The Butterfly Cove Collection. Sarah Bennett

together as it would be a difficult evening with her husband watching for any opportunity to pick fault.

Chapter Twenty

      Mia had already decided she would stay and serve the meal. It wouldn’t be much fun, but Kiki could focus on being a guest and not panic about the hosting. If anything went wrong then Neil could blame Mia, if he damn-well dared.

      She pulled the hire car into the driveway and sat for a moment, staring at the familiar red-brick structure. The woodwork and garage had been painted since she was last there and they were now a bright white. The garden was immaculate but lacking in any kind of personality. Neatly weeded flower beds nestled on either side of a dark and light striped lawn. It looked like Centre Court at Wimbledon and Mia was filled with longing for the wild, untamed sprawl of the gardens of Butterfly Cove.

      Her hands ached and she looked down to see her knuckles had turned white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. Forcing her fingers to uncurl, she grabbed her bag and burst from the car in a sudden fit of motion. Sitting and dwelling would only give the ghosts of her past the chance to rise and haunt her. Keep moving. Keep active. That was the motto; that was the mantra that would get her through.

      She wiped her feet on the external mat as she turned the key in the well-oiled lock. She wiped them again on the inside mat before toeing them off and placing them neatly against the skirting board. The ingrained habit gnawed at her belly and the devil on her shoulder wanted her to stomp through the flower beds and traipse dirt along the length of the beige hallway. The devil on her shoulder was a childish little shit sometimes and she would not give in to his suggestions.

      The walls were the same off-white as before, bare except for a few impersonal generic prints that were available at any department store. Nothing that reflected the personality of the inhabitants, or perhaps the blankness was a perfect reflection. No family photos rioted across the walls as they did in Bill and Pat’s home, no stray coats or scarves lurked, escapees of the under-stairs cupboard. A place for everything and everything in its place. The strictures of her childhood came back full force.

      With a little nod to the devil, Mia flung her coat over the bannister and dropped her bag untidily at the foot of the stairs. A minor rebellion, but one she could not resist. She drew in a breath and absorbed the scents of her past—furniture polish, a faint trace of her mother’s perfume and the slight musty trace of the books lining the walls of her father’s study. The door to the study stood ajar and Mia paused on the threshold. Her hand rested on the door as she contemplated pushing it wider and entering the inner sanctum that had always been off limits.