The Cafe by the Sea

And now here he was, doing none of those things: just standing, watching a girl dance, on the northernmost tip of the world. He felt as if he were moving in a dream; in a different world from anything he had ever known, as the past that he never dwelled on came to him in fragments: gliding effortlessly from bullied junior to superior senior at his fancy boarding school, scooping up awards and scholarships as he went; channeling his loneliness and frustration into grasping for everything, in a way that his profession and adopted cities absolutely encouraged.

And as he’d grown older, filled out, the fierce sports training that honed his body into something women couldn’t resist; his ever-growing wealth—he hired someone to find him an apartment and furnish it; the moves to New York, Hong Kong, and now London, but never staying long enough to do more than make more money, hang out with the other associates, let the women come and, ideally quite quickly, go.

And they would shout and scream and cry and tell him he was heartless and soulless and empty, everything people already thought about lawyers, making it an easy profession for him to fall into. As if he didn’t know.

And yet now here he was, out in the middle of . . . God knows where. And there was a girl twirling and flickering in the firelight, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her, and he was still smiling, he realized—not a lawyer’s smile, not a give-me-your-money smile, not a shit-eating grin, not a flirtatious come-on to a wannabe model.

This was a smile that he absolutely, simply couldn’t help; and she held his gaze even as she twined through the web of other dancers, each of them moving so fleetly it seemed impossible they wouldn’t bump into each other as the music came faster and faster, so strange sounding to him, and they were practically a jumping, laughing blur; and he closed his eyes briefly and rubbed the bridge of his nose, because something strange was happening to him and he didn’t know what it was, and it scared him worse than anything ever had, and he wished he hadn’t come.





Chapter Thirty-four


Flora was genuinely surprised at the huge gale of applause that greeted the Mrs. Kennedy Highland Dancers as they ended the dance and with hands on their hips made a low bow. It rolled over them like a wave, and she glanced around those faces that she had found so judging, so hostile before.

Well, now they just looked like faces. Like home. Like people she knew, had always known. She felt a little teary but didn’t want to go over the top, as the girls held hands and bowed once more. Then the full band came on to clear the way for a ceilidh, and she ran back inside to change. She had smiled at seeing Joel, realizing that he hadn’t given in to her teasing and capitulated to wearing a kilt. He was wearing a slightly darker suit; she guessed that was about his limit. It was a message. A sign to her, a reminder that he was slightly apart.

He had, though—and she realized she’d just seen it for the first time—a beautiful smile.

Charlie came up to her on the way in.

“That was . . . that was lovely,” he said, looking rather pink.

“Thank you, Teàrlach,” she said, feeling funny and giggly, as if she had already been drinking Colton’s whisky.

“Will you dance with me later?”

“I might.”

She felt bubbly and fleet and happy . . . and even more so when she caught sight of her father. She hadn’t thought he would come, had told the boys to mention it, but whether or not they would, of course, who could say? And he never went out, not really; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him off the farm.

Of course she’d asked him to visit her in London, but when she prodded her heart, she knew how secretly relieved she’d been every time he’d said oh no, oh no, he couldn’t leave the farm.

But when had he gotten so small? She remembered him striding the fields, huge, with a clutch of dogs by his side, visible from miles off as she sat doing her homework, occasionally glancing up, watching as the shadows passed across the hills, the clouds rushing, chasing one another, bouncing like the April lambs in the stone-covered fields below.

Now she towered over him, it felt like, could see he needed a haircut. He still had some hair, white, over his ears, which were hairy too. He was wearing the old kilt that was all he’d ever needed: a Lindsay, the dark reds faded now, from his own mother’s side; a mainlander, she’d moved up from Argyll to marry his father after he returned from the war and the troop ships of the North Atlantic. He’d never seen the need to buy a new one; it had seen him through every wedding, every Hogmanay, every Viking festival, and every Samhain, and it seemed unlikely to change now. His cheeks were red, the veins broken from years of walking through the wind until he’d become, as the old Mure saying went, a man who couldn’t stand upright; but he was, for the first time since she’d gotten back, looking happy to see her.

“Och yon, dhu,” he said, overcome, and Flora embraced him, the old tweed tickling her nostrils.

“Well, I can’t say . . . I can’t say I like everything that’s been going on, all this fuss and folderol.” He indicated the brilliant room. “But aye, love, she would have been . . . She would have . . .”

But neither of them had to say any more, and they both knew it.

“Come on,” said Flora, rubbing her eyes. “Let’s go eat.”

She’d change later.




In the restaurant, the tables had been cleared to the side, and there was a huge array of food laid out on them, heavy silver plates gleaming on white tablecloths.

There was lobster and Kelvin’s langoustines; herring done the Norwegian way, bristling with little red onions and cloudberries and capers; loaves of crusty rye bread; thick slabs of fresh butter gleaming slickly, great crystals of local salt shining through like jewels. There was locally cured salmon, including the whisky cured, which was always incredibly popular, as well as huge trays of kedgeree.

Nothing fancy, nothing complicated. No posh cooking with frills on top. Just everything that was good and fresh and native to the islands, the type of food that had been cooked and eaten there for centuries, overseen by Fintan, who couldn’t stop grinning.

Whisky, of course, was plentiful, but also gin, which had become a huge export—made in side vats where the whisky was matured, but a lot quicker to produce, with nothing like the twenty-five-year requirement of the single malts—and Colton stood near the refreshments table making sure everyone’s glass was topped up.

And then there were the desserts. Flora couldn’t help a quiet internal smile of satisfaction. The pies, almost all of them perfect, took up a full tabletop. There were cakes too, brought by other people, but the pies were the real sensation, the fruit shining like jewels, the heavy cream pitchers beside them. It seemed almost a shame to cut into them, more than one person commented.

Next to them, on a separate table, with a large mackenzie’s farm banner over the top of it, were the cheeses, cut already into neat triangles, a little taste of each on every plate, with the large wheels at the back, and endless freshly baked oatcakes lined up next to them. It was a feast.

“No, no,” Colton murmured to her, seeing her gazing at the sight. “You go back to a horrible desk in a horrible city.”

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