A Summer Scandal: The perfect summer read by the author of One Day in December

‘You brighten it up.’

It was a compliment that she very much appreciated; she was accustomed to people finding her style a little too quirky, her colours a little too much.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, still damp-eyed. She didn’t know Calvin Dearheart at all really, yet in that moment she felt as if he knew her pretty well. Maybe that was why she didn’t resist when he opened his arms.

‘Need a hug? I’m told mine are the best in the business.’

He wasn’t kidding. His arms folded around her and held her close but not too tight, his chin resting on the top of her head. He was warmth on the cold morning, and he was reassuringly alive when she felt surrounded by echoes of the past.

‘I’m told I’m the best kisser in the business too, if you’re interested,’ he said, and even though she couldn’t see his face she could feel him laughing into her hair.

‘Don’t push your luck,’ she hiccupped, not ready to let go yet, because she’d just had the most rollercoaster twenty-four hours of her life and his arms felt like a safe place to be. And then she caught herself, because how could that be? She was practically engaged to Simon, yet here she was being held by a super-hot stranger who may or may not have just kissed her hair. She tried not to notice the fact that Cal smelt of warm leather and something almost like cinnamon spice, and of running water and of new opportunities.

‘I think I’ve seen enough for now,’ she said.

‘Home then?’

She nodded, realising it was after nine only when she glanced at her watch. ‘Do you need to get off to work?’

Cal kind of shrugged. ‘I’m pretty flexible.’

Violet wanted to ask him what he did, but felt as if it might sound intrusive so held the question back for another time. Taking one last look around the pavilion, she led the way back out onto the pier and locked the doors again.

Later that day, fortified by a warm bath and a cupboard full of groceries, Vi perched on one of the breakfast stools and tried to work out where was best to set up her sewing machine. Common sense suggested the spare bedroom, once upon a time her mother’s bedroom, as the practical answer. But that would mean moving things, emptying things, changing things, and she didn’t want to do that before Della had had a chance to come and see it as it was for herself. Even though her mum had said that she couldn’t face coming to Swallow Beach, Violet couldn’t face the thought of her mum never visiting her here. She didn’t know the full story really, but she got a strong sense from her mum of unfinished business where Swallow Beach was concerned and she hoped that, at some point over the summer, she’d soften and come.

So, with the only spare room not an option, Vi decided to leave the machine where it was on the dining table and work from there. Her eyes moved over the space, working out where the light fell and where she could store all of her accessories and stock. A large walnut and white sideboard stretched across the back wall behind the table; she could empty that out and use it. Decision made, she jumped up and set to work.

Two hours later, Violet sat cross-legged on the floor, damp-cheeked for the second time that day, surrounded by the trinkets and detritus of a life only half lived. Her grandparents’ wedding album, black and white, crisp vellum protecting the framed images. Monica’s fifties tea-length dress looked like something straight out of Grease, sleeveless white lace with a boat neck and layers of net underskirts over impossibly pointed kitten heels. Her dark hair had been styled into an elegant bouffant and dressed with a white band, and despite her winged black eyeliner and wide smile she looked impossibly young and naive. Hopeful, in shiny-eyed love with the tall, suited man standing proudly beside her. Was that really Grandpa Henry? He looked so carefree and youthful, it was hard to even identify him as the kind, world-weary man Vi had known and loved beyond measure.

There were more albums in there too, including one with ‘Della’ hand-painted on the first page in yellow and silver. It was filled with heart-achingly sweet photographs of Della’s baby years, all inscribed beneath with dates and captions. The day we brought our beautiful baby girl home, written beneath a photograph of them on the steps of the Lido, the shawled baby cradled in Monica’s arms. Della’s first tooth! underneath a shot of a laughing, pink-cheeked baby proudly displaying one tiny white bottom tooth. A homemade chocolate cake iced with Della’s name; it didn’t really need the Della is one! to place it in time, but the flurry of tiny coloured hearts beside it made Violet’s heart hurt. Snapshot after snapshot. Della can walk! Della’s first word – Dadda, of course!

Violet closed the album and laid it with the others beside a box of tickets and faded receipts from high days and holidays. Monica had probably kept them with the intention of scrapbooking them, but for one reason and another they’d never got that far. They were precious, and they painted a picture of the woman her grandmother had been. Someone who loved her husband and her daughter, someone who – if the pictures were any gauge – laughed often, someone who dripped creativity from her fingertips. Vi found herself feeling more and more protective of Monica with every new thing she learned, and in turn determined to protect her legacy here in Swallow Beach. Her grandparents had been happy here for a while; she was going to do them both proud and try to be happy here too.

Across the landing in the Lido, Cal immersed himself in his work to stop himself from wondering what his new neighbour was doing. He was far too used to having the top floor to himself, it was taking some getting used to knowing that there was a blue-haired mermaid girl living just across the hall from him.

Running the leather collar he’d just finished through his fingers, he methodically checked the stitching, the precision of the buckle, the correct positioning of the studs. Every piece he produced was handmade to order, and his reputation was growing with every satisfied customer, much to his mother’s irritation.

Checking his watch, he realised he was already cutting it fine if he was going to make his hastily rearranged date from last night. Clara would be pissed if he cancelled twice, and she was way too attractive to bother waiting around for a third attempt. He’d met her the week before at a convention and they’d hit it off, arranging to meet for dinner in Hastings.

She ticked all of his usual boxes: forthright, striking, not looking for anything serious. He’d done serious and come out not so much with his fingers burned as with his fingerprints incinerated off – these days he chose his female company carefully to avoid complications. Which brought him back to Violet. She didn’t tick any of his boxes. Or else she did, in that she was definitely striking, but she was also his neighbour, and more than that, she seemed like someone who needed a friend while she was here. So, regretfully, he’d relegated himself to the friend zone, which was a novel and not all that pleasant place to find himself. Still. It’d be okay, he told himself. There were plenty of fish in the sea. Just not many mermaids.

After an afternoon spent arranging her temporary workspace and a rather unglamorous dinner of cheese on toast, Violet decided to call it quits and have an early night. She’d called her mum, replied to a text from Simon and tomorrow she planned to get stuck into her next work order. Her whole world seemed to have flipped on its axis since she’d received the letter from her grandpa; she found the idea of getting her teeth into work familiar and soothing.

Turning out the lights, she headed for the bathroom to brush her teeth, and then paused, surprised by the sight of a note pushed underneath her door.