“Wow! Nikolai. A kale smoothie already. That was … quick.”
Nikolai looks delighted and draws breath. “Madame would prefer—”
“Eggs,” I cut him off.
“One boiled egg?” ventures Nikolai. “And melon plate?”
“No, two scrambled eggs, please.” I smile charmingly. “Also bacon, sausages, pancakes with maple syrup, and a cappuccino, please. Don’t bother with the melon plate. That’s all,” I add, since Nikolai seems too confused to move. “Thanks!”
Looking a bit shellshocked, he writes down the order, then heads toward Finn’s table.
“Nikolai!” exclaims Finn with gusto as Nikolai approaches his table. “Good to see you this morning. I hope you’re well. I’d like the melon plate this morning. That’s all.”
“One … melon plate?” echoes Nikolai, his eyes swiveling to me and back to Finn, as though suspecting a trick.
“Exactly.” Finn nods. “And black coffee. Thanks. Detox,” he adds to me as Nikolai heads away, whereupon I raise my eyebrows sardonically.
“Detox? Or hangover cure?”
“What’s the difference?” He shoots me a wicked grin. “Enjoy your kale smoothie. It looks very … amphibian.”
“Thanks.” I smile sweetly back. “I will. So tell me something. Are you using the rock today?”
“Hmm.” Finn’s expression flickers briefly. “Depends if I get there first.”
HIs challenge is obvious, and I feel a little spike of adrenaline, mixed with an urge to giggle. I’m so getting to that rock first. The race is on.
The minute I’ve finished eating, I hurry upstairs to get ready. Finn was lingering over yet another coffee when I left the dining room, so I’m sure I’ll make it down to the beach before he does. I scrub my teeth, grab my iPad, and shove on my anorak as I’m hurrying down the corridor.
But as I reach the beach, I see that Finn is already on the deck outside his lodge. Nooo! How did he do that? Trying to be stealthy, I creep over the sand, then break into a run. At once Finn’s head jerks up—and the next moment, he’s vaulting over the railing from the deck, down onto the sand, and making for the rock.
“Mine!” I cry, sprinting toward the rock, laughing helplessly. “My rock! Get away!”
“Mine!” he exclaims with equal determination. “I got here first!”
I feel like I’m an eight-year-old playing 40–40, as I hurl myself at the rock. I fling out a hand, trying to bar Finn and simultaneously scramble to the top. Bashing my knee, I haul myself up into the hollow, crashing into it with an inelegant flop.
“Got it,” I pant. “It’s mine! I claim it!”
“Look at that!” exclaims Finn, still stuck on a lower jutting level.
“Nice try.” I narrow my eyes, not yielding an inch. “But you don’t distract me that easily. My rock.”
I’m waiting for him to launch another attack, but he seems to have given up.
“Look,” he insists. “Another message.”
“What?”
I raise my head and find myself reading a new set of words carved out on the sand and lined with stones. Next to it is a bouquet of flowers.
To the couple on the beach. Thank you. 8/18
“What the hell?” I say feebly, and move aside so Finn can join me in the hollow of the rock. “Flowers?”
“I know, right? And what does that date mean?”
“Is it art?” I say, remembering what Cassidy told us. “Is it for a new exhibition?”
“Maybe.” Finn shrugs. “But why wouldn’t we see the artist? I haven’t noticed anyone taking photos, have you?”
My leg is feeling squashed against the rock and I shift slightly, trying to think this all through. At once I notice Finn adjusting his own position so that we’re not touching, which is considerate of him.
“OK, August eighteenth. That’s a way off.” I screw up my face, thinking. “Is this about redeveloping the lodges? They’re going to be called Skyspace Beach Studios. Maybe it’s a message thanking the first customers. Or the investors? Maybe a couple on the beach put in some money?”
“You wouldn’t thank them like this,” asserts Finn, typing something on his phone.
“You might,” I object, more for the sake of objecting than because I’m particularly convinced. “Maybe August eighteenth is when they’re going to open up again. Or maybe August eighteenth next year,” I amend, thinking through how long it will take to knock down the lodges, build new ones, and open them up. “Anyway, whichever year, this is for publicity—”
“It’s the accident,” Finn interrupts, and I stiffen.
“What?”
“The kayak accident. I’ve just googled the date and ‘Rilston Bay’ and I got a series of news reports.” He looks up, meeting my gaze. “It’s the accident. It happened on August eighteenth.”
I feel a tingle down my spine. This is all getting a bit weird.
“Is it a shrine?” I peer again at the message. “A memorial? But no one died. No one was even hurt, were they?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“I mean, the boy who came off the kayak, he was OK, wasn’t he?”
“I thought so. I mean, I guess he was a bit freaked out and chilled after being in the water, but …” Finn shrugs, looking baffled.
We both survey the message again. I’ve never been more mystified by anything in my life.
“Who saved him?” I ask in sudden inspiration. “Is that what this is? Was it a couple on the beach?”
“It was a dad, wasn’t it?” Finn scrolls down his phone. “Yes. ‘Quick-thinking father-of-three Andrew Ilston pulled James Reynolds to safety.’ ”
“James Reynolds.” I nod. “That’s right. I’d forgotten what he was called. Did you know him? Was he a pupil of Terry’s?”
Finn shakes his head. “I think he was only there for the day. There was a stack of day-trippers and they all wanted to go on the water. That’s why they ran out of kayaks and James Reynolds ended up with a damaged one which should never have been hired out.”
“Right.” I digest this. “I don’t think I ever knew the details.”
“Well.” Finn shrugs again. “Long time ago.”
On impulse, I jump down off the rock to examine the message more closely, and Finn follows me.
“ ‘To the couple on the beach,’ ” I read again. “What couple on the beach?”
I swivel round as though some random couple will come walking up and say, Ah, this must be directed at us. But the beach is as windswept and desolate as ever. There isn’t anyone in sight, let alone a likely couple.
“I think this is somehow for you.” I pivot back to face Finn. “You said you were out on another kayak. You said you swam over to help. It can’t be coincidence. Maybe James Reynolds thinks you saved his life.”
“But I didn’t save him!” retorts Finn. “I didn’t get anywhere near. And I’m not a couple. Maybe the date is just a coincidence.”