Between the responsibilities of work and home, it wasn't often that Eva had a spare afternoon of respite to indulge and relax. And when she did, she tried to make the most of them. Since Lottie had wanted to take her girls in to Salt Springs for ice cream, Eva decided to catch up on a bit of shopping in the local market.

A cheat, she knew, since buying groceries for the coming week wasn't exactly how most would choose to spend an hour of precious freedom.

But one of the best things she loved most about Haven was the weekend Farmers Market with rows of stalls filling the heart of Centennial Park; the largest on the Island. Every Saturday, Monday and Wednesday, from Easter to Halloween, the farmers brought the very best in produce and homemade wares, from beeswax candles to jarred jams and jellies.

Potters and woodworkers, body lotions and jewellery. From time to time even Lottie set up a table to sell her handcrafted bird houses, made from beach wood, moss and scraps of bark.

A tidy little hobby that kept her hands busy and heart full. The tourists and locals alike all loved them, and it wasn't uncommon to meander through a park or walk by a neighbouring yard and find one hanging from tree. A happy little home for a family of swallows, blue jays or chickadees.

Eva had four.

Lifting a crate of blueberries, Eva breathed in the sweet perfume and smiled. The berries were plump, lush and, after sampling one, bursting with juice and flavour. So unlike the bland sort from an inner city grocery store, shipping in crates over land and sea.

For three dollars a pound, who could resist a bargain? The blueberries would be great for tomorrow's breakfast of oatmeal, and she could freeze the rest for smoothies later in the week. Heck, she might even try her hand at making a pie.

Trailing her little buggy behind her, she haggled and negotiated with vendors, loading up on hearty kale, gorgeous array of rainbow carrots and large heirloom tomatoes.

When she wasn't stuffing her nose into the stands, breathing in the smell of ripe produce, as she strolled and meander from stall to stall, ever the artist, her eyes captured and appreciated and envied. Today was nothing but blue sky and dazzling sun, driving people from their homes and into the park, surrounded by a dense copse of trees and summer flowers.

One day, Eva vowed, she and her girls would be as much a part of this place, this community, as the streets and trees and buildings. They would belong. And, sighing, imagined a day when she would walk into town and be met with knowing smiles and waves, would entertain idle conversation instead of always looking to keep to the periphery of things.

Cutting out of events, ducking and dodging and steering clear of company and people and questions. Because that's what always happened when striking up a chat or entertaining the possibility of building friendships: people asked questions.

Who are you? What's your name? Where are you from?

Simple, easy and innocent for most. But in Eva's case it meant reinventing herself, her past. Every story, circumstance and experience had to be recreated, reshaped and god, lying on such a massive scale, trying to keep all the facts straight, was exhausting.

From nosey neighbours to well-meaning meddlers, Eva walked a dangerous line every time she opened her mouth. All it would take was small slip of the tongue and the house of cards that was her life would tumble into ruin.

Two years on the island and the only people she knew with any certainty were the Davies, only because Lottie had refused to be brushed off. And managing even only that small circle of trust had been a feat of near Herculean proportions. How many times, she thought, had she'd almost stuck her foot in her mouth in those early days?

Thankfully the Davies, unlike most on the island, weren't the prying sort, and embraced Eva as she was, quirks and all. And if they had any doubts or reservations, Lottie had always made a point never to dig. Maybe that was the motherly nature in her, Eva mused, always providing comfort and support, trusting that if her children needed her then they would come when they were ready.

Over the trill of voices and birds and bees, near the fountain musicians were set up, today was a trio of a man strumming his guitar and two ladies, one on an electric keyboard and the other tapping along to the beat with her tambourine. The song was a Bluegrass Country sort, the three of them all long hair, worn denim and brightly coloured.

Eva snapped a few pictures, studied the frames with a smile. They would make a great addition to her candid collection. In July the park would host music festivals and evening movies with couples stretched on the grass atop blankets, under the stars. She'd taken her girls to one last year; the four of them cuddled together for a Disney feature of Beauty and the Beast. One of her favourites as a kid.

That had been the first time she'd actually let herself breathe, and believe that a new life on Haven was actually going to be possible. Three months later, she'd tamped down on what little doubt and insecurity she had left, and gave birth to Out of Focus.

Though the increasing interest in Out of Focus had led to a couple of sleepless nights, Eva was starting to see the possibilities stemming from the recent influx of attention. A soaring increase in sales, for starters, now coupled with the wired funds from her old life, had given Eva the boost, both in finances and confidence, that she needed to file an offer of purchase for Lavender Cottage.

Though the owner hadn't expressed an interest in selling up, Eva trusted that she could help sway him with a sizable cash payout. This morning she'd woken up with a smile and a genuine feeling of elation, the first that she could recall in at least two years since she'd felt so completely happy. Hopeful.

Working over her shopping list for the week, Eva picked through some Granny Smith apples and decided that she would finish up by Hamish & Son's meat counter for a couple of ham hocks for the puppies.

Three girls. Three puppies. Christ, what the hell had she been smoking when she'd decided to take all of that on?

Two days in and the home was a whirlwind of activity, but the girls were managing the chores without argument or complaint. Even Hailey, Eva mused. From early morning and evening walks, to feeds and cleaning up all the puddles and poops when the pups didn't manage to make it through the door in time.

She'd let the girls pick out the names, and they'd settled on Wiggles for Lucy, Skittles, for Payton, and Hailey, shocker, had yet to make up her mind.

They were active, as puppies were known to be, but Eva trusted in time that hyper behaviour would mellow out, just as it did with children. They were good dogs, and as Mr. Kim had promised, smart. Though she assumed that some form of obedience training would soon be necessary for the sake of long-term preservation of her sanity. And, for the fifth time, made a mental note to get in touch with the pet store workers to look into...

The bones in Eva's spine locked together, forcing her straight.

Eyes were on her. And not the careless, innocent sort of a passer-by. These eyes were following her. Dissecting her. Eva whipped her gaze around, searching until she found the source. And scowled at the guilty party. Caught in the act, he waved, walking towards her with a shameless smile.

"You." She knotted the bag of apples, tucked it into her buggy and handed the vendor a five. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Marshall gave his own bags, bearing a few meagre items, a wiggle. "Shopping. Same as you."

"Spare the cute comebacks. You know what I meant. Here, on Haven. Why are you here?"

Marshall slung the bag on a muscular forearm, tanned against a rolled up blue sleeve, and shrugged. He had decided to check out the Farmer's Market on a whim after his mother had casually mentioned something about Eva's plans for shopping.

His plan was to play it smooth, casual, and set himself in her path with a series of chance encounters. Not that she needed to know that.

"Visiting. Enjoying the tourist season."

Eva didn't buy that for a second. And didn't make a point of hiding it.

"Bullshit."

As she walked off, he fell into step with her, his long stride would have no problems keeping pace so she saw little point in trying to shake him. But there was more than one way to dispense of undesirable company and Eva had made a point to master them all.

"Did you forget my family lives on the island?" he asked, hands tucked into his pockets, bags bouncing off his legs with each step.

"Family you haven't visited in almost two years." Eva glared up at him, all windblown hair and golden scruff against tanned skin.

God, he was a looker. Even if she wasn't interested on a personal level, professionally she couldn't fault a perfect specimen. Full-lipped, strong jaw, and a straight nose, all eclipsed by a smile that sucker punched a woman right in the damn ovaries.

She could make a fortune photographing a face like that. Annoyed, Eva dragged her gaze away and made a pointed effort not to look at him.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because that's how long I've lived here and-"

"Well, for your information, I visited last June."

Halting mid-stride, she jerked a little straighter. "I don't remember-?"

"Only for a quick weekend," he added, gaze cast towards the stretch of tables they passed, covered in an array of bath salts, face creams and essential oils. "Spent the time at my brother Ethan's beachside cottage. Which is where I'm staying, again. For now, at least."

Not liking the sound of that, Eva clamped down on the rise of panic. "How long are you staying?"

"Couple months. Three at most."

Fan-freaking-tastic. "I don't appreciate being ambushed. Or harassed. And I don't need you chasing after me with a hard-on for the next three months."

"Chasing? Who's chasing?"

Eva swept out her arms to illustrate her point.

His teeth flashed as he leaned in a little closer, and she got a whiff of cinnamon and sharp soap. "Don't worry, grubby-chic isn't my thing. I prefer blondes. With legs up to here," he said, skimming a finger beneath her left earlobe.

"I meant after me professionally." Delicate nerves beneath the skin sparked at the innocent touch. Eva brushed his hand away, and hated that the off-handed comment stung. "For journalistic...stuff?"

"Why didn't you say so?" Winking, Marshall rolled his tongue into the pocket of his cheek. "As it so happens, yes. I would like to extend my article with a series spotlighting you and your work. I swung by the gallery to pitch the idea to you yesterday, but Jenelle says you haven't been around lately."

Ice flashed beneath the heat of her irritation. Marshall had stopped by the gallery looking for her? And why, Eva wondered, hadn't Jenelle thought to mention that little detail?

"I've been working from home," she said, careful to keep her face neutral. A skill she'd learned to perfect out of necessity. "Out of Focus is too noisy. Thanks to you."

"And here I thought you were avoiding me. You're welcome, by the way."

Eva snorted at that.

"Come on, aren't you thrilled? The world wants more of Eddie Blake aka Eva Turner. Why the alias, by the way?"

Accepting that he wasn't going to be dissuaded by her callous demeanour, Eva decided the sooner she got to the butcher, the sooner she could wrap up her little shopping trip and get the hell away from him.

Eva might have been challenged with short legs, but she was a fast walker when required, and picked up the pace.

"I've already answered that question."

"Yes, but the sake of artistic anonymity can't be all of it," he said, winding around from her right side over to her left with a hitch. He was all smooth and evasive, forcing her to keep off balance and on edge. His movements sleek and confident as a wolf wearing down its prey.

Like any cornered cat, she bared her teeth. "If Cher and Lady Gaga could build a career on a stage name, why can't I?"

"Those are singers," he countered, poking her shoulder with his finger.

"Charlotte Bronte wrote Jane Eyre under the name Currer Bell in the nineteenth century."

"Well, that was because back then only men were successful in publishing. Have you ever known a photographer to work under a pseudonym?"

Eva narrowed her eyes. "Brassai."

"Who?"

"Famous Hungarian photographer who lived in Paris. His real name was Gyula Halasz."

Marshall's smiled, smooth and clean. "With a name like that it's no wonder. Come on, Eva. Tell me. Off record, if you'd like. Why the alias?"

"Is valuing privacy and creating distance between the professional and personal aspects of one's life really such a strange and unusual concept? Not everyone wants to be famous."

Ten years of experience had taught him otherwise, but Marshall withheld the remark. "Fine, let's dispense with the alias debate. For the article I was thinking perhaps I could shadow you for a day or two? Get a feel for your process. Give the readers a hint of a day in the life."

Son of a..."Don't you ever give up?"

"Nope."

Clear of the market, they crossed from the park over to the side street lined with shops. "Well my answer is no. And for the sake of saving breath, it'll be no tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after," Eva said with a dismissive wave, buggy bouncing behind her in haste. "So, now you can go away. Pester someone else."

"Can't. Got a job to do. I always get the story, Eva. And I never miss a deadline."

"Not this time. Imagine that's going to blow over real well with your editors."

"We can play this however you want to, Eva, but either way the story is going to get out there." Outside Hamish & Son's, Marshall reached ahead of her, opened the door. "You realize, as a journalist, I don't exactly need your permission?"