Page 119 of The Clifftop Cottage

Instead she found herself looking at her sister properly – perhaps for the first time since arriving in Rock Cove.

At the soft creases at the corners of Leah’s eyes. The windblown strands of hair escaping her scarf. The way her hands rested loosely at her sides, open and steady in that quiet way Leah had always had.

Her chest tightened unexpectedly.

She wanted to say something – something more – but the words didn’t quite come. Instead she laughed softly and held out her hand.

Leah took it at once, squeezing it with an affectionate wink. “Well,” Leah said, with a nod, “I think it’s time, don’t you?”

Across the street, a red velvet covering draped over the new memorial.

A crowd had gathered, more people than Erica had expected. Families, locals she half recognised from the bakery and the harbour, a few journalists hovering with microphones.

People were talking quietly, glancing between the statue, and the covered memorial.

And looking at her.

Standing beside it all was Councillor Andrew Peters, smoothing his tie while attempting to angle himself into the centre of a photographer’s frame.

“Wonderful turnout,” he declared loudly to anyone within earshot. “Always said the town needed something like this.”

Erica caught Leah’s eye.

Leah raised an eyebrow.

Erica’s stomach flipped. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she murmured, watching the crowd shift and gather. “What if they hate me?” she added quietly. “I’m just … an incomer turning up and pushing my own agenda.”

Leah snorted softly. “Yes,” she said dryly. “That terrible agenda of acknowledging women.”

Erica frowned. “No, I mean—” She stopped herself. “I’m not really from Rock Cove.”

“Not really?” Leah said, smiling faintly. She waved at the crowd.

Margery waved, her granddaughter tucked close at her side. Rosa stood nearby, hands deep in her coat pockets.

The baker from the high street nodded when Erica caught his eye, and a fisherman she’d spoken to on the harbour wall lifted his cap in greeting.

Then Gabriel appeared beside them, quiet as ever.

“Looks like quite a few people would disagree,” Leah said gently.

Erica stared for a moment, something warm and unfamiliar settling in her chest.

Leah squeezed her arm. “You can do this,” she said. “Because of you, these women are finally getting the recognition they always deserved.”

Together they crossed the road.

The old plaque – weathered and easily overlooked – now sat in the shadow of something far greater. Behind it, a new garden bed had been prepared, dark soil waiting patiently for the deep red roses that would bloom there in spring.

Even in winter, the place felt alive.

The crowd parted as Erica stepped forward.

Cameras lifted.

Someone called her name.

Andrew Peters slid neatly into place beside her, beaming as though the entire occasion had been his idea.