Merrin was Jago’s patch long before it became hers too. Even now that he was gone, he was still everywhere. He was in the rust-brown bracken and the switchback lanes. He was at the cove she called Rockabilly, in the perfect peelers and the expanse of blue, of grey, of green, of blue again. He was in the meadow grass and the onshore gusts. And he was in her studio too.
THE SEA BETWEEN US