His Cousin's Wife. Lynsey Stevens

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      His mother and his grandmother raised enquiring eyebrows.

      ‘Someone must be going to live in the big white house around the bay.’

      Shea’s breath caught somewhere in her chest and she felt the warmth of colour rise in her face. For long moments she couldn’t bring herself to look at the older woman. When she did, she saw the concern in Norah’s eyes.

      ‘There’s a plumber’s ute and an electrician’s van and guys everywhere,’ Niall continued. ‘And they’ve started to paint the place. And guess what else? It’s not going to be white anymore. It’s sort of yellowy-cream. We won’t be able to call it the big white house now.’

      ‘That will be a pity,’ his mother replied carefully, and Niall nodded.

      ‘People are going to be all confused,’ he said in a voice of doom. ‘If you ask for directions around here they say, “Go down to the big white house and turn left” or “Don’t go as far as the big white house” and stuff like that.’

      ‘Yes. When you put it like that, it does sound as though we’ll all have to get used to the change,’ his grandmother agreed.

      ‘Well, how about your homework,’ Shea reminded her son and he went towards his room with a grumble, leaving behind a heavy silence in the kitchen.

      ‘This doesn’t mean anything,’ Norah said at last as Shea kept rubbing the tea towel over the already dry cookie tray.

      ‘No.’ Shea agreed quietly.

      “The big white house has only been leased for short times on two or three occasions. And Joe Rosten himself hasn’t been near the place in over ten years. Why come back now? He’s most likely sold it.’

      ‘Yes, he probably has,’ Shea agreed again.

      ‘And I shouldn’t think Alex would be coming back here.’ Norah glanced concernedly at her daughter-in-law. ‘If he had, I’m sure he’d have already called in to see us. I am his aunt. And now that his father has remarried and is living in the States he really has no ties here in Byron.’

      ‘There’s still the cottage,’ Shea said absently.

      ‘The tenants are still there,’ Norah reflected with a frown. ‘David hasn’t mentioned anything about the cottage being on the market, has he? I mean, working for the major real estate agency in the town, David would surely know if a cottage a few doors down from our place was up for sale.’

      Shea shook her head. ‘No. And he hasn’t said anything about the big white house changing hands, either.’ She set down the cookie tray and looked at the other woman. ‘Which is a little strange in itself, don’t you think?’

      Norah shrugged. ‘Perhaps not. Maybe the new owners didn’t want any publicity. And you know that’s what a lot of famous people like about this area. The town closes ranks and can be as secretive and protective as a mob of minders.’

      ‘Yes, that could be it. Perhaps a pop star or someone like that has bought the white house.’ Shea relaxed a little, a ray of hope growing stronger in her heart.

      ‘Who knows.’ Norah gave a soft laugh. ‘Pop stars. Movie stars. All sorts of entrepreneurs. Stranger things have happened around here, you have to admit.’

      Shea smiled faintly, too. ‘That they have.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Well, I think I’ll go and have a quick shower and then I’ll come and help prepare dinner.’

      Two hours later Norah called from the front room. ‘Here’s David now, Shea.’

      Niall made a noise into his book.

      ‘Did you say something?’ Shea paused and he sighed theatrically.

      ‘Is that David Aston again?’ he asked, twisting his pencil in his hand.

      ‘Yes. You know he usually gives me a lift to the Progress Association meetings,’ she replied perfunctorily. ‘Why?’

      ‘You’re not going out with him, are you? I mean, on a date or anything?’

      ‘No. Of course not.’ His mother frowned. ‘What on earth makes you ask that?’

      ‘Oh, nothing.’

      ‘Niall, what’s the problem?’ Shea asked gently.

      ‘I just don’t think I’d like you and David, well, you know. I mean, he’s all right I suppose but he’s kind of, well, a bit of a wuss.’

      ‘A what?’ Shea raised her eyebrows at the unfamiliar term, and Niall grinned sheepishly.

      ‘A wuss. He’s wussy.’

      ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what that means, Niall,’ Shea told him firmly, ‘but it doesn’t sound complimentary.’

      “It’s not that bad really, Mum. Depends how you look at it. But he is a bit of a wimp and,’ Niall gazed up at her seriously, ‘I guess I mean he’s not good enough for you.’

      ‘Oh.’ Shea swallowed a laugh. ‘Is that right? And who, in your opinion, young man, is good enough for your aging mother?’

      Niall grinned again. ‘Tom Cruise.’

      Shea did laugh then. ‘Mrs Tom Cruise might have something to say about that.’

      ‘How about someone like Pete’s father then?’ Niall tried again. ‘He takes Pete fishing and stuff.’

      ‘A small problem there, too.’ Shea pulled a face at him. ‘Pete’s very nice mother.’

      ‘’Spose she is pretty nice.’ He sighed again. ‘Gosh, Mum! Are all the good blokes taken?’ he asked with his grandmother’s intonation.

      Shea ran a hand over his fair hair and bent to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Rumour has it that that is unfortunately so,’ she said with a smile. ‘If I’m home late I’ll see you in the morning. OK?’

      ‘Sure. Have a good time.’

      ‘At a meeting?’ Shea grimaced sceptically. ‘But, to return to the subject of good blokes, on the remote chance I do see one, I’ll try not to let him get away.’

      Niall chuckled and gave his mother a thumbs up sign. ‘Excellent decision, Mum. See you.’

      Shea was still smiling when she climbed into David’s car.

      ‘What’s the joke?’ he asked, and she shook her head.

      ‘Nothing interesting,’ she answered a little absently and for the first time Shea found herself really assessing him.

      David Aston was quite good-looking with dark hair and eyes and he was, she knew, a relatively quiet and unassuming young man.

      A wuss? A wimp? Niall’s description came into her mind and she pushed it guiltily away. No, David was simply, well, somewhat dull. That didn’t mean he was a wimp.

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