If Clare noticed that Merry had dodged her question, she didn’t show it. ‘There’s plenty of inspiration here, especially for a romance writer.’ Her eyes danced. ‘And speaking of romance, I hear you’ve been out and about with Orkney’s very own answer to Thor.’
Merry couldn’t stop the tide of crimson that flooded her cheeks. ‘Do you mean Magnús Ólafsson?’ she asked, as much to buy herself time as anything, because there wasn’t anyone else Clare could mean – at least not that Merry had met.
‘I do,’ Clare said. ‘Now there’s a romantic hero just waiting to be written about.’
Merry focused on filling the teapot, but a mental image of Magnús still flashed up in her head: tall, rugged, with shoulder-length golden hair and a magnificent beard that would probably have inspired drinking songs in the kingdoms of his Viking ancestors.
Magnús had stopped to rescue her when the Mini had got a flat tyre in the middle of nowhere, and he’d convinced her to go for a drink with him by way of a thank you. He’d taken her to the Fisherman’s Friend pub in Stromness and they’d spent the evening bathed in the glow of the wide stone fireplace. Magnús had been funny and charming and attentive, and the hours had flown by in a blur of laughter – helped by several whisky cocktails on Merry’s part. He’d given her a lift back to the croft afterwards and there had been a moment as he’d walked her to the front door that she’d imagined climbing up on tiptoes to kiss him. But he’d stepped back and the moment had passed, leaving Merry both grateful and a tiny bit regretful that she’d made it impossible for things between them to be anything other than platonic. All of which meant she had to agree with Clare’s analysis – Magnús Ólafsson did have all the hallmarks of the perfect romantic hero. But that wasn’t a conversation she was ready to have with someone she’d only just met, no matter how lovely she seemed.
‘No romance there – we’re just friends,’ she told Clare, striving to keep her tone light. ‘I think he felt sorry for me, not knowing anyone here, and took me under his wing.’
Clare raised her eyebrows. ‘Lucky you. I know several women who have been trying to get under that wing for years.’
Determined not to blush, Merry summoned an awkward smile. Now was the time to mention Alex, her childhood sweetheart, whose existence gave Merry a ready-made excuse to avoid romantic temptations during her six months on Orkney, with Magnús or anyone else. The fact that she and Alex had split up the previous November was another of Merry’s secrets, along with her inability to write the book she was meant to be writing. ‘Well, I don’t suppose Magnús is short of admirers but, as I say, he’s a friend. I’m… I’ve got a boyfriend. Back in London.’
Perhaps it was the way she stumbled over the words or something in her tone, but Merry suspected the look Clare sent her way was knowing. ‘That doesn’t mean you can’t write Magnús into a book, does it?’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ Merry had to concede, although it wouldn’t do much for her overactive imagination to think of him that way.
Clearing her throat, she loaded a tray with the teapot and mugs, before reaching for the cake. ‘This smells wonderful,’ she said, unwrapping the waxed cloth to release the sweet scent of citrus mingled with sugar.
‘Lemon Madeira,’ Clare replied. ‘I wish I could say I slaved over a hot oven to make it myself, but I’m the world’s worst baker. It came from the Italian bakery in Kirkwall – have you visited yet?’
Merry’s ears pricked up. She’d seen the bakery from a distance but hadn’t found the time to visit. And of course it made sense that it would be Italian – many prisoners of war had been kept on Orkney during the Second World War and not all of them returned home once the fighting had stopped. She knew of at least one love affair that had bloomed as a result.
Could there be a connection? she wondered.
‘Italian bakery?’ she repeated. ‘No, I haven’t been there yet, but it sounds like my kind of place.’
‘Rossi’s is everyone’s kind of place,’ Clare said. ‘It’s a family-run business, which is often the way on Orkney, with three generations working there now. And the result is cakes and desserts to die for. Morag insists on Sicilian lemons for this Madeira, which means it’s like a little slice of sunshine on a plate.’
It sounded heavenly to Merry and she made a mental note to visit as soon as the snow had melted. ‘Thanks for sharing it with me.’
‘You’re doing me a favour,’ Clare said ruefully. She patted her stomach. ‘If it’s in the house I’ll only eat it, and you know what they say – a moment on the lips…’
Merry lifted the tray and carried it through to the living room. ‘I’m amazed Sheila hasn’t recruited you to keep her company on her clifftop runs,’ she told Clare, conjuring up a mental image of her wonderful but slightly terrifying 79-year-old neighbour, who liked nothing better than a kamikaze run along the coast. ‘I’m still not sure how she convinced me to join her, but it’s definitely helping with my writer’s backside.’
‘Sheila knows me too well to even think of asking me,’ Clare said cheerfully. ‘But you’re fresh meat. And too polite to say no.’
There was some truth in that, Merry thought, remembering the way Sheila had bulldozed her into that first early morning run. And the unaccustomed exercise had been hard – she’d thought her lungs might burst as she’d tried to keep up with the formidable older woman pounding the path ahead of her. But the next run had been easier, and the one after that had almost been enjoyable, and now, just three weeks later, Merry found herself looking forward to the peculiar exhilaration she’d come to associate with pushing her body into keeping up with her neighbour. ‘I might have caught the bug,’ she admitted to Clare.
‘Don’t tell Sheila that,’ Clare advised in mock horror. ‘She’ll sign you up to the Orkney half-marathon in a heartbeat.’
‘Not a chance,’ Merry said firmly.
They sat on the sofa and Merry steered the conversation round to Clare’s life on the farm. It wasn’t that Merry didn’t like talking about herself, more that she found other people fascinating and she never knew when she’d hear something that might spark an idea for a story. And she liked Clare already – she was funny and self-deprecating and it was no hardship to listen to her talk, especially when she mentioned the llamas she and Hugh kept for their wool.
‘If you think Gordon is a handful, you should meet Rosie,’ she told Merry with a wry shake of her head. ‘We only got her to help protect the livestock from predators, and somehow she’s now the matriarch of a whole herd.’
‘So that’s your business now? Llama wool?’ Merry asked.
Clare nodded. ‘We still keep the sheep and cows, but farmers have to move with the times and there’s a huge market for llama and alpaca fibre. We get it spun into wool and ship it all over the world.’
There was another heavy knock on the door, which made them both jump. ‘Sorry,’ Clare said. ‘Hugh’s not known for a delicate approach to anything.’
His face was ruddy as he stamped his feet on the doormat and stepped into the croft. ‘All done. Just take it slowly, keep the car in a low gear, and you’ll reach the road no trouble.’
Merry smiled. ‘Thank you so much. I really appreciate your help.’
He took the mug of tea she gave him and tipped his head in thanks. ‘We look out for each other here, as you’ve no doubt discovered.’
Merry’s eyes met Clare’s. ‘I have,’ she said, and they both smiled. ‘Now, how about a slice of cake? Because I’ve got to be honest, if I have to wait any longer, I might drool on the carpet.’
Chapter Nine
The snow lingered for two days before rain washed in overnight and melted every trace. Merry was sorry to see it go – it might have made life a little more complicated, but the beauty it brought more than made up for any inconvenience. And really, there’d been very little of that; thanks to Hugh, she’d known she could venture out if she needed to, but she had taken the opportunity to hide away and write.
> Niall wasn’t the only one to check up on her. Jess had video-called the moment Merry’s photo of the snow had reached her, demanding that Merry go outside and share the magic.
‘Looks pretty secluded,’ Jess had observed when Merry panned the camera around to show her the snow-covered landscape. ‘Seems to me that what you need is some company.’
Merry laughed. ‘I’m perfectly fine on my own. I have everything I need.’
Jess shook her head. ‘I think you’ll find you’re running out of logs for your fire, Mer. You need a big strong man to come and chop some more.’ She left a meaningful pause. ‘If only you knew one.’
‘Jess—’
‘Don’t Jess me,’ her friend said impatiently. ‘This is a solid gold opportunity for you to get some sizzling Viking action and I would be failing in my best friend duties if I didn’t point that out. I bet he’s got an enormous axe.’
‘Jess!’
‘I’m just saying.’ Her voice softened. ‘As I’ve told you a million times already, it’s high time you forgot Alex, babes. Why not see if Magnús can help you do that?’
All the usual objections crowded into Merry’s thoughts: it was too soon to date again, she was on Orkney in a professional capacity, there was no point in starting a relationship when she’d be leaving in less than six months’ time… But by far the biggest obstacle was that Merry had already lied about her relationship with Alex. And Jess had no idea she’d done so. ‘I—I’ll think about it.’
‘I’m not suggesting you marry him,’ Jess said. ‘Just have some fun. And maybe some hot sex. Why not invite him over and see what happens?’
‘I’m sure he’s busy,’ Merry replied, thinking guiltily of the solicitous message Magnús had sent that morning; he’d taken some persuasion that she didn’t need him to drive over to keep her company.
Jess sighed. ‘Don’t make me come up there and play matchmaker, Mer. Because I will, if that’s what it takes.’
The thought filled Merry with a longing to see Jess that was so strong she almost suggested she caught the next plane north. Except that would cause more problems than it solved, she thought, which probably meant Jess could never visit her on Orkney. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she repeated, crossing her fingers.
And then the snow had gone, taking any temptation to act on Jess’s instructions with it, and Merry had been glad about that, even though she missed the wintry view across Brightwater Bay. She could only hope Jess’s determination to matchmake would melt away too.
The clouds had cleared by the time Merry backed the Mini out of the shed beside the croft on Thursday morning. Carefully, she trundled to the main road and pointed the car towards Kirkwall. The blue skies made the journey even more of a pleasure than usual and she found herself slowing the car as she passed the tall stones of the Ring of Brodgar, marvelling as she always did at the feats of human endeavour that had put them there. Niall had once told her that there was nothing ordinary about Orkney, and it was a sentiment Merry found herself agreeing with almost every day. It was unlike anywhere else she had ever been.
She found Niall in his office at the library.
‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ he said, his face lighting up when he saw her in the doorway. ‘How are you? Did you enjoy the snow?’
Merry’s first impression when she’d met Niall was that he must somehow be related to Clark Kent; he had the same combination of dark hair and blue eyes, and the slightly pre-occupied manner that suggested he was only half paying attention to the world around him. That changed the moment he smiled. Merry was sure she couldn’t be the only one to have noticed a definite Superman vibe there. And he was different when he was talking about something he felt passionate about, like the abandoned Neolithic village of Skara Brae, or some other aspect of Orkney, or a book he’d read and loved. That was when his enthusiasm shone through and Merry wondered how on earth he was still single when half the women on Orkney must see what she saw when she looked at him.
‘I’m fine,’ she told him. ‘And the snow was amazing. I wanted to thank you for sending Hugh and Clare to check I was coping, and to see if you wanted to grab an early lunch.’
If Niall was surprised by the invitation, he didn’t show it. ‘Always. What’s the occasion – or isn’t there one?’
Merry smiled. ‘Research trip… kind of. I’ve heard great things about Rossi’s.’
‘Excellent choice,’ Niall observed, getting to his feet and reaching for his coat. ‘Although I think we both know you had me at early lunch.’
Rossi’s occupied a double-fronted sandstone building with glorious arched windows that held a mouth-watering array of baked treats. Golden cannoli packed with fresh cream and raspberries nestled beside lobster-tailed shells of crisp sfogliatelle, rainbow-coloured macarons and meringues filled another shelf, and row after row of croissants and other delicious pastries lay below those. The other window was dedicated to savoury treats: glistening sausage rolls, delectably stuffed pasties and soft floury rolls that almost begged the onlooker to tear them apart. Inside, Merry could see an old-fashioned glass display counter promising more tasty treats, and tables covered with gingham-checked cloths, most of which were occupied. And behind the counter, she saw a familiar face: Helen, the woman she’d met in the Italian chapel a fortnight or so earlier, who had shared the romantic story of how her grandparents had met and fallen in love. The story Merry hadn’t been able to stop thinking about ever since.
Niall pulled open the white wooden door and gestured inside. ‘Shall we?’
Helen spotted them immediately and her face broke into a delighted grin. She dropped the tea-towel she was holding and hurried out from the counter. ‘How lovely to see you again!’ she said, beaming at Merry. ‘I’ve been wondering how you’ve been getting on.’
‘I’m fine,’ Merry answered, returning her smile. ‘Niall has been looking after me very well.’
Helen nodded in approval. ‘He takes his work seriously.’
‘Always,’ Niall said solemnly. ‘Especially when it comes to showing our visitors the best place for tiramisu.’
Helen laughed as she gave Merry a sideways glance. ‘And we don’t even pay him to say that. Are you here to shop or for lunch?’
Merry’s gaze was drawn to the counter display and felt her mouth water a little. ‘Erm… both?’
‘Then let me find you a table,’ Helen said. ‘My grandmother is going to be so excited you’re here. I told her all about meeting you the other week.’
Ushering them to an empty table, Helen gave each of them a menu, promising to be back in a few minutes. Niall studied the menu for a moment then glanced at Merry. ‘So, I’m curious – you said back at the library that this is a research trip. How did you mean?’
Merry paused. She wasn’t ready to tell anyone about the idea that was growing in her head; apart from anything else, she wasn’t exactly sure what it was, let alone whether she could actually write it. But she didn’t want to rebuff Niall either, so she kept her eyes on the menu as she answered him. ‘I’m fascinated by everything about Orkney. And I can hardly write about the islands if I haven’t explored them in detail, can I?’
Niall clearly read between the lines, as she’d expected he would. ‘I completely get the need for authenticity – isn’t there some age-old rule about writing what you know?’
‘There is,’ Merry said, wryly aware that if the rule was true, she should be writing about misery and heartbreak right now. ‘But like most writing rules, there’s a balance to be found. Some people spend so much time on research that they never get around to the writing part.’
‘Well, in the interests of authenticity, I think you should definitely visit the Highland Park whisky distillery,’ Niall said.
Merry raised an eyebrow, thinking of the bottle he’d left in her welcome box; it was almost empty. ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ she said slowly. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t want to be remiss in my duties as Orkney’s Writer in Residence. I really shou
ld explore every aspect of the culture here, including the time-honoured tradition of making whisky.’
‘You should,’ Niall said, his expression innocent. ‘And I should come with you, to make sure you properly understand the significance of whisky to the islands and their people.’
‘Good point,’ she agreed, trying not to grin. ‘When shall we go?’
‘I’ve got the day off on Saturday if you’re free?’
Merry spooled mentally through her diary, which was the emptiest it had ever been: no book launches for author friends, no publisher lunches, no drinks with Jess in Chiswick… The only firm commitment in her diary at the moment was the creative writing workshop at the beginning of April. ‘I don’t think I’ve got plans,’ she told Niall.
‘Excellent,’ he said, looking pleased. ‘I’m sure they’ll be delighted to show you round. Leave it with me.’
Helen materialized beside them, notepad and pen poised. ‘What can I get you?’
Merry chose the fresh minestrone soup with black olive ciabatta, while Niall ordered a mozzarella and prosciutto panini, and Helen took the order through the checked curtain to where Merry assumed the kitchen was. She gazed around the café, drinking in as much detail as she could; every effort had been taken to reproduce the atmosphere and charm of an Italian café and she wondered whether Helen’s grandfather had opened the business when he’d returned after the war in search of the woman he’d fallen in love with. It couldn’t be a coincidence that his wife and daughter and granddaughter all worked together in an Italian bakery in the middle of Orkney, could it?
‘A macaron for your thoughts,’ Niall said, cutting into her musings.
Merry smiled. ‘Deal. I was just wondering how this bakery came to be here, that’s all.’
Niall tipped his head. ‘Because it’s Italian, you mean? I daresay Morag and Agnes will tell you themselves, but I think it was Giovanni’s way of putting down roots; making a life here by bringing a taste of Italy to his new home.’
Coming Home to Brightwater Bay Page 10
