And God, with the light behind him, he looked . . . he looked so handsome. She’d thought she’d started to forget about him. She was wrong. Out of place, of course, in his smart city suit and his phone clutched in his hand, as if it would magically conjure up a signal on its own.
She realized she had flour on her nose, and moved to brush it off. Joel still didn’t say anything. Was he angry? Should she be doing more paperwork? But her brief was to get the island onside, wasn’t it? And that was what she was trying to do.
Joel was taken aback, suddenly, by the startling nature of seeing them there. It was the oddest thing. He’d never known anything quite like this; he had never thought about families, not in this way. But if he had . . . It was so strange. The laughing girl with the pale hair; the tiny child who looked like a miniature witch, who even now was running up to him, that strange white hair cascading out behind her, shouting, “YOEL!” with a huge grin on her face; the music; the turning, laughing women; the soft scent in the air; the warmth of the lights.
It was like walking into something he was already nostalgic for, without it ever being his, without it even having passed him by. It was a very strange feeling. From when he was very young, Joel had learned that if ever he wanted something, he should just take it, because so few people seemed to care what he did or how he did it. But this; this didn’t belong to him. He couldn’t even see how it ever could. You couldn’t buy what they had.
He blinked.
“Sorry,” said Flora, moving forward, concerned at his stern face. Agot meanwhile had grabbed on to his leg and didn’t seem to be in the mood to let go. There was flour everywhere, as well as the salt spray from the harbor. “I’m not sure you’re dressed for Mure.”
Joel didn’t mention the bag full of brand-new outdoors clothes Margo had picked up for him. He’d looked at them and felt it would be unutterably ridiculous to put them on, to pose as something he so obviously was not.
“No,” he said. “I’m not sure I know any other way to dress.”
Suits, Flora thought, were his armor. Why, she didn’t know.
He stepped into the room. They’d kept it feeling like somebody’s house, and the little tables had cloths on them. Every surface was taken over with baking for that night.
“It smells good.”
“Is there something else I should be doing?” Flora asked, a little shakily.
Joel smiled.
“No. I’m not sure these aren’t some of the more useful billable hours we’ve ever done. Can I have a slice?”
“HAVE PIE!” said Agot loudly, offering him a grubby piece of pastry from her little paw.
“Oh,” said Joel. “Actually, you know, I’ve changed my mind.”
Both Agot and Flora looked at him with a comically similar expression.
“Ah. Thank you.”
Bramble got up sleepily to examine him, and added some dog hairs to the mix on his trousers.
“So are you dressing for tonight?” said Flora cheerily, wishing she wasn’t quite so red in the face and sweaty and had washed her hair.
“I’ve got a suit,” said Joel.
Flora looked at him, raising her eyebrows.
“Not a kilt?”
“Oh no,” he said. “No. Definitely not.”
“Well, it’s kind of a tradition.”
“Yes, well, so’s taking heroin and I’m not doing that either.”
“Joel!” said Flora crossly.
“WHA’S HERON?” said Agot.
“Sorry,” said Joel. “Honestly, I’d . . . I’d feel strange.”
“The first time,” said Flora.
Joel shook his head.
“It’s just not me. Is Colton dressing up?”
“It’s not dressing up!” said Flora. “It’s just what you wear. And yes, of course he is. In fact, he’s going a bit too far.”
“What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No, seriously. I want to please the client.”
“Well, you’d better find yourself a kilt, then.”
Joel sighed.
“And how will I do that?”
“One of the boys will have one.”
“Really? A spare?”
“Well, Fintan will be in the kitchen all night. I don’t think he’s wearing his.”
“So he gets to wear trousers like a normal person.”
“Oh no, he’ll have his kilt on. Just his regular one, not his formals.”
“Oh God,” said Joel. “I don’t think so, Flora.”
“Okay.”
“So, is everything . . .? What’s our strategy for tonight?”
Flora looked down at the pies.
“Well, this is mine, more or less.”
“Yes, but apart from that?”
“Just be charming, and mention moving the wind farm farther out if the subject comes up. I’ll point out the councilors to you. Go charm Mrs. Buchanan if you can—she’s tough as old boots. You could talk to my dad. Oh. And Reverend Anderssen. He’s from a proper old Viking family; don’t let the chummy hail-fellow-well-met routine put you off.”
“And being related to the invading power is a good thing, is it?”
“Seemed to work in America,” observed Flora, taking out a batch from the oven and putting another one in.
Joel smiled.
“So if he’s Scandinavian, he won’t mind if I don’t wear a kilt?”
Flora gave him a look.
“Yes, well, try it and see how you get on.”
“Oh God,” sighed Joel, starting to regret his impetuous decision to come.
“It could be worse,” said Flora. “Wait till you see what I have to wear.”
“Well, I’ll think about it.”
He looked as if he were about to tarry a little, but instead he turned back toward the door.
“Right, I’d better check in with Colton.”
“Don’t say I mentioned his outfit,” said Flora. He’d shown her what he was about to wear, and she’d attempted to be complimentary. But Joel just nodded briskly, and was gone.
“HE SAD,” said Agot sagely.
Flora looked at her curiously.
“What does sad mean?” she asked.
“DOAN NO,” said Agot, losing interest. “MORE PIE!”
Chapter Thirty-three
Well, it just about fits,” said Mrs. Kennedy doubtfully.
Flora wasn’t so sure. But everything else was ready. Great jugs of the evening-churned cream, foamy and yellow in the plain earthenware pottery, had been delivered to go with the pies, which would be cut up and served later by the giggling local girls the hotel had recruited to help out. She hadn’t seen Fintan, assumed he was loitering outside the kitchen with the big-boy caterers. Obviously no expense had been spared; she’d seen Kelvin the fisherman and his boys deliver huge amounts of locally sourced langoustines and raised her eyebrows.
“I know,” said Kelvin. “I wish he’d asked us before. How much money does he have, anyway?”
“All of it, I think,” said Flora.
She’d had a quick shower back at the farmhouse, then headed out for the Rock, which was a hive of people setting things up and rushing about busily. She went to the room that had been set aside for performers and looked at her old costume. She’d already brushed the kilt and washed the shirt, bodice, and socks. The shoes she’d had to borrow; her own were so soft and used they were falling apart. Dancers’ shoes weren’t designed to last.