Sea Breezes at Brightwater Bay

by Holly Hepburn

  Niall nodded. ‘Mine was delicious too. Compliments to the chef.’

  Helen threw a delighted look back at the checked curtain. ‘I’ll let my grandmother know. Now, can I tempt you with the dessert menu?’

  Merry smiled and exchanged a look with Niall. ‘I think would be rude not to look, wouldn’t it?’

  She had the tiramisu, on Niall’s recommendation, and had to concede it was better than any she’d tasted in London. By the time they’d finished eating, the lunchtime rush seemed to be dissipating and the bakery was much quieter. Helen asked whether Merry might spare a few minutes to pop into the kitchen to meet her mother and grandmother.

  ‘Of course,’ Merry said. ‘I’d love to.’

  She could see the family resemblance from the moment she stepped into the bright, airy kitchen. Morag Rossi might be white-haired and almost bird-like in old age, but her chin was strong and her blue eyes lively, just like those of her granddaughter. Agnes had brown eyes – inherited from her father, Merry assumed – but her smile was identical to Helen’s as she greeted Merry and Niall.

  ‘It’s so wonderful to meet you,’ Agnes said. ‘Helen has been raving on about your books non-stop and we’ve all read them.’

  Merry smiled. ‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’

  Morag nodded at Niall. ‘You made a good choice with this one. She’s got the magic touch.’

  ‘Thank you, Morag,’ Niall said gravely. ‘I think you’re absolutely right.’

  ‘I’m delighted to be here,’ Merry said, feeling her cheeks start to burn. ‘Orkney is a special place.’

  ‘It is,’ Morag said. ‘Especially for those with the imagination to appreciate it. I hope you find some good stories here.’

  Merry knew an opening when she saw it. ‘It’s funny you should say that. Helen told me the story of how you met your husband and – well, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.’ She paused and took a deep breath, deliberately not looking Niall’s way. ‘So, I wondered if you’d mind very much if I used it as inspiration for a story of my own.’

  The words hung in the air for a moment, long enough to convince Merry that she’d made a terrible mistake. Then Morag let out a surprised-sounding huff of laughter. ‘Goodness, I wouldn’t mind at all.’ She fixed Merry with a twinkling gaze. ‘Although I’m sure your hero will have a wee bit more gumption than my Giovanni. I loved him dearly, but I think if I hadn’t told him I was going to marry another man he’d never have found the nerve to come back to Orkney.’

  Agnes stared at her mother open-mouthed. ‘I didn’t know that. I’ve always thought Dad came back because he couldn’t stay away from you.’

  Morag dipped her head. ‘Well, doubtless there was a bit of that too. But he’d got settled back in Italy after the war, remembered how much he loved the warm weather, and I was worried we’d become nothing more than pen pals.’ She nodded at Niall. ‘So, I hatched a plan with Niall’s grandfather and I told Giovanni he’d asked me to marry him.’

  ‘Mum!’ Agnes said, aghast, but Morag simply smiled.

  ‘It worked,’ she said. ‘He came over on the next boat and marched straight round to Ian’s house to tell him I wouldn’t be marrying anyone but him.’

  Merry couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Without asking you first?’

  ‘Without so much as a by-your-leave,’ Morag replied. ‘So, naturally, I told him I wouldn’t marry anyone who hadn’t even the manners to ask me if I would.’

  ‘And that’s when he proposed, down on one knee, by the harbour. With all the fishermen looking on and cheering,’ Helen breathed.

  ‘With an engagement ring he’d bought in Italy before catching the boat,’ Agnes added in a fond tone of voice that told Merry that this part of the story at least was family legend.

  Morag sighed. ‘I suppose I should have played hard to get,’ she said, with a sideways glance that encompassed both Helen and Merry. ‘Isn’t that what you young ladies do now? But I knew I loved him – had done since the first moment our eyes met – and it didn’t seem fair to keep him waiting. So, I said yes. And we were married for forty-three years.’

  ‘It sounds to me like Giovanni had plenty of gumption,’ Merry said, smiling. ‘Although perhaps not quite as much as you.’

  ‘I was only nineteen, but I knew I couldn’t leave it up to him to come back of his own accord,’ Morag said. ‘Men have their uses, but they’re simple creatures and easily distracted. They need a kick up the backside sometimes to make them see what’s in front of them.’

  ‘Gran!’ Helen said, firing an embarrassed look Niall’s way, but his mouth quirked into a wry little smile.

  ‘Och, don’t mind me,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Everyone knows I’m a total disaster when it comes to romance. Maybe I need you to take me in hand, Morag.’

  The old woman shook her head. ‘Someone certainly needs to,’ she said. She glanced at Merry. ‘Anyway, I hope that helps with your story. I look forward to reading it when it’s ready.’

  Merry smiled in gratitude. ‘Thank you. I’ll make sure you’re one of the very first readers.’ She looked at Agnes and Helen. ‘You too. I’d love to hear what you think, when the time comes.’

  ‘And me,’ Niall said. ‘I want first dibs too.’

  Merry laughed. ‘Of course. I’ve never written a historical novel before – you’re going to be my right-hand man for all things Orkney-related.’

  Helen clapped her hands, her gaze sparkling. ‘This is amazing. A Merina Wilde story inspired by my very own family! I can’t wait to read it.’

  *

  And Merry smiled in response, trying to ignore the little voice in the back of her head telling her she was a fool to even consider stepping outside her comfort zone. ‘And I can’t wait to write it.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘Am I keeping you up?’

  Merry finished her second yawn and gave Sheila an apologetic look across the living room sofa, even though the words had clearly been tinged with amusement rather than annoyance. ‘Sorry. I was up late with a book Niall gave me.’

  Her neighbour placed her mug on the coffee table. ‘Sounds like a page-turner. Anything I might have read?’

  Merry gave the question some consideration. As far as she could tell, Sheila’s reading tastes varied from Ian Rankin to Jill Mansell, and she had, since Merry’s arrival on Orkney, developed an almost insatiable taste for Jess’s early bonkbuster novels, which she’d shared with her book club. Niall had mentioned he’d had to put in a special request for additional copies from other libraries to keep up with demand. But Merry had no idea whether Sheila’s range might incorporate a non-fiction account of the Second World War and its effect on Orkney. Perhaps she had read it, given it concerned her home turf.

  ‘It’s called Orkney’s War by Alison Johnson. Do you know it?’

  Sheila nodded. ‘I do – the author came to the islands a few times doing research and suchlike. It’s not my kind of thing, though. I like a good story to sweep me off my feet and it doesn’t feel quite the same when you know it really happened.’ She paused and pulled a face. ‘Especially not when you’re related to some of the people who feature.’

  Merry thought back to the chapter she’d read the night before, which had been about the terrible sinking of HMS Royal Oak by a German U-boat at Scapa Flow in 1939. The ship had been swallowed up by the sea in just minutes, taking 834 men with it. The loss had prompted Winston Churchill to order the construction of permanent barriers to prevent future attacks and the project had taken four years to complete. Helen’s grandfather, Giovanni, had been one of the Italian prisoners of war put to work on the barriers. Did that mean Sheila might have Italian ancestry too?

  But Sheila shook her head when Merry asked the question.

  ‘My father worked as an engineer for Balfour Beatty,’ she said. ‘They were in charge of getting the work done, although he always used to say there was no point in shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted.’r />
  There had been no more U-boat attacks, at least, Merry thought, and the barriers served a useful purpose in connecting the previously isolated islands. She’d used one of the causeways to visit the chapel on Lamb Holm; it was where she’d first met Helen.

  ‘They’re still an impressive bit of engineering,’ she said to Sheila. ‘It must have been very satisfying to be involved with the construction of something that helps so many people every day and has stood the test of time.’

  ‘I’ve never thought of it that way,’ Sheila admitted, after a moment’s reflection. ‘But you’re right – Dad should have been proud and so should I. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye out for his name as I’m reading,’ Merry said.

  As she sipped her tea, she saw Sheila cast a covert look around the croft’s living room. It wasn’t the first time she’d done so in the thirty minutes she’d been sitting on the sofa, and Merry couldn’t imagine what was sparking the older woman’s curiosity.

  A moment later everything became clear. Or at least slightly less puzzling.

  ‘How’s your young man in London?’ Sheila said. ‘Andy, isn’t it? Have you had a wee tiff?’

  Merry felt a rush of blood to her cheeks. There was no possible way anyone on Orkney could know the truth . . . was there?

  She took another sip of tea, hiding behind the rim of the mug to regain some of her composure. ‘It’s Alex. He’s fine and, no, we haven’t argued – what makes you say that?’

  Sheila shrugged. ‘My husband always gave me a card on St Valentine’s Day, even after thirty years of marriage, and sometimes he even managed flowers. I know it’s been almost a week since the fourteenth, but I used to leave the card up for a good few days.’ She gave Merry a shrewd-eyed look. ‘And it strikes me that someone who deals in romance for a living might be the type to expect her man to show how much he loves her, but mebbe you’re not the sentimental type.’

  And now Merry’s cheeks flamed even more, because Alex had always made an effort on Valentine’s Day and she’d felt his absence keenly this year. Not that she’d expected a card – he didn’t even have her address on Orkney – but there’d been no message on her phone, nothing to indicate she was still on his mind. After fifteen years together, she might have expected something . . . but she knew that was wishful thinking. Nothing in the way Alex had behaved since their break-up suggested he felt anything for her, apart from the single message he’d sent a few weeks ago to confirm she’d left London. Jess was right – it was time she got over him. But she wasn’t sure she wanted Sheila to know the truth about Alex. She wasn’t sure she wanted anyone on Orkney to know.

  ‘No card or flowers,’ she said, forcing herself to sound light. ‘We used to do all that in the early days, but not anymore.’

  None of it was a lie, she told herself, but Sheila wasn’t buying it for a second. ‘Not even when you’re hundreds of miles apart?’ she asked, arching her eyebrows.

  It was the only flaw in Merry’s explanation, because that was exactly what most loving couples would do – seek to prove their love to their partner through the time-honoured traditions of the day. ‘Not this year,’ she said and hoped her smile wasn’t as brittle as it felt.

  The other woman studied her for a moment, looking as though there was something she very much wanted to say. Instead, she sighed and folded her hands in obvious disapproval. ‘Well, I suppose it’s your business.’ She fixed Merry with a purposeful stare. ‘And I didn’t come here to poke my nose into your love life – there was something else I wanted to discuss.’

  ‘Oh?’ Merry said, suddenly even more wary.

  Sheila’s eyes gleamed. ‘As you know, my daughter refuses to believe that I’m as fit as I’ve always been and perfectly capable of running the odd mile here and there.’

  Merry hid a smile. Sheila’s idea of the odd mile tended to stretch to five, along the edge of the clifftops that lined the coast, with no deference to the weather or time of year. ‘She worries about you, that’s all.’

  ‘She fusses,’ Sheila replied, with an indignant sniff. ‘But I will say she’s been much better since I started running with you. And what with it being the Orkney half-marathon soon—’

  And there it was, Merry thought. She held up a hand. ‘Let me stop—’

  ‘—I wanted to let you know I signed us both up,’ Sheila finished, as though Merry hadn’t spoken. ‘As a gift from me to you.’

  The sheer brazenness almost took Merry’s breath away. ‘A gift?’

  ‘Aye,’ Sheila replied. ‘Just think of all the plotting you can do during our training runs. You’ll thank me one day.’

  A half-marathon, Merry thought faintly. Thirteen miles of undoubted pain and suffering when the furthest she’d ever covered was three. It didn’t seem possible she’d ever be able to run that far but, then again, she hadn’t known she could manage three, and it had got easier every time she ran. Maybe she’d be able to do it, given enough time to prepare . . .

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘Saturday ninth of May,’ Sheila said. ‘Plenty of time.’

  Merry did a quick calculation in her head. ‘That’s less than three months,’ she said, staring at her neighbour’s complacent expression. ‘You can’t be serious!’

  ‘Of course I am,’ Sheila said. ‘What’s the point of being alive if you never challenge yourself?’

  Ordinarily, Merry would agree with the sentiment, but this seemed impossible. ‘Eleven weeks, Sheila. That’s not a challenge, it’s a death wish.’

  ‘Hush now,’ Sheila said, frowning. ‘You sound like my daughter. No one is saying you’ll set a blistering pace, but imagine the sense of satisfaction you’ll feel when you cross the finishing line.’

  ‘If I cross the finishing line,’ Merry pointed out. ‘If running thirteen miles doesn’t actually kill me first.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Sheila said. ‘Would it help to think of it as part of your Writer in Residence duties?’

  Merry cast her mind back to Niall’s email containing the formal terms and conditions of her role: she was fairly certain it hadn’t committed her to kamikaze death runs along Orkney’s peaks and troughs. ‘How?’

  ‘Contributing to the local community,’ Sheila said. ‘You might inspire me to try my hand at writing something.’

  Suddenly, an idea popped into Merry’s head. ‘I’ll make you a deal. You come along to my creative writing course in April, and I’ll agree to run this half-marathon.’

  The older woman held out a hand. ‘Deal.’

  The alacrity with which she accepted the offer made Merry suspicious, but she knew there was no way Sheila would let her back down now. She took the older woman’s hand and shook it once. ‘I hope I’m not going to regret this.’

  ‘Like I said, you’ll be thanking me,’ Sheila said. ‘Preferably with a mention in the acknowledgements of your next book. Or maybe you could name a character after me.’

  Merry couldn’t help laughing. ‘I’m sure that could be arranged.’

  The conversation moved on as they finished their tea. Finally, Sheila got to her feet with a sigh, and reached for her coat. ‘So, I’ll see you in the morning for a run, yes? A nice four-miler should get the blood pumping.’

  Merry agreed, although she fully intended to stop when she felt she couldn’t take any more. She followed Sheila to the door. ‘See you in the morning.’

  Her neighbour was several paces away when she turned back. ‘I hear you’ve been stepping out with Magnús.’ She paused and fired an innocent look Merry’s way. ‘Now there’s a man who knows how to send a Valentine’s Day card.’

  She was gone before Merry could reply, which was almost certainly a good thing. Sheila’s attitude bore a striking resemblance to Jess’s; in fact, if Merry didn’t know better, she might suspect the two women were working together to push her towards Magnús. And a sly little voice in Merry’s head reminded her that maybe she wouldn’t mind if they succeeded.

  *

&nb
sp; Niall insisted on picking Merry up for their tour of the whisky distillery on Saturday.

  ‘No point in visiting if you can’t sample the goods,’ he told her over the phone on Friday evening. ‘And believe me, you’re going to want to try the whisky. I get the impression they’re laying on a few special treats in your honour.’

  He arrived at 11.30 on the dot and raised both eyebrows at the face Merry pulled as she bent to do up her boots. ‘Bad back?’ he asked as she straightened.

  ‘Bad everything,’ Merry replied, trying not to groan. ‘Sheila made me run for what felt like a hundred miles yesterday and my muscles are making their dissatisfaction known.’

  ‘Ah,’ Niall said, perfectly straight-faced. ‘Has she talked you into the half-marathon, by any chance?’

  Merry reached for her coat and wondered, not for the first time, why her arms were aching just as much as her legs. If the next eleven weeks were going to make her feel this bad, maybe she ought to quit now. ‘How did you guess?’ she said with a sigh.

  He laughed. ‘I’ve known Sheila all my life. When she’s determined to do something, she doesn’t let anything stand in her way. And she’s already worked out you’re a soft touch – she probably didn’t even ask you, just presented you with a fait accompli.’

  ‘Right again,’ Merry admitted. ‘She even suggested it was part of my job as Writer in Residence, although I did persuade her to come to the creative writing workshop in return.’

  The look Niall flashed her on the way to the car was one of amusement laced with pity. ‘Excellent work. I suppose I shouldn’t mention that Sheila was one of the first bookings we took, along with Bridget McGinty.’

  It took a moment for Merry to grasp the implications of his words. ‘You mean I didn’t persuade her at all? She was already coming?’

  Niall started the car. ‘Don’t feel bad,’ he said kindly. ‘Sheila and her pals are famously crafty. There are times when I think even Machiavelli could have learned a thing or two from them.’

  Merry managed a rueful laugh. ‘So I’m beginning to appreciate. I can’t wait to see what they write!’