‘I’m not telling you this because I have any kind of agenda,’ he interrupted before she could voice her objections. ‘I know you’re still healing after Alex and I have no intention of being anything more than a friend to you. And as a friend, I am telling you all this because you clearly have no idea how extraordinary you are.’
Merry sat in silence, struggling to take in everything he’d said. Had Alex ever described her like that – as a strong, resilient, extraordinary woman? She was fairly certain he hadn’t and definitely not in recent years. And of course she knew that Magnús was simply being kind, trying to bolster her confidence because he knew it had taken a knock, but it still felt good to know he saw some positives in her, in spite of her slightly erratic behaviour around him.
‘Thank you,’ she said in a low voice once she was sure she had control of herself. ‘It’s very nice of you to say so.’
He waved her thanks away. ‘I’m only telling you the truth. One day you will come to accept it.’
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘And thank you for bringing me out here too. I can’t believe how incredible it’s been – there’s no one I’d rather have shared it with.’
The words were out before she could stop them but even as she spoke, she realized it was true. On impulse, she leaned across to plant a kiss on Magnús’s cheek, just as he turned his head her way.
His lips were warm against hers. For one horrified moment, she didn’t move, then started to pull away, framing an apology even before she’d moved. But his hand cupped the back of her head, gently holding her a centimetre or two away, and his breath caressed her skin. The temptation to edge forwards until their lips touched again was overwhelming but Merry didn’t dare. Hadn’t he just told her he saw her as a friend? And yet he’d stopped her from pulling away.
Her eyes met his and she saw her own confusion mirrored there; he had no idea what to do either. The sensible thing would be to ease gradually apart and laugh it off. Except neither of them seemed to be moving.
‘Do you want me to let go?’ he whispered.
Merry thought for a second and carefully shook her head. ‘No.’
His gaze was steady on hers. ‘Are you sure?’
She didn’t nod and didn’t speak. Instead, she leaned into him until her lips grazed his. The pressure was so gentle that it was almost like being brushed with a feather, but her body reacted with a fierceness that took her breath away. She let out a tiny involuntary moan that clearly was not lost on Magnús, because he pressed a fraction harder, his mouth soft but insistent, and Merry had to fight the urge to tear off his hat and sink her fingers into his long hair. Slowly, he eased her lips apart and explored the inside of her mouth. She tasted whisky and salt and the cool, indefinable essence of the night air. And then she stopped trying to notice what she could taste and gave in to the kiss.
It felt as though hours might have passed before they broke apart, but Merry could see the aurora still dancing on the horizon. Her lips tingled where his mouth had been, and she raised a gloved hand to touch them. Morag had been right: a picnic under the lights was romantic, even when the temperature was barely above freezing.
Magnús seemed similarly shell-shocked because he was staring as though seeing her for the first time. ‘That was… unexpected,’ he said at last. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I think so,’ Merry said, and her voice sounded peculiar to her ears. ‘Are you?’
He gave the question serious consideration before nodding. ‘Yes. A little surprised, but in a good way.’ There was a brief pause, during which he regarded her with serious eyes. ‘Although it occurs to me that we probably should not have done that.’
She couldn’t argue; it was far too soon for her to be kissing anyone, no matter how tempting it was. And yet Jess’s voice was echoing in her ears: just have some fun. And Merry had to admit, kissing Magnús had been fun. Not least because he was the first man she had kissed who wasn’t Alex.
She sighed. ‘No, we probably shouldn’t. It complicates things.’
‘It does,’ he agreed. ‘And you need time to get over Alex.’
That was true too, although Merry couldn’t help feeling that kissing someone else might help that to happen faster. But clearly Magnús didn’t feel the same way – he’d practically said he wasn’t interested in kissing her again, and that was probably all for the best, given that everyone she knew on Orkney thought she was still engaged to Alex. Kissing Magnús did complicate things and she didn’t need complication. No matter how much she might have enjoyed the moment itself.
Her restless gaze came to rest on the distant dancers. Was it her imagination or were they flickering and fading away?
‘Perhaps the show is over for tonight,’ Magnús said, cutting into her thoughts.
And Merry felt a sudden wave of tiredness sweep over her, a bone-weary exhaustion that went deeper than her body. ‘Yes,’ she said with heartfelt regret. ‘I think it is. We should go home.’
Chapter Thirteen
The creative writing workshop rolled round faster than Merry would have thought possible. After agreeing with Magnús that kissing each other had been a bad idea, she’d done her best to force the memory from her head and had succeeded largely by throwing herself into writing. The result was that she’d spent huge chunks of the ensuing month bent over her laptop, when she wasn’t out running with Sheila, and had become something of a recluse. And now it was Saturday 4th April and she was finding it something of a shock to have to dress in proper clothes and venture into civilization. She wasn’t at all sure she remembered how to hold a conversation.
‘Hello, stranger,’ Niall said, when she arrived at the library just before nine o’clock. ‘I was beginning to wonder whether you’d grown bored with us and done a moonlight flit back to London.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, even though they had been in regular contact via email and she knew he was only joking. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but I got the impression that a Writer in Residence should actually do some writing. So that’s what I’ve been doing.’
‘I know,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘I’ve got spies everywhere.’
Merry grinned as she followed him up to his office. He meant Sheila, she supposed, who was as subtle as an elephant when trying to uncover what Merry was working on. ‘And Robbie, your Tesco delivery driver,’ Niall said, when she mentioned Sheila’s name as a possible spy. ‘He keeps me up to date with how you’re doing, whether you’re getting your five-a-day, that sort of thing.’
‘As you can see, I’m in perfect health,’ Merry said, spreading her arms.
Niall looked at her more closely. ‘You are. Does this mean the training is going well?’
She nodded. ‘It is, although I think Sergeant Major Sheila would like me to work harder. But it’s good to get out of the house – I need someone to make me exercise when I’m deep into writing a book.’
He concentrated on making her a cup of tea before speaking again. ‘So, it’s coming along? The book, I mean.’
Merry considered the 75,000 words of story on her laptop and felt the usual cautious bubble of excitement when she thought about how well it was knitting together. It would need an edit, of course, and she had no real idea whether it would all make sense when she read it back, but it was definitely taking shape. At her current rate of work, she’d finish it by the end of April, which was coincidentally the time when she was meant to deliver the book her agent and publisher thought she’d been working on. But she’d face that problem when she reached it.
‘I think so,’ she said to Niall. ‘I’m enjoying writing it, anyway.’
He nodded. ‘And have you told your publisher you’ve decided to switch genre and write a historical Second World War novel?’
‘No, because I’d quite like to keep enjoying the writing and if I tell them, they might want me to stop,’ she said. ‘As a wise person once said, it’s easier to ask forgiveness than seek permission.’
Niall pursed his lips thought
fully. ‘Wasn’t that Ron Weasley?’
Merry laughed. ‘I have no idea but it works for me.’
‘And you don’t think they’ll mind that you’re working on this book, rather than the one they’re expecting.’
It was a question that had kept Merry awake on more than one occasion, but there was no scheduled publication date for the novel she ought to have been writing; her agent hadn’t wanted to create any false pressure on Merry and her editor had agreed. Even the delivery date of the end of April was more of a guide than a hard deadline. ‘I’m hoping they will just be glad I’m writing again.’
‘A story inspired by Orkney, too,’ Niall said. ‘How could they not be glad?’
Merry hoped he was right. ‘How is the delegate list looking for today?’ she asked, changing the subject before he could ask any more uncomfortable questions.
He handed over a sheet of paper and grinned. ‘You’ve got a full house – twenty eager writers, all set to soak up everything you have to teach.’
She took the list and read the names. As she’d expected, Sheila was there, along with her partner in crime, Bridget; they’d be a handful but nothing Merry couldn’t cope with. And George Armstrong’s name was there too; he was the self-published author Niall had previously warned her about, who thought he knew all there was to know about writing already, but she’d dealt with that type before too. She was surprised to see Clare Watson’s name on the register and said as much to Niall, who told her Clare had signed up after meeting her and was looking forward to the day immensely. And then, right at the bottom, she saw another name she recognized: Magnús Ólafsson.
‘What?’ she muttered, blinking in disbelief.
‘I have no idea,’ Niall said, when she asked if he knew why Magnús had enrolled on the course. ‘Maybe he thinks he has a novel in him too, like at least half the population.’
Merry squared her shoulders. It would be awkward seeing him – they hadn’t really talked much since their ill-fated kiss under the aurora borealis – but he had as much right as anyone to attend the day if he wanted to polish his writing skills. It might even give them the chance to clear the air and get back to being friends, she thought wistfully. Because although she’d been wrapped up in writing for the past month, that didn’t mean she hadn’t missed his messages.
‘There was something I wanted to ask you,’ Niall said, as they made their way downstairs to inspect the room where Merry’s workshop would take place. ‘How well do you know the author Jessie Edwards?’
Merry stopped on the stairs. ‘Pretty well,’ she said cautiously. ‘Why?’
‘We’ve had several requests to invite her to Orkney – she’s built up quite a fanbase here over the last few months – and I wondered whether you might like to do an event together, that’s all.’
‘I’d like that a lot,’ Merry said, beaming at him. ‘She’s one of my very best friends.’
‘Ah,’ Niall said, and gave her a pleased look. ‘I’ll get in touch, see if she’d like to come and visit.’
Merry thought back to the many times Jess had threatened to come up to Orkney and matchmake. ‘I can honestly say she’d like nothing better,’ she said ruefully, and realized she’d have to come clean about her relationship with Alex before then. The last thing she needed was for Jess to drop the truth on an unsuspecting Niall.
‘Excellent,’ he said, and pushed open the door to Merry’s classroom for the day. ‘Now, is there anything you think you’ll need?’
* * *
The workshop was going well, Merry thought as she gazed around the room just before lunch. The delegates had varying levels of experience: some hadn’t written since school, others had dabbled but never made anything stick, and others, like George Armstrong, saw Merry as his ticket to the kind of million-pound book deal he assumed all authors got these days. She’d been tempted to explain the realities of publishing to him – that million-pound book deals were usually the domain of celebrity authors, whose fame could command sales in huge numbers, but she doubted he would listen. So, instead, she focused on offering what advice she thought he might take. Right now, all the delegates were engrossed in an exercise involving the Three Act Story Structure and she hoped they were enjoying it. Sheila and Bridget seemed especially enthusiastic and Merry suspected the story plan they were giggling over owed more than a shade to Jess’s outrageous plots.
By contrast, Magnús had been the perfect student and, once Merry had got over the treacherous surge of lust she’d felt when standing near enough to read his work, she’d been pleasantly surprised by the lyrical quality of his writing. He hadn’t tried to engage her in conversation, had been respectful of her role in leading the workshop and had worked hard. But then, once she’d got over the surprise of seeing his name on the list of attendees, she hadn’t really expected anything else.
Niall appeared just before midday to inform them all that a buffet lunch had been provided in the main hall. Merry wrapped up the session and told them they would start again in an hour. She watched them all file out and smiled when Niall told her he’d taken some food up to his office.
‘I know you’ll want some alone time,’ he said, with a sympathetic smile.
‘Thanks,’ she said gratefully.
She was just about to head upstairs when she saw Magnús waiting nearby, clearly trying to catch her eye. ‘You go up,’ she told Niall. ‘I’ll be there in just a minute.’
Her insides lurched on cue as she got near to Magnús. ‘Good work this morning,’ she said, doing her best to squash the sudden burst of attraction that threatened her composure. ‘You’ve got a real talent for writing – have you done much before?’
‘Some,’ he admitted. ‘But not for many years. It’s surprising how quickly the knack for inventing stories comes back. I can see why you love it so much.’
She lifted her eyebrows. ‘It’s certainly kept me busy over the last month. How have you been?’
His green eyes met hers. ‘Fine. I’ve been busy too, working.’ He cleared his throat and she thought he looked almost nervous; it was such a departure from his usual confident manner that Merry found herself staring. ‘So, anyway, I’ve been thinking and I know you said you don’t want any complications and that’s fine – I don’t either – but I can’t help thinking about that night when we… under the aurora, and I wondered maybe if you might like to give things a go. As in go on a date. With me.’
And now Merry stared even more, because not only was he not acting like the Magnús she knew, but he didn’t sound like him either. ‘I thought we agreed that was a bad idea,’ she said slowly.
He shrugged, and she thought she caught a glimmer of his old confidence. ‘We did. But here’s the thing – life is short and I try to live it so that I can look back at the end with no regrets.’ He hesitated, as though trying to work out what to say, then plunged on. ‘And I think I would very much regret not taking this opportunity to get to know you better, Merry.’
She almost didn’t catch the last sentence because she was distracted by his lips and the memory of kissing them. The trouble was that she wanted the same thing – to get to know him better – but she had the horrible feeling that the more she got to know him, the harder it would be to leave at the end of her time on Orkney. And she was doing so well with her writing – did she really want to risk derailing her progress by indulging in a romance that was doomed from the start?
‘Magnús—’ she began but was distracted by the sudden buzz of her phone in her pocket.
‘Don’t decide now,’ he said quickly. ‘Think about it for a day or two and let me know.’
But Merry wasn’t really listening; she was staring at her phone and wondering why on earth her agent was calling her, on a Saturday of all days. It had to be something serious for Phoebe to interrupt her weekend with work.
‘Sorry,’ she told Magnús in a preoccupied voice, ‘I need to take this call.’
She hurried outside to the courtyard at the front of t
he library, where a couple of delegates were smoking. Finding an empty corner, Merry answered the phone.
‘Hi, Phoebe, how are you?’
‘I’m not bad,’ her agent replied, in a tone that somehow managed to sound irritated and excited at the same time. ‘I’ve just had a very strange conversation with a film producer from LA. Can I ask exactly when you were going to tell me you’d written a historical novel set on Second World War Orkney, Merina?’
Merry felt her blood run cold. ‘Oh.’
‘Yes,’ Phoebe said. ‘Oh. Because I was under the impression that you were busy working on the book you are contracted to write. The one your editor is expecting to receive at the end of this month.’ There was a pause, during which Merry wanted to vanish into a hole in the ground. ‘Does this mean you won’t be delivering that book?’
‘Probably,’ Merry said, wincing. ‘On the plus side, I think my writer’s block is better.’
‘I’m very glad to hear that,’ Phoebe said dryly. ‘It might have been nice to talk about this change of direction before you went hell for leather after it, don’t you think? And it might have been better if I’d actually heard about it from you, rather than from a total stranger.’
Merry closed her eyes. She had no defence, absolutely none, other than the certain belief that nothing would ever come of Sam Silverton’s interest in her story. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I was going to tell you, but it was all going so well and I didn’t want you to tell me to stop.’
There was a long silence and then she heard Phoebe sigh. ‘I’m on your side, Merry. I want you to get better and write things you’re passionate about. But you need to keep me in the loop. I can’t fight your corner if you keep me in the dark.’
She was absolutely right, of course. ‘No, I know,’ Merry said. ‘Sorry.’
This time, Phoebe’s sigh was more impatient. ‘Stop saying you’re sorry. Luckily for you, it seems this producer wants to option the book, based on the outline you gave him. He’s been sounding out studios and has one on board already, pending all the usual legal stuff.’
Coming Home to Brightwater Bay Page 16
