This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008157166

Ebook Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008157173

Version: 2019-09-06

Dedication

In memory of Margery Taylor

11.11.35 – 11.11.18

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue: 30 Years Ago

Part One: A New Venture

Chapter One: Now

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part Two: A Year Later

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Part Three: October

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Ellen Berry

About the Publisher

Prologue
30 Years Ago

She scrambled over the high garden wall, scuffing her bare shins. She shouldn’t have been there, but that was part of the thrill. Lucy Riddock and her friends were on a fruit-finding mission, and they knew there were redcurrant bushes here. They also knew the old woman whose house it was would go berserk if she saw them.

At least, she seemed old to Lucy, who had just turned ten; at that age, even forty seems ancient. The children certainly knew Kitty Cartwright was prone to outbursts of rage, and that only served to heighten their excitement. It wasn’t the first time they had done this. Tellingly, it had never occurred to them to steal berries from anyone else.

Lucy had joined forces with a boy called Hally, which she assumed was a nickname but never thought to ask, as that’s what everyone called him. Sometimes, there were others; namely Brenna, Toni and Peter Linton, a trio of siblings with vivid red hair and many guinea pigs. On this occasion, they all jumped down onto the overgrown lawn and darted behind the shed.

Unlike Lucy, who came from a nondescript suburb of Leeds, the others lived here in Burley Bridge. She was just visiting; these were the holiday friends she had met the previous summer, and there had been no contact since then. In those days that was normal. It would be a long time until everyone was easily contactable at all times. Three weeks were all they had together while Lucy stayed with her kind but rather staid and definitely ancient Uncle George and Aunt Babs (who were actually her great-aunt and uncle on her father’s side).

As both of her parents worked full-time, it helped for Lucy, an only child, to spend time with her aunt and uncle. The Riddocks rarely took holidays beyond the occasional trip away in their caravan, and now Lucy had made friends here, she loved coming to Burley Bridge. Unlike at home, where Lucy’s mother kept a tight rein on her, here she was allowed to roam freely.

Stifling laughter, the children crept out from behind the shed and ran to the enormous oak tree that spread its boughs over the entire lower portion of the garden. From here they peeped round, scanning the surroundings. ‘The coast’s clear,’ murmured Hally. They favoured the language of the young adventurers they’d read about in books.

‘Go!’ Lucy commanded, and they charged as a pack towards the currant bushes around the side of the house. They grabbed at the berries and stuffed them into their pockets and mouths. In truth, the redcurrants were rather tart and not nearly as delicious as raspberries or even the less favoured blackberries that they often found in the wild. It was more about the thrill of the build-up than the actual prize. On a previous occasion, Hally had scoffed so many that he’d been gripped with cramping pains and had had to tell his scary dad that it was a stomach bug. At least, Lucy had gathered that he was scary. She hadn’t actually met him. Hally had explained that he was a ‘woodsman’ and that they had an actual wood, close to their house a little way out of the village – which sounded straight out of a dark fairy tale.

Was chopping logs a real job, she wondered? Hally had mentioned that he sold Christmas trees, but what about the rest of the year? She also knew that Hally’s mum had died when he was six, three years before she’d met him. Although the Linton kids had been to Hally’s, Lucy understood that it wasn’t the kind of home he could just invite his friends to whenever he wanted. Occasionally, on rainy days, they hung out at the Lintons’ pink pebble-dashed bungalow in the village. But their most thrilling adventures happened outdoors.

As they grabbed at Kitty’s redcurrants, a sharp rap on a side window of the cottage stopped them in their tracks. Moments later, they heard the front door opening. ‘What are you lot doing there?’ Kitty yelled.

‘Nothing!’ Hally shouted back.

There was a bang of the front door and they heard her running towards them. They saw her then – skinny and wiry, all furious eyes and flaming cheeks: ‘Clear off, the lot of you or I’ll phone the police!’ Thrilled by the drama, the children charged towards the wrought-iron gate and clattered through it, running as fast as they could until her cries faded away.

‘Mission accomplished!’ they yelled, once they were safely away down the street. Years later, Lucy would wonder if those childhood holidays would have been half as thrilling without Hally, the Lintons and Kitty’s fruit.

It wasn’t fair that Kitty lived there, she decided later that night. With its thatched roof and untamed garden filled with flowers, Rosemary Cottage seemed magical – if rather neglected. If Lucy had lived there she’d have given the house a fresh coat of white paint, and cut back the overgrown shrubs to give the roses and lupins room to breathe. She could picture exactly how it would look, under her care. She would paint the dull grey shed a bright sky blue, and the old wooden garage at the side of the house would become an art studio or a den. She would lavish the place with the love it deserved.

When Lucy was thirteen, Uncle George had a heart attack and died suddenly. Shortly afterwards, Babs moved into sheltered housing, where she only lived for a few months longer before passing away in her sleep. As Lucy’s family had no other ties with Burley Bridge, her visits there came to an end with no chance to say goodbye to her friends. If she’d had Hally’s address she might have written him a letter, but she didn’t even know his proper name. So Lucy lost touch with him and the Linton kids, and although she thought of them all occasionally, those memories gradually made way for the all-consuming matter of being a teenager. A few years after that she was going on cheap, rowdy package holidays to Greece and Spain with her college friends, and those summers spent building dens and scrambling over Kitty Cartwright’s garden wall seemed a lifetime away.

Gradually, the village that had once shone so brightly in Lucy’s mind began to fade like the image on an overwashed T-shirt. Apart from Rosemary Cottage, that is. It remained as vivid as it had ever been, and she never managed to shake off the fantasy that, one day, it would be hers.

Part One

Chapter One
Now

Whenever someone asked Lucy Scott, ‘So, what do you do?’ she could truthfully reply, ‘I work in lingerie.’ Responses varied from, ‘Ooh, is that allowed?’ to, ‘I don’t suppose they’re hiring?’ It was brilliant for getting laughs at parties.

Lucy would then explain that her employer, Claudine, was an online underwear retailer that sounded foxily French, but was actually based on an unlovely industrial estate in Manchester.

Not that Lucy minded. At forty years old, she loved her job as head buyer; it was creative and pretty hectic, and many of her colleagues were also her friends. Throughout the thirteen years she’d worked there – breaking only for two maternity leaves – she had never considered moving anywhere else.

However, recently there had been a sea change. Without warning, the company had been bought out. Her former boss, Ria, who had spearheaded Claudine’s image of seductive glamour, had now been booted and a new direction had been announced.

‘Hold on to your knickers, guys,’ Lucy’s right-hand man Andrew had muttered grimly. ‘It’s going to be a bumpy ride.’ And he was right. As the brand veered downmarket, Lucy was involved in numerous heated debates on the subjects of hoistage and underwired support.

‘It sounds more like engineering,’ her husband Ivan had joked, trying to ease her tension after a particularly trying day.

‘It is engineering,’ she remarked. ‘That’s exactly what it is – and it’s beautiful too. What I’m trying to tell Max is, it can be both. It’s next to woman’s skin, you know? It’s an intimate thing. It should feel lovely to wear—’

‘Hey, you don’t need to convince me,’ Ivan said with a smile. ‘I think it’s totally gorgeous stuff.’

Lucy sighed. ‘Well, unfortunately, our totally gorgeous stuff might not be quite so gorgeous in a few months’ time.’

She was right. After she had given an impassioned presentation to the new senior team, it looked as if the future was even bleaker than Lucy had imagined. ‘The Claudine customer doesn’t give a stuff about heritage,’ boomed Max, the flashy new CEO. ‘She wants value and fun.’

Lucy glanced at Andrew, who was sitting beside her in the meeting room. They had worked together so long, they could almost read each other’s thoughts. ‘She also wants beautifully made pieces that last,’ Lucy remarked.

‘We’re not after the granny market here,’ retorted Max.

‘The average age of our customer is thirty-seven!’ spluttered Lucy.

‘Hmm, whatever.’ The boss drummed his fingers impatiently. ‘No one wants to bankrupt themselves over a bra.’

‘They’re not expensive,’ Andrew muttered. ‘For the quality and workmanship, they’re competitively priced—’

‘Never mind that,’ Max said, waving a hand dismissively. ‘We know what women are looking for. They want oomph.’

Lucy inhaled deeply and glanced at the wall clock, wishing she could spirit herself out of here right now. She hated that word. It smacked of uncomfortable, scratchy push-up bras designed to please men – and never mind the poor woman trapped in the darned thing all day. Behind his back, Max was known in the company as MC – Max Cleavage.

The day after her presentation, his secretary phoned through to Lucy at her desk. ‘Could you pop in to see Max at three?’ she asked.

‘Sure,’ Lucy said, trying to remain calm. When the allotted time came, she reassured herself that he would simply reiterate his points from yesterday, and she would have to accept that that’s how things were going to be. She could handle that, she’d decided. Lucy and her husband Ivan had two young children and she wasn’t about to flounce out of her job.

She stepped into Max’s office, and he motioned for her to sit down. ‘That was quite a heated meeting yesterday.’ He flashed a brief smile.

‘It was, yes.’ Her heart quickened a little.

‘I thought we’d have a chat about the restructure, Luce?’

Luce? Only her friends here called her Luce. ‘Okay,’ she said warily. Max laced his fingers together and pursed his lips. He was one of those men who seemed to find it impossible to pass a reflective surface without checking out his appearance. Once, she had caught him fixing his hair via his reflection in the microwave door in the kitchen. For a moment now, she wondered if ‘restructure’ could refer to the controversial redesign of their classic ‘Sophia’ bra, which was hailed as a miracle in combining beauty and sublime comfort. But no. He was putting together a new senior team, he explained, that would ‘fully support our new vision, specifically the novelty undies line’.

‘Novelty undies?’ Lucy said with a frown. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘For men,’ he said plainly.

‘For men? But we don’t do men’s—’

‘We do now,’ he drawled, ‘and it’s jungle-themed …’

Lucy realised she was gripping the sides of the chair. ‘Jungle-themed,’ she repeated.

‘Yep, starting with elephant pants with an integral trunk section,’ Max explained. ‘That’s for his—’

‘Yes, I get you,’ she cut in. Lucy wasn’t a prude – far from it – but the brand had always taken inspiration from beauties such as Sophia Loren and Lauren Bacall. She couldn’t help wondering what these icons would make of elephant pants and, more pressingly, how on earth she would fit in with Claudine’s startling new direction.

‘But how can a brand called Claudine produce elephant pants?’ she started. ‘It hardly suggests that kind of product—’

‘Ah, but there’ll be a separate men’s range. We’re calling it Claude …’

She cleared her throat as she took this in. ‘So, um … what does this mean for me? I mean, will I be expected to work across the men’s line too, or—’

‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ Max said firmly. ‘Obviously this is a very different kind of market for you. We want people on board who are with us a hundred per cent, who’ll embrace Claude.’

‘Pardon?’ she spluttered.

‘We can’t be po-faced about underwear, Luce.’

‘I’m not being po-faced,’ she insisted. ‘I’m just a little stunned, that’s all.’

Max nodded. ‘Yes, well, I expected that – and that’s why I called you in today.’ Her stomach clenched as he regarded her steadily across his vast, entirely bare desk. Lucy suddenly realised what was coming. Her heart rate quickened, and with a wave of despair she pictured their highly praised recent advertising campaign featuring models in oyster silk camisoles shot in the walnut-panelled cabins of an old-style ocean liner. Clearly, those days were gone.

‘We appreciate everything you’ve done here,’ Max continued, ‘but I think it’s best all round if we make you an offer. Take some time to consider it, of course.’

‘Elephant pants?’ scorned Nadeen over a drink after work. ‘I heard a whisper about those. I thought it was a joke.’

‘“The Dumbo collection”,’ Lucy said wryly, still reeling slightly from the admittedly generous payoff Max had just offered her.

‘Please don’t leave us,’ Andrew urged her. ‘We need someone around here to talk sense.’

‘MC will screw things up, and then he’ll be out on his ear,’ Nadeen murmured, and Lucy promised not to do anything rash. However, within a few days, it started to become clear what she should do next.

She had been feeling oddly queasy and flat-out exhausted, and had put it down to the stresses of work. But it turned out that it wasn’t that at all. At least, not just that.

Lucy was pregnant. It was unplanned, and quite a shocker at forty years old – when Marnie and Sam were well beyond the baby stage and her boss was trying to force her out. But both she and Ivan were delighted. And maybe, she reflected, this surprise pregnancy would shake up their lives in the loveliest way possible.

There was always the option to fight MC’s move to get rid of her. But did Lucy really want to work under him, with his frankly ridiculous ideas? Her maternity leave would be marred by the thought of returning to a company she barely recognised. Alternatively – and the very thought thrilled her – she could accept MC’s offer and use it to embark on a new, very different sort of life.

It was obvious now which choice she should make. An adventure lay ahead – Lucy was sure of it – and she couldn’t wait.

Chapter Two

If Lucy had known how events would unfold, she wouldn’t have come up with her plan. Instead, she and Ivan would have headed straight to her parents’ place to pick up their children, and all would have been fine. She might never have set foot in Burley Bridge again for the rest of her life. A few months on, she would wish over and over that she hadn’t.

Such a selfish move, she would berate herself. Manipulative, too – and she’d thought she’d been so clever! But none of that had clouded her thoughts on that crisp, blue-skied late October morning when the world had seemed so full of promise.

Lucy and Ivan had spent their tenth wedding anniversary overnight in a country hotel. With two young children it was rare for them to have time alone together. The countryside in this part of West Yorkshire was all green, rolling hills, familiar to Lucy and every bit as lovely as she’d remembered from her holidays. Unbeknown to Ivan, she had planned to make a small detour. She was ready to make a change in their lives, and she was willing him to be positive about it – or, at least, to not think she had lost her mind.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked as she turned off the dual carriageway.

‘Just thought we might have a stop-off,’ she replied.

‘Oh, whereabouts?’ He glanced out of the passenger window.

‘Burley Bridge. It’s a village a couple of miles away, down in the valley. Remember I told you about my holidays there when I was a kid?’

‘Uh-huh …’ He threw her a bemused glance. ‘Feeling nostalgic?’

Lucy smiled. ‘I guess so, yeah. I just thought we could have a quick look.’

‘Hmm, okay … what about your mum and dad, though?’ They were both aware that Lucy’s mother in particular would be eager to hand back Marnie and Sam at lunchtime as arranged. No, no, we’re fine, Anna had said in a tight, high voice when Lucy had called last night. They’re quite a handful, but I’m okay – it’s your father who’s exhausted, you know what he’s like, honestly … anyway, don’t worry about us. You just focus on enjoying your time together. You deserve it, love!

At that moment, Lucy had almost wished her mother hadn’t offered to have the kids, having almost forced her and Ivan to go away overnight. She always made them pay – not in money, of course, but in guilt. It was the currency she used: Your dad’s just a bit upset, that’s all. Sam was playing with his models and snapped off a wing … For heaven’s sake, couldn’t her father have placed his Airfix aeroplanes out of reach on a high shelf? Hadn’t he imagined that his five-year-old grandson might want to play with them? It was his favourite Spitfire, that’s all, Anna added with a sigh.

‘We’ll still be there by lunchtime,’ Lucy reassured her husband now, as the village came into view. ‘Look – see that derelict cottage over there, by the river?’ Ivan nodded, and she felt a twist of sadness at the sight of it. It was almost roofless now, the timbers rotted, the stone walls crumbling with weeds sprouting from their crevices. ‘That’s what’s left of George and Babs’s place,’ she added.

‘Wow,’ Ivan murmured. ‘Was it really habitable back then?’

‘Just about. I thought it was wonderful – cosy and crammed with ornaments and artefacts. But according to Mum it was pretty damp and prone to flooding from the river. I don’t think there were any more tenants after them.’

‘What a waste,’ Ivan remarked, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles, ‘letting it fall into decay like that.’ Lucy glanced at him. She could sense his interest waning already, but he perked up again as they drove through the main heart of the village on this perfect autumn morning.

How the place had changed since she was a little girl. There were numerous inviting shops now: a greengrocer with wicker baskets of produce stacked outside, a bijou art gallery, a couple of gift boutiques and a particularly alluring bookshop, which appeared to be wholly devoted to cookbooks. The fading facades Lucy remembered had been painted in cheery colours, and the shops’ window boxes and hanging baskets were filled with late-flowering geraniums and winter pansies. Happily, many of the more traditional shops were still there, and appeared to be virtually unchanged – like the general store, and the newsagent’s where she had been allowed to spend her pocket money on comics, fishing nets, Sherbet Fountains and whatever else had caught her eye.

Simple pleasures, she reflected, enjoying a rush of nostalgia. ‘It’s so quaint,’ Ivan remarked.

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. We should have come here for lunch or something …’

Lucy smirked. ‘We were kind of busy in the hotel.’

Ivan chuckled. It had been wonderful, stealing a little time away from the kids. Life was so hectic with children, it was easy to let intimacy fall away. Her age aside, she couldn’t help thinking it was a miracle that they had managed to conceive a third baby at all. These days, they only had to start kissing in bed for either Marnie or Sam to run into their room, desperately ‘needing’ something: a drink, a cuddle, reassurance after a nightmare. And soon, Lucy and Ivan would be propelled back to stage one all over again, with a newborn. A couple of her friends had recently had their third children. They seemed to have acquired a casualness about parenthood this time around that she hoped she would be able to emulate.

‘No pristine babygrows this time,’ a chronically sleep-deprived colleague had laughed. ‘If there’s food on his front, I just pop another T-shirt on over the top. Some days, by bath time, he’s wearing six outfits.’

Lucy liked the idea of being more relaxed this time, and being able to fully enjoy their baby, rather than feeling as if they were merely staggering from one day to the next. She slowed down and turned left into a single-track lane.

Ivan looked at her. ‘Where are we going now?’

‘I just want to show you something,’ she replied.

‘But what’s up here? It doesn’t look like it leads anywhere …’

‘Wait and see,’ she said, trying to suppress a smile. There was nothing at first – just trees on either side of the lane, their boughs joining to form a lacy green canopy overhead. There was an old red phone box, a stone trough at the roadside and a huddled cottage with a pale green front door. Someone trotted by on a pony. Surely, Ivan could see how idyllic it was, compared to their neighbourhood of nondescript terraced streets back in Manchester. Whilst perfectly functional, their house had only a tiny paved backyard and a bunch of party-loving students next door. They had been burgled twice, and last November someone had posted a firework through their letterbox. The joys of city life were beginning to wear thin.

‘What is this?’ Ivan asked. ‘A mystery trip?’

‘You’ll see,’ she replied, glimpsing the high garden wall now, weathered and patterned with lichen and moss. There was the cottage’s whitewashed gable end, the thatched roof, and the wrought-iron garden gate that Lucy, Hally and the Linton kids had charged through in a pack. She could almost hear their plimsoled feet slapping onto the gravel path.

Lucy’s heart was quickening now as she stopped the car. She could see the trees they’d climbed and the old wooden shed that they’d hidden behind, like kids in an adventure story. Her strongest childhood memories were here in this semi-wild garden.

And now there was something else too.

A ‘For Sale’ sign, garish red and white against the cloudless sky. Lucy turned to Ivan.

‘What’s this, honey?’ he asked hesitantly.

‘Just a cottage.’ She was beaming now, unable to stop herself as they climbed out of the car.

They weren’t here by chance. Ever since Max had taken over at Claudine, Lucy had been browsing estate agents’ websites, fantasising about a cottage in the country. This usually happened late at night, after Ivan had gone to bed, and it had become quite a hobby of hers. She had searched this whole area of West Yorkshire, then found herself homing in on Burley Bridge, just out of curiosity at first. When she had spotted that Rosemary Cottage was up for sale, she had almost fallen off her chair.

This was the reason she had suggested staying in a hotel fairly close by. She’d suspected that Ivan would have resisted coming to view the cottage; Burley Bridge was too remote for them to consider moving here while he was working in Manchester. But she hoped that, when he saw it for himself, he would at least consider taking a look inside.

Ivan met Lucy’s gaze, clearly registering her shining green eyes and the flush to her cheeks. ‘It’s a beautiful house,’ he conceded.

She pushed back her thick, long dark hair. ‘D’you think we might be able to just – you know … have a look around?’

His mouth twitched into a smile. ‘What for?’

‘Oh, I’m just curious, you know? I remember it really well. Me and a couple of local kids used to sneak into the garden and steal berries …’

‘You never told me you had a criminal past.’ He grinned at her.

‘Just a few handfuls,’ she chuckled.

Ivan turned back to the cottage. ‘Looks like it needs quite a bit of work, darling.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, but imagine us all being here. Wouldn’t it be lovely? You’ve been saying you’ve had enough of the crazy hours, the endless meetings, all the pressures—’

‘Yes, but—’

‘And wouldn’t the kids love it? Look at the size of that garden! They could have a Wendy house and a den, and the house would be perfect for bed and breakfast …’ While she might have lured him here under false pretences, Ivan did know that Lucy had fantasised for years now about running a country B&B.

‘Luce …’ He paused. ‘Are you serious about doing bed and breakfast?’

She nodded. ‘I know we’d be good at it, you and me together.’

Ivan shook his head and exhaled. ‘But how on earth could we do that with the baby coming?’

‘We’d manage,’ she said firmly. ‘We’d only be talking two or three rooms to let out to guests. How hard would that be?’

‘Yes, but newborn babies are up all night and demand attention every second of the day. You remember how it was …’

‘Sam and Marnie were both sleeping through at eight months,’ she reminded him.

‘But what if this one isn’t?’

She exhaled. ‘I just thought we could have a look around.’

Ivan slid an arm around her waist. When they’d found out she was pregnant, he had agreed that perhaps now was the time to reduce his working hours in order to spend more time with their young family. With her redundancy payment, they could manage for a while, and he had agreed – tentatively – that it could be an opportunity to live their lives differently. Ivan worked full-pelt at Brookes, a Manchester-based branding agency. Although he loved his job, when deadlines loomed he was often plagued by insomnia and even the odd panic attack. Lucy worried about him. At times, he seemed so stressed and wrapped up in his work, he could barely interact with her or the children at all. ‘It’s just modern life,’ he’d said flippantly, when she’d tried to address the issue. ‘No, of course I don’t need to see the doctor.’

‘But she could sign you off with stress. You could have a break—’

‘You know what’d happen then. I’d be edged out of the company, wouldn’t I?’

‘Like me, you mean,’ she’d shot back, knowing he hadn’t meant it that way.

He chose to ignore her remark. ‘She’d only prescribe happy pills,’ he’d muttered – which was Ivan all over: stubborn, dedicated, intent on providing for his young family. And who needed ‘happy pills’, as he called them – annoyingly – when he could knock back the best part of a bottle of merlot most nights?

Lucy was desperate to make a change. What was the point of Ivan slogging away if the children rarely saw him and the work was making him ill?

12 След.

Christmas on Rosemary Lane

Те, кто искали эту книгу – читают

SNOWDROPS ON ROSEMARY LANEEllen Berry

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue 30 Years Ago

Part One

Chapter One Now

Chapter Two

SNOWDROPS ON ROSEMARY LANE
Ellen Berry

Prologue
30 Years Ago

Chapter One
Now