Page 29 of The Summer Swap

It had been dark when she’d arrived, which she’d thought might lessen the emotional impact of being back here, but it hadn’t worked that way. From the moment she’d opened the door, the memories and emotions had engulfed her like a storm. Images had appeared from the shadows; images she’d tried to force from her mind. She’d seen Cameron everywhere. It was as if he’d been waiting for her.

Why didn’t you sell the place, Cameron?

It had taken willpower not to turn around and drive back to the house and the sanctuary of her bedroom, which she’d stripped of all the reminders.

Instead she’d flicked on all the lights and the images had melted away, but that hadn’t changed the way she was feeling.

It was surprising she’d managed to sleep at all.

The events of the day before came back to her. The party she’d left without even showing her face. Kristen in the rose garden, gazing up at Jeff.

Jeff.

Head thumping, Cecilia sat up. She rubbed her fingers over her forehead, trying to ease the throbbing pain. There were no words to describe how much she hated that man. And she was also afraid of him. Afraid of what he might know. What he might do.

And now she was also worried about Kristen, who she suspected was a pawn in whatever plan Jeff had. She wanted to warn her daughter, but what would she say exactly? It wasn’t a simple conversation.

And there was every chance that even if she did call, Kristen wouldn’t want to hear what she had to say. Daughters rarely wanted advice from their mothers, and it wasn’t as if she and Kristen were close. She wouldn’t be able to introduce the topic during one of their intimate conversations, because they didn’t have intimate conversations. They didn’t confide in each other. When they talked, it was about practical things. Cameron’s work. Exhibitions. Auctions. Hannah’s achievements. Occasionally they’d talk about the changes Cecilia was making to the gardens.

They never talked about marriage or feelings or Theo. And that was probably her fault. She’d never talked about her relationship with Cameron, so why would Kristen talk about her relationship with Theo? Cecilia had always assumed that Kristen and Theo were fine.

Unless she’d wildly misinterpreted what she’d seen in the rose garden, that wasn’t true.

Poor Kristen. And poor Theo.

She stood up and felt something scrunch under her feet. Glass.

She stared at the mess strewn across the living room floor, shocked and mortified.

Had she really done that? It was a good thing no one had been here to witness it.

Just one painting remained intact. The Girl on the Shore.

Cameron had promised to destroy it. Cameron had promised to sell the cottage.

He’d never been good at keeping his promises, so she probably shouldn’t be surprised that the painting was still intact.

She gazed at it with mixed emotions. What would their lives have looked like if that painting hadn’t existed? It had changed everything.

She probably should have smashed that one, too, in the circumstances, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. And maybe it wasn’t necessary to go to those extremes.

Who would look for it here? No one knew about this cottage. Not even the children. They knew about the apartment in Manhattan, the beach house in The Hamptons (Cecilia had refused to return to Cape Cod after that one awful summer), and the house in Provence where the children had spent several summers playing among vineyards and olive groves and swimming in the pool while their parents had painted. They didn’t know about this place.

She needed to think and plan, but first she needed to clear up the mess she’d made.

Unpack. Shower. Clean up.

She flung open the front door and took a breath of the fresh, salty air. Then she made her way across the room, careful to avoid the broken glass. She picked up her suitcase and headed upstairs. The wooden stairs creaked in the exact same place they’d always creaked. There were the same chips in the paintwork.

She paused by the door of the master bedroom and then turned away. She couldn’t bring herself to walk into that room yet, so instead she opened the door to the second bedroom and put her suitcase on the chair. The room was light and bright, although the paintwork had slightly yellowed with age. The bedding was clean but old-fashioned, but the view from the doors that led to the small balcony was as spectacular as ever.

She stepped into the bathroom, prepared for spiders and mold but the place was fresh and clean. A faint floral scent hovered in the air. Whoever had been maintaining the place had done a good job, she thought as she stripped off her clothes.

She took a shower, which was always something of a challenge in Dune Cottage because the water pressure wasn’t great, and then dressed in the first thing she found in her suitcase before heading back downstairs.

The mess seemed worse each time she looked at it.

What had possessed her to smash the paintings? Why hadn’t she simply removed them from the walls and piled them neatly where she couldn’t see them, as she’d done in her own bedroom at home?

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