessly abandoned by the North Sea, or placed there with more precision by the engineers who had constructed the road decades ago. The tarmac curved away from where Logan stood, cutting across the vast expanse of dull brown sand towards the distant smudged outline of Ennisfarne, a mile and a half from the Northumberland coast. Gusts of salt-laden wind whipped strands of dark hair across Logan’s face as he contemplated the road, and his breath misted on the freezing February air. No cars came towards him and there were none behind. Apart from the birds circling overhead, he was entirely alone.

      The light wasn’t bad, Logan observed with professional detachment, in spite of the wintry sky. A few determined sunbeams had broken through to illuminate a patch of far-off sea – crepuscular rays that set the clouds ablaze with gold – and Logan was tempted to unpack one of his cameras. It was the promise of Northumberland’s extraordinary light that had lured the artist Turner to the neighbouring island of Lindisfarne centuries earlier, and it was what brought Logan to Ennisfarne now. That and the anticipation of solitude; being cut off from the mainland for most of the day, at least by road, was appealing. And since the island was home to only two hundred and fifty people, he was very much hoping to keep himself to himself during the coming months. But for now, his cameras would remain in the car. Instead, he removed his gloves and captured the scene with his phone camera, then cast a critical eye over the pictures. The light was better than he’d expected – as always, the camera had caught more than the eye could see and the clouds on the screen had a majestic, almost ethereal quality to them, as though the sky had split open and heaven’s glory had burst through.

      Logan looked up at the road again and had the sudden irrational idea that he was facing some kind of test; he’d be examined as he crossed the causeway and be found wanting somehow. The waves would roar up from either side and crash down, washing both him and his sturdy car away. Then he smiled, because he was pretty sure he’d stolen the sequence from a movie. And actually, being washed away by the sea wasn’t at all unlikely here – plenty of visitors to Ennisfarne and Lindisfarne thought they could beat the incoming tide and had been caught out. There was even a wooden refuge hut part way across each island’s causeway, perched high above the level of the waves, so that stranded motorists could abandon their vehicles and climb out of reach of the pitiless ocean to await rescue.

      The thought galvanized Logan into action. Pushing himself off the bonnet of the Hilux, he climbed back into the cab and started the engine. The window of time for safe crossing grew smaller with every minute he spent gazing at the sky and he wasn’t about to risk becoming the laughing stock of the Seahouses lifeboat team, especially not when there was a chance he’d be recognized. He could imagine the tabloid headlines now:

      WASHED UP! Superstar Snapper Silk Left High and Dry After Split

      It wouldn’t matter that his decision to come to the Farne Islands had nothing to do with the break-up with Suki – that had happened a month ago and they’d split on pretty amicable terms, by celebrity standards. But the tabloid journalists didn’t care about the facts – there were no column inches in drama-free break-ups – and all Logan’s carefully laid plans for staying under the radar on Ennisfarne would be in tatters. And besides, the Hilux was packed with some of his favourite cameras – old friends he’d used for most of his career. There was no way he was giving them up to the sea.

      Gunning the engine, Logan set off along the causeway. As he got nearer to the island, its features spread themselves in a panoramic view. The northernmost tip loomed high above sea level – all forbidding cliffs and crags that were home to an incredibly varied bird population. It also boasted one of the most photographed ruins in England – the dramatic remains of Ennisfarne Nunnery, sister to the similarly desecrated priory on Lindisfarne, and the setting of more gothic horror films and Eighties music videos than Logan could remember. He’d done a shoot there for Vogue once and the stark beauty of the ruins had almost upstaged the models. But it was the other end of the island that drew his eye now – the distant limestone arch that curved off the southern tip, forming a doorway to the ocean beyond. That would be his view every morning for the foreseeable future, albeit at much closer range, and he couldn’t imagine he’d ever grow bored of it.

      The causeway curled round to the left, leading Logan from the flat expanse of sand and onto firm land, although he knew this part of the road would soon be covered by the tide too. And when he checked his rear-view mirror, he wasn’t surprised to see light glinting on water behind him. There was no going back now – not for the next seven or eight hours at least. He glanced at the satnav, which was telling him he would reach his destination – Darling Cove – in seventeen minutes. But he’d pass through Ennisfarne village before then, with its tiny harbour and narrow lanes and palpable sense of stepping back in time. He’d be able to grab some basic supplies at the village store before continuing on to the cottage that would be his home until the summer.

      The Nook was nestled in between the Fisherman’s Arms pub and a cheerful-looking café on Long Street, facing the small harbour with its bobbing fishing boats and haphazard piles of lobster pots. Logan parked in one of the spaces outside the shop and pulled a baseball cap onto his head before heading inside. The owner of the cottage had explained in one of her emails that several supermarkets on the mainland delivered to Ennisfarne so he’d be able to shop online but deliveries had to be carefully timed to give the drivers time to get on and off the island. And he wanted to at least get through the front door of the cottage before he started thinking about practicalities like that, especially when The Nook would serve his immediate needs.

      Logan’s expectations weren’t high as he entered the shop. His career had taken him to some remote locations in the past, where the nearest there’d been to a shop was a cabin-shaped wooden container with no staff and an app to gain access, or an isolated roadhouse where the closest neighbours were 135 miles away, so he understood the vital role small local shops played in their communities. But he was still surprised by the variety of goods on the Nook’s shelves; it wasn’t exactly London’s Borough Market but there was a lot more than the basics. Beside the instant coffee he found Taylor’s of Harrogate ground beans, an assortment of high-end fruit teas and some Green and Black’s hot chocolate powder. Among the jars of pickled onions and gherkins, he spotted preserved lemons and pimento stuffed olives. And then he reached the end of the aisle and was presented with an entirely unexpected deli counter, stocked with everything from white-coated Spanish sausage to sun-dried tomatoes.

      His surprise must have shown on his face because the stocky, middle-aged woman behind the counter looked amused. ‘Welcome to The Nook. Is there something in particular you’re looking for?’

      Her words were coloured by the same Northumbrian accent he recalled hearing on his previous visit to Ennisfarne, distinctly north-eastern but not quite Geordie. At least he could understand her – he was sure there’d been a few island residents he’d struggled with the last time round, although he suspected they’d been messing with him and the rest of the shoot crew for their own entertainment.

      ‘Not really,’ he said now. ‘Tea, coffee, bread and milk – that kind of thing.’

      Now her gaze was curious above her rosy cheeks, as she identified he was more than just a day-tripper. ‘You’ll find everything you need here. How long are you staying?’

      It was a perfectly reasonable question but Logan still had to fight the urge to reply that it was none of her business. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, as neutrally as he could. And then, because it was inevitable he’d be shopping there over the coming months, he dredged up a warmer smile. ‘A while, I think.’

      She nodded. ‘I’d better introduce myself, then. I’m Freda, owner of The Nook. If you don’t see what you need on the shelves, all you have to do is ask – we’re here to help.’

      ‘Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,’ he said, and glanced down at the array of tasty morsels beneath the glass counter. ‘But it looks as though you have most of the bases covered.’

      Freda raised her eyebrows. ‘You’d be amazed at some of the things people expect us to have in stock.’ She gave him an openly appraising once-over. ‘Or maybes you wouldn’t. From London, are you?’

      Again, he knew there was no point in denying it although he wasn’t sure what gave him away; his accent wasn’t typically London, more a mishmash honed by all the places he’d lived over the years, but he supposed it was predominantly southern. And she wasn’t wrong in any case – he owned a flat in Pimlico that he thought of as home, even though he rarely spent more than a few days there at a time. ‘Yes,’ he said.

      ‘You’ll find the pace of life a bit different here,’ she observed. ‘Maybes even too quiet, at least until you get used to things. But everyone looks out for each other and you can usually find a friendly face in the pub next door if you’re in need of some company.’

      Company was the last thing Logan wanted – he wasn’t on Ennisfarne to make friends – but it felt rude to say so. Once again, he aimed for a politely non-committal reply. ‘Great,’ he said and pointed through the glass counter. ‘I’ll take some of your smoked ham.’

      Freda pulled on some gloves and reached for a carving knife. ‘Goes well with this Doddington cheese from the mainland,’ she said as she sliced the ham. ‘Just the thing for your first night on the island.’

      He glanced at the smooth yellow cheese surrounded by a deep red rind. It looked delicious. ‘Some of that too, then. Thanks.’

      Freda gave a satisfied nod, as though he’d passed a little test. ‘You’ll find fresh sourdough loaves down the aisle, or there should be some farmhouse left if you prefer it. And we’ve a nice Rioja to wash it all down with.’

      Logan couldn’t help a wry smile at the sales push, although he knew he’d follow all of her suggestions. The cottage he’d booked listed a wood burner among its attractions and he could picture himself eating this supper by firelight, while listening to the sea crashing against the shore. His mouth was already watering. ‘Sold,’ he said.

      He was browsing the shelves, picking up a few more essentials to get him through the next day or so, when the bell over the shop door tinkled, indicating another customer had entered. Logan looked up automatically and got a jumbled impression of grey hair and an impressive beard, ruddy cheeks and battered yellow waterproofs. But it was his nose that reacted fastest – the reek of fish was so overpowering that his hand was covering his face before he could stop it. If the man’s appearance hadn’t given it away, the stench would have – this was one of the island’s fishermen.

      Loitering near the deli counter once more, Logan waited until the other customer had completed his purchase and left the shop before heading towards the till at the front. The fishy top notes lingered, with more than a hint of body odour, and his distaste must have shown on his face because Freda threw him a sympathetic look. ‘That’s George. The pong’s a bit pungent at first but you get used to it. Just don’t sit too near him in the pub.’

      Logan blinked. ‘He smells like that when he’s not working?’

      ‘He smells like that all the time.’ Freda pursed her lips as she packed his purchases into a sturdy brown paper bag. ‘But he has no idea. He lost his sense of smell in an accident a few years ago – fell off the boat and took a bang to the head. Can’t taste much either but that’s less of an issue for the people around him.’

      That certainly made sense, Logan thought, trying not wrinkle his nose again; surely no one would consciously smell so bad. ‘Hasn’t anyone told him?’

      Now Freda’s gaze met his and there was a faint hint of coolness that hadn’t been present before. ‘Of course. But he forgets, which is understandable – no one thinks about the things they can’t smell.’

      And that was logical too; for most people, life was full enough of sensory input without having to consider aromas they weren’t even aware of. ‘I suppose not,’ he conceded. ‘It must be quite difficult for him.’

      The shopkeeper shrugged. ‘Aye, but on the other hand it wouldn’t hurt him to take a shower more often.’ She placed the wrapped ham at the top of the bag and nodded. ‘That’ll be thirty-three pounds and ninety-eight pence, please.’

      Logan tapped his card on the reader and hefted the paper bag into his arms. ‘Thank you.’

      ‘It’s no bother at all,’ Freda replied. ‘We’ll be seeing you again soon, no doubt, once you’ve settled in and that.’

      Logan’s thoughts strayed back to the well-stocked deli counter; it seemed Ennisfarne wasn’t quite the end of the world after all. ‘I’m sure you will. Thanks again.’

      On the outskirts of the village, he passed a number of large, upturned boats, their prows pointing to the waves, and remembered they were used as sheds once their life at sea was over. They reminded him of hulking dragons, guarding their hoard and poised to take flight. He could imagine them soaring over the headland where the ruined nunnery now stood, vast wings outstretched against the brooding leaden sky as they circled their roost. The thought made him smile; Ennisfarne was famous for its bird and seal colonies but no one had yet discovered dragons.

      The road forked and Logan took a moment to study the sign. Left would take him towards the eastern edge of the island, towards the beacon that had been there for thousands of years, an early warning of sea-faring invaders. The right-hand fork wound south-west, to the dune cottage that overlooked the horseshoe beach he’d seen from the causeway, and past it to Darling Cove itself. A flutter of weariness prickled his eyelids; it had been a long day and he was looking forward to the end of his journey. Turning right, he headed for the cove.

      The magnificent limestone arch came into view as soon as he crested the top of the road. Logan slowed the car, taking in the spectacular natural structure and admiring the sweep of pale sand that curved away from it. His hands twitched on the steering wheel, his photographer’s instincts tingling, but there would be plenty of time to take pictures of the cove and he nudged the car onwards. Further along the road, another sign pointed the way to the cottage and he glanced right to see a flash of grey slate rooftop peeping above the single lane track, the sea glittering beyond it. There were no other houses in view, which was part of the reason he’d chosen this particular cottage, but he knew there was some kind of café-bar at the end of the road. Its presence didn’t trouble him; he doubted it was going be busy at this time of year.

      He turned the Hilux into a spacious, gravel-filled car park and studied the white-washed cottage. Clusters of snowdrops nestled beneath the windows, with lilac crocuses as their neighbours, a reminder that spring was on the way in spite of the sombre skies. The door had cornflower blue paintwork that looked fresh and a key safe on the wall beside it. Tapping in the code, Logan retrieved the key and went inside. The décor was as pleasingly minimalist as the website had suggested – white stone walls, pale wooden floors and an absence of the sort of seafaring nick-nacks that some landlords felt added ambience to their properties. But it was the view that pleased Logan the most – the large windows framed an undulation of buttery sand dunes, topped with lush green marram grass that swayed in the wind. Beyond them, to the left, the arch curled into the sky. Logan stood gazing at the scene for a moment and some of the tiredness fell from his shoulders. This was a view he could get used to.

      Eventually, he dragged his eyes away to survey the rest of the cottage. The kitchen was small but had all the basics – his host had left a welcome pack beside the kettle that duplicated a few of the items he’d bought at The Nook – and the bedroom looked comfortable enough, with an array of cosy throws and cushions in blues and greys spread over the pristine white duvet cover. But it was the living room he liked the most; a plush two-seater sofa faced the wood burner, piled high with cushions and thick woollen blankets, and Logan could imagine spending many contented evenings watching the flames lick the smoky glass. Someone had also thought to place an armchair beside the window, facing the enticing view of the dunes. All in all, he decided there were worse places to live. And with luck, the perpetual rhythm of the waves would soothe the restlessness that seemed to have taken over his soul since he’d walked out of his last photoshoot at New York Fashion Week.

      It didn’t take long to unpack the Hilux. Logan was used to travelling light and the largest items he’d brought all related to his work – camera boxes and lighting, although he had no plans to take any photographs where he might need anything other than natural light. But experience had taught him to be prepared and so he stashed as much of his equipment as he could under the bed and stacked the rest in the corner of the bedroom.

      The sun was starting to sink in the sky by the time Logan settled in the armchair by the window, a cup of black coffee in his hands. The sullen clouds from earlier had dissipated, revealing a pale blue sky laced with delicate lemon wisps. His eyes narrowed as he contemplated the late afternoon light – even in winter, the hour or so before dusk often produced the most extraordinary golden blaze and here he suspected the sun itself might be framed by the arch before dropping below the distant mainland. With a bit of luck, it would be a decent sunset. One worthy of a picture or two.

      Finishing the coffee in two mouthfuls, Logan levered himself out of the armchair. Five minutes later he was making his way between the dunes, his trusted Nikon camera around his neck as he navigated the gaps in the spiky marram grass. The fine sand shifted treacherously beneath his hiking boots, forcing him to focus on maintaining his balance rather than the view ahead of him and so he was gazing down at his feet as he finally cleared the maze of dunes. A gust of salty air greeted him, along with the suddenly loud crash of waves, causing him to look up and take in Darling Cove for the first time.

      He had the beach to himself. To his right, the sand curled round and petered out at the base of the headland that made up one prong of the horseshoe. A jumble of jagged rocks jutted above the incoming tide, sending sea water spraying into the air as the waves hit. Logan made out several dark recesses in the cliffs and assumed they were caves, although it was impossible to tell how deep they were. He turned to his left and surveyed the wide expanse of yellow that wound in a deep curve to the other prong of the horseshoe. The cliffs on this side also stretched out into the sea but ended in the spectacular arch, beyond which the sky was a myriad of delicate amber, blue and pink. And nestled at the base of the cliffs, a safe distance from where the sand met the sea, he saw a large building that he guessed must be Darling’s, the bar belonging to his landlord.

      Mindful of how fast the sky would change, Logan began to make his way towards the western end of the cove. The sand was easier to navigate here – no less fine but more damp, so his boots didn’t sink as deep. The surface was dotted with water-worn pebbles and shells, with a rainbow sprinkling of opaque sea glass that caught and flamed in the last of the sun’s rays. The air was crisp and clean, laced with salt and chilled by the impending nightfall. Logan turned up the collar of his coat and wished he’d brought the black cashmere scarf that was draped across the bed in the cottage. He should have known the wind on the beach would be cold but there was no time to go back. Instead, he sped up and used the briskness of his pace to warm him.

      He reached the far end of the beach and gave the bar a cursory once over. It was a split-level building, painted in pale blue and yellow, with a large first-floor balcony that overlooked the enviable view and he supposed it would be popular in the warmer months. The ground floor had what looked like floor to ceiling glass doors that led to a low wooden platform jutting out across the beach, with shallow steps that led down to the sand, and he could imagine this crowded with people too. But his attention was soon reclaimed by the glorious sky reflected in the windows. Turning around, he unhooked his camera and strode purposefully towards the shoreline.

      The sun seemed determined to impress him as it dipped to the horizon. The colours which had been delicate only moments earlier had deepened; the rose pink was blossoming into cerise, the amber was laced with strands of saffron and orange, and the pale blue had become a wash of lavender, smudged here and there with indigo. The heart of the arch was a luminous burst of gold. Shading his eyes with one hand, Logan unclipped the lens cap and fired off several experimental shots. Frowning at the small screen, he took a few steps to his left and snapped a couple more pictures. Satisfied with the angle, he began work in earnest and was soon absorbed in his task. The colours were already changing again and the sun was dipping fast – he had minutes to capture the scene.

      A distant shout pierced his concentration. Logan pushed the distraction away, focusing on the view through the camera lens. Part of his brain registered the incoming tide as the swash bubbled perilously close to his boots; without lowering the camera, he moved backwards. Another shout rang out – he couldn’t make out the words but it sounded like a name. A harassed parent summoning a child, he surmised vaguely without looking around. None of his business. And then he became aware of something else, a faint but rhythmic vibration thudding through the sand. A third shout carried across the beach, closer now so he could hear the words. ‘Huxley! Huxley, no!’

      His concentration now broken, Logan cursed under his breath and began to turn around. But at that exact moment, something low and fast barrelled into the back of his legs. The sky lurched crazily as he felt himself flip into the air; the camera flew from his grip and the next thing Logan knew, both he and the Nikon were tumbling towards the wet sand.

      Chapter Two

      Eve

      Eve Darling watched in horror as the man hit the beach with a wet thump she was sure she felt reverberate through the soles of her wellies.

      ‘Bloody hell!’ she muttered through clenched teeth, aghast at the scene. ‘Huxley, get back here!’

      In typically exuberant fashion, the chocolate Labrador ignored her. Instead, he circled around and began to lope back towards the man, who had got to his feet and seemed to be looking for something. Eve started to run. By the time she reached the man, Huxley was bounding around him in boisterous circles, his mouth split into a friendly grin.

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ she called, slowing to a hurried walk as her cheeks flamed with mortification. ‘Are you okay?’

      The man didn’t look up. His attention was fixed on something in his hands, which she now saw was a camera. A big, expensive-looking camera, with a large lens that also had more than a hint of high end about it. Eve felt her heart sink as she realized he must have been carrying it when the dog had hit him. ‘Is it broken?’

      He flashed her a dark look. ‘The lens is cracked. I don’t know about the rest of it,’ he said in a curt voice. ‘You should keep that animal on a lead.’

      He sounded furious and Eve could hardly blame him. She eyed his sodden jeans and dripping wax jacket and fought the urge to cringe. ‘He’s usually better behaved,’ she offered apologetically and bit her lip. ‘Sort of. Are you hurt at all? It was quite a tumble you took.’

      ‘I’m fine,’ he snapped before returning his gaze to the camera. ‘Which is more than can be said for this.’

      Eve wished the sand would open up beneath her feet. ‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘I’ll pay for the damage.’

      And now the man snorted dismissively, turning his attention to Huxley, who was snuffling happily among a cluster of glistening bladderwrack seaweed. ‘Are dogs even allowed on the beach?’

      Eve regarded him evenly for a moment, taking in the dark hair whipping across his face, the almost black eyes framed with long lashes and the unseasonal tanned skin. He’d be quite good-looking if it wasn’t for the attitude, she thought, and wondered who he was. A day-tripper from the mainland, probably, thinking he was David Bailey. Taking in a calming breath, she snapped her fingers at Huxley. ‘Here, boy,’ she commanded sternly. After a few more enthusiastic sniffs, the dog obeyed and Eve exhaled in silent relief. ‘The rules vary depending on the time of year and the beach,’ she told the man. ‘But on this beach, dogs are always welcome.’

      He glowered at her. ‘Then they should be kept under control.’

      She felt her temper start to slip. Of course, the man had every right to be angry – Huxley had knocked him over and damaged his camera. But it had been an accident; she’d apologized and offered to pay for the damage. Surely a little graciousness on his part wouldn’t go amiss. ‘Point taken,’ she said coolly and drew herself up to meet his glare. ‘Although since you’re clearly a visitor to Ennisfarne, perhaps you don’t know that Darling Cove is actually a private beach. Technically, you’re trespassing right now.’

      The man blinked. ‘Trespassing?’ he echoed slowly, raising a black eyebrow. ‘I see. That certainly wasn’t made clear when I booked.’

      Now it was Eve’s turn to blink. Booked? What did he mean by that? Unless…

      The truth hit her

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