Escape to Darling Cove Part One

New Horizons

Holly Hepburn

• Publisher: Simon & Schuster UK
• Year: 2022
• eBook ISBN: 9781398511880
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Women in Fiction
• Index: Literature

**PART ONE in the brand new series from Holly Hepburn, perfect for fans of Cathy Bramley and Katie Fforde**

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 novella series 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.

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 thought – 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 sundried 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 t...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Chapter One: Logan
• Chapter Two: Eve
• Chapter Three: Logan
• Chapter Four: Eve
• Chapter Five: Logan
• Chapter Six: Eve
• Chapter Seven: Logan
• Chapter Eight: Eve
• Copyright