Page 58 of The Clifftop Cottage

“Oh, don’t fret. I’ve nothing to hide. If you turn to page ninety-two, you’ll see me.”

Erica blinked. “You?”

Margery gave a tinkling little laugh. “I was quite the beauty, once. Knew the photographer very well.”

Despite herself, Erica turned the page.

There she was – a younger Margery, bathed in soft green light, trees rising behind her like cathedral pillars. A sheer skirt draped low on her hips, her bare chest lifted, arms reaching upward as if reaching for something just out of sight.

Erica snapped the book shut.

That was … a lot.

“It was the seventies,” Margery said lightly. “People were naked everywhere. It didn’t seem so scandalous.” A glint of dry amusement crossed her eyes. “My husband didn’t quite agree. A wife and mother posing like that? We clashed over many things.”

“Oh.” Erica shifted, suddenly very aware of her own damp clothes.

Margery lifted two dresses from a hook, both stitched together from a riot of fabrics.

“Now. Which would you like?”

“Oh, I’m fine.”

“My dear, you’re practically dripping onto my floor. I insist.”

Erica chose the one that could almost be called grey, if you ignored the pinks and blues woven through it. In the bathroom, the fabric felt unfamiliar against her skin, soft and loose where she was used to structure.

When she came back, Margery beamed.

“Oh, that’s lovely on you. I had no idea what a figure you were hiding under all those creams.”

“I like other colours too,” Erica said, folding her pale sweater and stained white jeans.

Margery studied her, thoughtful.

“So … where are you from, really?”

“All over,” Erica said automatically. “My dad was in the military.”

“And Rock Cove?”

Erica hesitated. “Well we lived here for a bit. When I was little. My sister remembers it better. I think that’s why she came back.”

“They must have been good memories.”

Erica shrugged.

Margery stirred her tea. “You don’t think so?”

“Maybe. But a place is just a place. It’s who you are that matters. Whether you’re happy in yourself.”

Margery smiled, but something knowing flickered behind it.

“You might be right. But without other people … it can feel a bit empty.”

Erica felt herself stiffen.

Margery went on gently, “I had a friend once. Always moving. Always chasing something she couldn’t name. In the end, she came back to where she’d started.”