do that!’ Hanna exclaimed, batting a hand dramatically.
‘Ssh!’ Bell pressed a finger to her lips again, beseeching her for a little consideration for the children.
Hanna followed suit again. ‘Oh yes, I keep forgetting,’ she giggled, whispering again. ‘Well, now, you get off to bed and don’t worry about a thing here. We’re fine. Off you go now, and we’ll see you on Monday. You work too hard. Go have some fun. Go,’ she shooed, flapping her hands.
Reluctantly, and only because she didn’t want the children to be disturbed, Bell turned and walked slowly towards the door. She glanced back to see Hanna lurching down the corridor, arms outstretched as she bounced off the walls, leaving grubby handprints on the pristine white paint. She stumbled into the bedroom, closing the door with a slam. Bell winced and waited for a small tousle-haired head to appear at one of the other doors; but after a few minutes, when no one stirred, she let herself relax. They must be in the dead of sleep.
Lucky for them.
Lucky for Hanna.
Chapter Eight
Sunlight freckled the air as it percolated through the upper canopies of the pine and silver birch trees, squirrels running through the bright spots, tails aloft, birds trilling from the high branches. Bell pulled her knees up under her chin and cradled the coffee mug in her hand, looking out over the neighbourhood. It was quiet, most people still asleep in the red-roofed, low-slung cabins. They were clustered close together on the shallow hill, accessed by bleached-silver gangplanks that wound through the trees, their small private yards filled with the accoutrements of summer island life – barbecues and tables and chairs, kayaks, SUP boards, water-skis, buckets and spades, inflatables, bikes propped against walls . . .
It wasn’t a glamorous scene. In fact, through a critical eye, it was a mess. This wasn’t the Hamptons. Nothing was groomed or manicured or clipped here – the very smartest properties were identified by a whimsical patterning of the whittled birch used for fencing – but that was the point. To know its scruffiness was to love it. The place had a rustic, low-key vibe that was the antithesis of slick city living, and the people coming out here, right on the farthest edge of the country’s landmass, weren’t just getting back to nature, they were getting back to themselves.
The first time she had come here had been like stepping back in time fifty years. No one locked their doors, children played without adults hovering over them, everyone cycled everywhere, fished for their dinner and cooked it . . . She loved that the ground was permanently carpeted with pine cones and needles, that the tree roots protruded like veins, the grass sprinkled with sand and vice versa on the beach. Everything felt like it was on the brink of going feral. Rewilded.
Even Kris and Marc – urban creatures who cared about ‘the right black’ and genuinely fretted over dado profilings – couldn’t resist its pull. When they had bought this place, with its bright-yellow clapboard and blue windows, they had sworn to paint it a matt blackish-green and open up the back with an all-glass wall. But two years later, the primary colours were still there, and even the previous owners’ geranium pots were still balancing on the deck’s handrail – because when they came out here, all they wanted was to stop and relax.
Bell had found the key in its usual place: in the faded red Croc beside the ash bucket, which the previous owners had also left. She knew her friends were coming out tonight. It was Midsommar tomorrow, which meant no one was going to be sleeping this weekend; the longest day of the year – or shortest night, depending on your proclivities – always heralded party time. But they wouldn’t be out till tonight at the earliest, possibly even tomorrow morning depending on Marc’s hospital shifts, giving her at least a day on her own, and she was grateful for that. She had come over early on the kayak, unable to sleep in spite of her exhaustion, the evening’s events nagging in her mind all night.
She still couldn’t believe what had gone down – Hanna leaving her children alone in their beds, unattended. It was so reckless, so completely unlike her. Had she thought it was okay because Linus was ten and therefore ‘old enough’? Or had she thought it was okay because Bell was just through the trees – even though Hanna knew