by Jenny Colgan
“You’re dating a millionaire?” he said to Fintan.
“Ah. No,” said Fintan.
“What?”
“Kind of a billionaire,” said Fintan, and Innes swore mightily.
“What do you want to work for, then?”
“Because I do.”
“Can he give us a million pounds for the farm?”
“No,” said Fintan. “That’s not how you get rich.”
“Oh, like you’d know.”
Flora dished up steak pie, and she and Fintan set out their plan around the table: a restaurant farm, belonging to the Rock and growing everything the Rock needed and wanted for its menus—seaweed; dairy, including the cheeses; meat, obviously.
“It’ll mean going all organic,” said Flora. “And getting specialists in to advise on the best crops, not just what will grow.”
“That will cost a fortune,” said Innes.
“That’s where the investment comes in. Seriously, Innes. Flying cattle to the mainland. How’s that going to work as a long-term strategy? You’re getting killed by the mega farms and you know it. It’s a downward spiral. And people are going to come here who aren’t going to mind paying a proper price for milk and butter, and the best meat and wonderful fresh ingredients. We’d be mad not to.”
“But to lose the farm . . .”
“The farm isn’t going anywhere,” said Flora sternly.
“They’ll be happy to brand everything with the MacKenzie name,” said Fintan. “Gives it proper authenticity to be a family farm.”
“But it won’t be ours.”
“Technically, no.”
“So it won’t be Agot’s one day,” said Innes. Agot had, in the commotion, quietly stolen into Flora’s handbag and was now smearing lipstick all over her face.
“Yeah, that’s a loss,” said Flora.
They sat there, looking at each other.
“I don’t know if we have a choice,” said Fintan.
“Well, no, you wouldn’t,” said Innes. “What if you two break up? Do you have to give all the money back?”
“Actually,” said Fintan, “I have a very good lawyer who’s going to take care of all that for me.” He looked at Flora.
“Hamish,” she said. “What do you think?”
“Will I get more money,” said Hamish, “if I work for the restaurant?”
“Yes,” said Flora.
“Enough to buy a car?”
“Yup.”
Hamish nodded. Everyone waited, but this appeared to be all he had to say on the topic.
“Well . . .,” said Flora.
Just then there was a knock at the door. Most Mure people just rapped and walked in—that is, if the door was even shut in the first place. Eventually Innes got up and answered it.
Charlie was standing there, twisting his hat.
“Hello,” he said.
“Tractor’s outside,” said Innes.
“No, no. I don’t need that.”
He looked around the room, saw all the brothers and Agot there, and went very pink about the ears, not his normal, stolidly calm self at all.
“Um,” he said. “Flora.”
The boys, delighted that the pressure of all the serious conversation was suddenly off, leaned back cheerfully in their chairs.
“Flora!” said Fintan. “Someone’s here to see you!”
“Looks like Fintan’s not the only one courting!” said Innes. “I bet Charlie hasn’t got millions of dollars, though.”
“Shut up, everyone,” said Flora, although it wasn’t entirely awful to have things back to normal. They’d done quite enough hugging and talking about feelings for one day, and it was nice to be bickering again.
“Um, do you want to walk Bramble?”
“He’s . . . he’s out,” said Flora stiffly. She still hadn’t forgotten her conversation with Jan.
“Oh. Right,” Charlie said, and turned to go. “Sorry,” he said.
Flora bit her lip. She still hadn’t gotten to the truth. And for now, she had had enough of the farmhouse and their worries, and more than enough of the sleepless nights and bitter disappointment and horrendous self-doubt she’d been through ever since Joel had left. Absolutely more than enough.
“I mean, I’ll come for a walk with you. If that’s what you were asking.”
It was funny to think what a confident, bluff character she had thought Charlie was when she had first met him. He didn’t look very confident now as he ran his huge hand through his hair.
“Um. Yeah. Yes. All right. Yeah.”
“I’ll find Dad,” said Flora, grabbing her cardigan and ignoring the knowing looks and eye rolls the boys were giving her. “Also, shut up, all of you. And wash up.”
Agot came marching up to them, totally covered in a random collection of Flora’s makeup.
“HE BOYFRIEND?” she asked seriously of Flora. Then she turned to Charlie. “I’S BOYFRIEND.”
“That’s very nice to know, Agot,” said Charlie seriously. “And a very good evening to you.”
Chapter Forty-five
It was a glorious evening. The sun hung steady and unmoving in the sky, its trajectory slowed right down for the very height of the summer months. Flora had taken the lipstick from Agot’s sticky fingers—she’d leave it to Innes to sort out the rest—and quickly added some to her own lips. The sun had just about allowed some freckles to pop out on her face, and she’d realized that the near-constant activity since she’d arrived had helped to burn off some of the London office flab she’d acquired.
Charlie was walking next to her in silence. He didn’t seem to be the type of person who needed to fill every space with conversation, or silly jokes and observations. Apart from being momentarily flustered on the doorstep, he seemed . . . comfortable. Happy in his skin. The exact opposite of Joel, she supposed. No. She wasn’t thinking about Joel. She wasn’t. That was done. And this . . . She took a sideways glance at Charlie, his powerful shoulders, his strong, calm profile.
“Teàrlach,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to assume anything. And I might have picked up the wrong impression . . .”
He turned to her, still not saying anything, quite content just to walk and listen.
“But Jan,” she said. “What happened at the party. I mean, seriously, what the fuck are you doing?”
“They do say selkies get straight to the point,” said Charlie.
“Don’t change the subject. You said you were separated.”
“We are.”
“She . . . she says you’re not. That you’re on a break but you’re still together.”
“Well. We’re not. I spoke to her about it.”
It struck Flora that Jan hadn’t been in the shop in over a week. Maybe that was it.
“And? Tell me what happened, because this has been really gruesome for me.”
“All right, all right,” said Charlie.
They walked on in silence, and Flora suddenly missed Bramble terribly. It was nice, during awkward moments, to have a dog to cuddle and pet.
Charlie sighed.
“I’m sorry. It’s complicated. It’s been complicated. We run a business together. We were together for eight years. I didn’t want to . . . I mean, too much upset and it could have just ruined everything. In fact it would have done; it would have wrecked the business. Her father put up the money for it to begin with, and . . . I mean, her family, both families really, they expected us to get married.”
“That must have gotten tricky round about year five,” said Flora, but it came out wrong and didn’t sound funny at all, and she regretted saying it.
“It’s not that I don’t think she’s magnificent, because she’s a wonderful woman in many ways,” said Charlie stoutly. “She’s helped more underprivileged children than anyone I know, and she cares for everyone and everything.”
“So why did you decide to break up? What caused it? Did you meet someone else?” said Flora curiously. Most of the men she knew only got out of one relationship
when they spotted another one.
Charlie gave her a sideways glance.
“Well,” he said.
“Well, I don’t want anything to do with it,” said Flora fiercely.
“No,” said Charlie. “No, I hadn’t met you. It was at Hogmanay. Everyone had had a few, you know?”
“I do know,” said Flora, remembering with some fondness the crazy parties in the square that went on throughout the night; the bonfires and first-footing and everyone out together. Her mother had never wanted her to go, but the boys had promised to look after her—which was absolute nonsense. Hamish would stand and grunt with his cronies, Innes would be after winching some young girl somewhere, and Fintan would generally sulk and refuse to go and declare it all bogus ruffian behavior; and Flora had felt so wild and dizzy and free, staying out all night in the freezing cold, passing around the cider and laughing until she thought she’d burst.
“Well, I was up at Fraser’s hoose, with Jan, and everyone was badgering me to make an honest woman of her, you know, as they do, and I thought, if I was to make an honest woman of her, I’d be making a dishonest man of myself. So.”
“But you didn’t say you were finishing it.”
“I’d like to present myself as a brave man, Flora. But I will say I am not.”
They both smiled.
“She went a bit mad.”
“But that was in December! It’s August now!”
“We still have to work together.”
“You have to tell her it’s over. She doesn’t think it is.”
“I know,” said Charlie. “I know.”
He turned to face her. Completely without realizing where they were going, just following the pathway their feet had taken together, they’d reached the headland. He looked at her shyly.
“You’re the person . . . the person who’s really made me feel . . . Well. That I have to change, that I have to move on in my life . . . the way you’ve moved on in yours.”
“I haven’t. I’m only here until the Lughnasa. I’m just doing a job.”
He shook his head.
“I think you’re doing more than that.”
She looked at him. His thick curly hair blew off his strong forehead. He stood on the point, the crags and the bright sky behind him, as blue as his eyes. He looked as if he grew out of the land. He was such an islander, such a north Briton. She couldn’t imagine him in London, could barely imagine him in a town at all. He was grown from the soil he stood in.
She thought about Joel. A movie star, that was what he had been to her. She had to see it. Like that year she’d spent at fourteen watching the Lord of the Rings films over and over again and slowing down the bits with Orlando Bloom in them, thinking that maybe there was a possibility that they might come and film in Mure if they got sick of New Zealand.
That hadn’t happened. Or at least not yet.
That was where Joel belonged. In a little box of fantasy, of something to make your commute pleasanter on a dull day. He had a lovely smile, sometimes—and hey, at least she’d slept with him, kind of, in a funny way. She supposed. But it had been, she told herself firmly, nothing to him. Nothing. There hadn’t been a phone call, not a text, not an e-mail. He’d left and gone back to his old life and forgotten all about her, and the island, and everything. He might be moving to the U.S. and he hadn’t even told her. What was she going to do, waste years on him? Years of her life without him ever giving her more of a thought than Orlando Bloom did?
But looking at Charlie, she felt her stomach flutter. This was real. This was something solid.
“I live in London,” she said.
Charlie shrugged.
“Yes, but you’re Mure. You’re an islander. Or more, if that lot of superstitious maniacs are to be believed.”
“They aren’t,” said Flora.
“Well, all I mean is. Islanders understand one another.”
He swung his arm around her. From their position, at the very end of the point, they could see such a long way around the island. The harbor, the beginning of the endless white beach beyond, the crags behind them, the farm. Bertie down there on his boat, next to the ever-scurrying fishermen; the shops, now closing up for the day, to the surprise of vacationers, who never quite got the hang of the fact that just because it looked like noon didn’t mean that it was. And round to the Rock, the beautiful building there, all ready and waiting for them.
Before her father’s time, most people born on Mure simply never left it. The horizon defined the limits of their entire world. They had visitors, sometimes invaders, but for most, this little village, this stretch of fertile sea and windswept soil, was all they’d ever known. And it was beautiful.
“This is the blood in your veins,” said Charlie in a low voice, and Flora realized suddenly that they were very close together now, as her hair whipped out in the wind and her skirt danced behind her. She turned toward him, blinking as he loomed above her, as solid as the ground beneath her feet.
He reached out his large hand and she took it, gazing out to sea, watching the seals’ heads bob up and down.
“They can’t put a bunch of windmills here,” she said.
“That’s the spirit,” said Charlie. He squeezed her hand and they both looked at it. Then she looked back up at him. Everything—the scudding white clouds, the darting birds, the whispering grass—seemed to slow down. She moved closer to him, just a little.
Suddenly a massive WOAUF! burst out at them from the undergrowth. They jumped back guiltily, both of them.
Bramble was there, woofing at them frantically.
“Hey,” said Flora, kneeling down. “What are you doing?” He kept on woofing, tugging at her arm.
“He’s like Skippy the kangaroo,” said Charlie, laughing as the tension broke. “Look, Flora, he’s trying to tell you something. Has little Timmy fallen down the well again?”
Flora shook her head.
“Don’t be daft; dogs know stuff.”
“Either that or you left a sausage in your pocket.”
“Why would I leave a sausage in my pocket?”
“You’re very committed to your new career in catering?”
Flora smiled, but felt worried.
“Where’s Dad?” she asked Bramble. “Have you run away from Dad?”
She thought of Eck’s serious, weary face as he’d left. She hadn’t seen him on the way down—although she’d hardly been looking, she thought. She’d been walking next to this large, broad man, trying to make her feet match his long strides, thinking of how capable his hands were, how strong he seemed. She shook her head.
“He wants us to follow him,” she said.
Charlie laughed.
“You’re not serious?”
“I need to find Dad anyway.”
“Can you understand all animals, or is it just whales and dogs?”
“You can make smart-aleck remarks,” said Flora. “Or you can come with me.”
Charlie grinned.
“Can I do both?”
She looked at him, squinting in the sun, and they smiled at each other.
“Plus,” she said, turning serious as they headed down off the point, “don’t you have someone you need to talk to?”
People were watching them as they descended into the town together. She wondered if there would be gossip. She had also thought Charlie might reach for her hand again, but he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. She felt herself blush. But she liked having him there.
“Have you seen my dad?” she asked shopkeepers. Andy at the Harbor’s Rest hadn’t seen him; neither had Inge-Britt, who had, Flora had noticed, taken up with a strapping Norwegian lobsterman and seemed as cheerfully and oppressively healthy as ever.
Bramble didn’t seem to be leading her anywhere, just content to know that they were together and that she was on the move. Flora started to get worried. She’d assumed that the pub would be the obvious spot for her father to go and chew the fat and complain about the uselessness of hi
s ungrateful offspring—and, she had hoped, wobble back after a few hours, mind slightly clearer on the issue. But no, there was no sign of him at all.
She didn’t want to call the farmhouse, but she did, quickly.
“No, he’s not back,” said Fintan. “Isn’t he with you?”
“No, but Bramble is.”
“Bramble left his side?”
“I know.”
“And for you, when only terrible things happen to that dog when you’re about.”
“Okay, okay, shut up.”
Fintan paused.
“And you’re one hundred percent sure he’s not in the pub?”
It slightly astonished them both for a moment, realizing how few places there were for him to be, how little he did that wasn’t endless work on the farm. They both fell silent.
“Is the Land Rover still there?”
Fintan paused.
“Yup.”
“Should we just be leaving him to have his walk? I mean, it’s a lot to take in. A lot of new things. And the weather isn’t bad.”
“Probably,” said Fintan. “That is weird about Bramble, though.”
They paused.
“I hate being a grown-up,” said Flora.
“No, it’s awesome,” said Fintan. “Ooh, and how’s that strapping lad of yours?”
“Call me when Dad gets in,” said Flora, hanging up.
A crowd had gathered now; the girls from the bakery were out looking concerned, and Flora could hear mutterings about Eck’s age and general condition. But he wasn’t that old, was he? He was fine, her dad. Wasn’t he?
Clark the police came up, frowning.
“Can’t you alert the authorities?” said a passing backpacker, who’d stopped to see if he could help. Everyone turned to look at him.
“Um, he’s it,” said Andy from the pub.
The backpacker blinked.
“Well, have you got a pic?”
Everyone looked at Flora, who flushed bright red.
“Um,” she said, looking at her phone and realizing to her horror that while she appeared to have about seventy pictures of Bramble and Bracken, lots of the views over to the Rock, and two of the party with Joel in the background (she had desperately wanted to take one of him while he was sleeping but hadn’t dared for fear of being super-creepy), she didn’t have a single one of her father.
