Summer at Coastguard Cottages. Jennifer Bohnet

anyone called that,’ she said, puzzled.

      Her parents had looked at each other in consternation before Elizabeth had said quietly, ‘Trumble is a name on your birth certificate.’

      It was Malcolm who, ignoring her protests, had insisted on ringing the lawyers Monday morning to make her an appointment.

      ‘You can’t ignore letters like this.’

      Carrie, who had planned on doing just that, didn’t answer.

      She’d known practically from the moment she was placed in the antique wicker rocking cradle, lovingly recovered in her honour, that she was special. Adopted. It had never been a secret. Calling her their special chosen daughter, Elizabeth and Malcolm had lavished love and praise on her all her life. Even through her difficult teenage years.

      When, on her eighteenth birthday, Elizabeth had presented her with her original birth certificate and told her she was free to try and contact her biological parents if she wanted to, Carrie had looked at her horrified.

      ‘Why would I do that?’ she’d asked. ‘Do you want me to find and contact them?’

      Elizabeth had shaken her head. ‘No. But you do have the right these days. Dad and I wouldn’t ever stand in your way. Even if we’d rather you left the past undisturbed. Selfishly, we’d feel hurt if we weren’t enough for you.’

      ‘You’re my Mum and Dad,’ Carrie had said, hugging her tightly. ‘As if I’d ever do anything to hurt you two.’

      The birth certificate had been replaced, unlooked at by Carrie, alongside her adoption papers in the ‘Important Documents’ file in the ancient wooden bureau in the farm office. Where it had stayed forgotten and ignored for the next ten years. Until now.

      Elizabeth had offered to go to the meeting with her, for moral support, and now, on the first day of July, the two of them were walking along an elegant street in the Clifton district of Bristol, peering at the numerous brass plates fixed to stone gateposts at the front of what had once been grand Victorian houses, now reduced to offices and flats and the occasional alternative health practice.

      The law firm they were looking for appeared to occupy the whole of one imposing detached villa. Carrie pressed the entry intercom and gave her name. Inside, thick carpet absorbed the sound of their footsteps as they walked across the foyer to the reception area.

      Ushered into a woodpanelled waiting room, Elizabeth whispered, ‘It’s a bit posh, isn’t it?’

      Carrie nodded. ‘I expect their fees are extortionate. Hope they don’t charge me for this visit.’

      Five minutes later, when the receptionist returned and escorted them up the sweeping staircase to an office overlooking a park, Carrie, expecting a man of her parents’ generation, was surprised to be greeted by a younger man..

      ‘I’m Ari Saper and I apologise sincerely for keeping you waiting,’ he said, indicating they should take a seat in front of the large, modern, glass-topped desk.

      ‘The senior partner who wrote to you has asked me to meet you today as he’s been called away,’ Ari said, opening a folder on his desk and taking out some papers and an envelope. ‘At this point, I need to ask you for some formal identification,’ he said, looking at Carrie.

      Carrie reached into her tote and brought out the file Elizabeth had insisted they bring, ‘just in case’.

      ‘Birth certificates and formal adoption papers are all in there,’ Elizabeth said quietly.

      A quick shuffle through the papers, and Ari handed the file back. ‘All in order, thank you.’ He smiled and gave a little cough before continuing.

      ‘Miss Penfold, I have to tell you that you are the sole beneficiary named in Robert Trumble’s will.’

      ‘But who is he? I’ve never met him,’ Carrie protested.

      ‘I understand he was your biological father. He’s left you a considerable fortune. He also left you this letter.’ Ari picked up the envelope from the desk.

      It was Elizabeth who reached out and took it as Carrie sat there, stunned. ‘Thank you.’

      ‘I appreciate this has come as something of a shock,’ Ari started to say, but Carrie interrupted him.

      ‘Tell me about him. What did he do? Where did he live? When did he die? Has there been a funeral?’

      ‘He was a university lecturer here in Bristol. He died a year ago from a heart attack. The funeral was very private. I’m afraid it’s taken us a little while to find you.’

      ‘When you say a considerable fortune, how much? Like a lottery win of millions – or a more realistic figure?’ Carrie said.

      ‘Lottery size of several million. And of course his property – a flat in the centre of Bristol and a house down in Devon. We hold the deeds to both here.’

      ‘Can I refuse the inheritance?’

      Ari looked at her, startled. ‘There would be certain formalities we’d need to follow, but yes, you can refuse to accept the legacy if you wish. But why would you refuse and give all that money to the government? It’s a chance to change your life.’

      Carrie glared at him. ‘I love my life. I have no wish to change it.’

      An hour later, another file of papers in her tote alongside two keys, Carrie and Elizabeth stood up to leave the solicitor’s office.

      ‘I’ll be in touch soon with some more papers for you to sign,’ Ari said. ‘Should all be formalised in about eight weeks. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need help – or something clarified.’ He held out his hand. Numbly, Carrie shook it.

      Both he and Elizabeth had applied pressure to get her to accept the legacy rather than rejecting it out of hand. But it was Elizabeth’s whispered ‘You can do a lot of good with that kind of money’ that in the end had persuaded her, and she’d taken a deep breath and signed the papers Ari handed her.

      ‘Let’s find somewhere for a drink and lunch,’ she said now as they left the offices behind them and turned into Clifton Village. ‘We passed a bistro-gastro-pub on the way here that should do the trick.’

      Five minutes later they were sitting at a small, wrought-iron table in the garden of the pub Carrie remembered seeing, with glasses of wine and deciding what to have for lunch.

      After taking a long sip of her drink, Carrie sighed and turned to face Elizabeth. ‘I don’t want this legacy to change who I am. It’s such a huge amount.’

      ‘Somebody famous, I forget who, once said money doesn’t change you – it simply brings out the person you were all the time. Or something like that. Anyway, you’ll be fine because you’re lovely all the way through.’

      ‘Oh, Mum. I hope you’re right. But I’m frightened that, if nothing else, it’s going to change my life beyond all recognition.’

      *

      Severe delays because of roadworks on the M4, followed by a broken-down car blocking one of the narrow Devonshire lanes once she’d left the main road, had conspired to make Karen Weston late. The fact that her lateness was also due in part to her delaying leaving home until she’d talked to Derek was infuriating. What a waste of time that had proved to be.

      She’d wanted to arrive mid afternoon but it was nearer six o’clock when she turned on to the single unfenced track that climbed the edge of the cliff towards the old coastguard cottages. Two minutes later she drove into one of the parking spaces reserved for ‘The Captain’s House’.

      Glancing across the parking area as she got out and locked the car, she registered the presence of the large 4x4 that belonged to Bruce in ‘The Bosun’s Locker’ and the ancient estate car of Joy and Toby, the unofficial caretakers of the cottages and year-round occupants of No. 5. Other than that, the parking lot was empty. She knew Hazel and Simon in No.