She looked at him. His thick curly hair blew off his strong forehead. He stood on the point, the crags and the bright sky behind him, as blue as his eyes. He looked as if he grew out of the land. He was such an islander, such a north Briton. She couldn’t imagine him in London, could barely imagine him in a town at all. He was grown from the soil he stood in.
She thought about Joel. A movie star, that was what he had been to her. She had to see it. Like that year she’d spent at fourteen watching the Lord of the Rings films over and over again and slowing down the bits with Orlando Bloom in them, thinking that maybe there was a possibility that they might come and film in Mure if they got sick of New Zealand.
That hadn’t happened. Or at least not yet.
That was where Joel belonged. In a little box of fantasy, of something to make your commute pleasanter on a dull day. He had a lovely smile, sometimes—and hey, at least she’d slept with him, kind of, in a funny way. She supposed. But it had been, she told herself firmly, nothing to him. Nothing. There hadn’t been a phone call, not a text, not an e-mail. He’d left and gone back to his old life and forgotten all about her, and the island, and everything. He might be moving to the U.S. and he hadn’t even told her. What was she going to do, waste years on him? Years of her life without him ever giving her more of a thought than Orlando Bloom did?
But looking at Charlie, she felt her stomach flutter. This was real. This was something solid.
“I live in London,” she said.
Charlie shrugged.
“Yes, but you’re Mure. You’re an islander. Or more, if that lot of superstitious maniacs are to be believed.”
“They aren’t,” said Flora.
“Well, all I mean is. Islanders understand one another.”
He swung his arm around her. From their position, at the very end of the point, they could see such a long way around the island. The harbor, the beginning of the endless white beach beyond, the crags behind them, the farm. Bertie down there on his boat, next to the ever-scurrying fishermen; the shops, now closing up for the day, to the surprise of vacationers, who never quite got the hang of the fact that just because it looked like noon didn’t mean that it was. And round to the Rock, the beautiful building there, all ready and waiting for them.
Before her father’s time, most people born on Mure simply never left it. The horizon defined the limits of their entire world. They had visitors, sometimes invaders, but for most, this little village, this stretch of fertile sea and windswept soil, was all they’d ever known. And it was beautiful.
“This is the blood in your veins,” said Charlie in a low voice, and Flora realized suddenly that they were very close together now, as her hair whipped out in the wind and her skirt danced behind her. She turned toward him, blinking as he loomed above her, as solid as the ground beneath her feet.
He reached out his large hand and she took it, gazing out to sea, watching the seals’ heads bob up and down.
“They can’t put a bunch of windmills here,” she said.
“That’s the spirit,” said Charlie. He squeezed her hand and they both looked at it. Then she looked back up at him. Everything—the scudding white clouds, the darting birds, the whispering grass—seemed to slow down. She moved closer to him, just a little.
Suddenly a massive WOAUF! burst out at them from the undergrowth. They jumped back guiltily, both of them.
Bramble was there, woofing at them frantically.
“Hey,” said Flora, kneeling down. “What are you doing?” He kept on woofing, tugging at her arm.
“He’s like Skippy the kangaroo,” said Charlie, laughing as the tension broke. “Look, Flora, he’s trying to tell you something. Has little Timmy fallen down the well again?”
Flora shook her head.
“Don’t be daft; dogs know stuff.”
“Either that or you left a sausage in your pocket.”
“Why would I leave a sausage in my pocket?”
“You’re very committed to your new career in catering?”
Flora smiled, but felt worried.
“Where’s Dad?” she asked Bramble. “Have you run away from Dad?”
She thought of Eck’s serious, weary face as he’d left. She hadn’t seen him on the way down—although she’d hardly been looking, she thought. She’d been walking next to this large, broad man, trying to make her feet match his long strides, thinking of how capable his hands were, how strong he seemed. She shook her head.
“He wants us to follow him,” she said.
Charlie laughed.
“You’re not serious?”
“I need to find Dad anyway.”
“Can you understand all animals, or is it just whales and dogs?”
“You can make smart-aleck remarks,” said Flora. “Or you can come with me.”
Charlie grinned.
“Can I do both?”
She looked at him, squinting in the sun, and they smiled at each other.
“Plus,” she said, turning serious as they headed down off the point, “don’t you have someone you need to talk to?”
People were watching them as they descended into the town together. She wondered if there would be gossip. She had also thought Charlie might reach for her hand again, but he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. She felt herself blush. But she liked having him there.
“Have you seen my dad?” she asked shopkeepers. Andy at the Harbor’s Rest hadn’t seen him; neither had Inge-Britt, who had, Flora had noticed, taken up with a strapping Norwegian lobsterman and seemed as cheerfully and oppressively healthy as ever.
Bramble didn’t seem to be leading her anywhere, just content to know that they were together and that she was on the move. Flora started to get worried. She’d assumed that the pub would be the obvious spot for her father to go and chew the fat and complain about the uselessness of his ungrateful offspring—and, she had hoped, wobble back after a few hours, mind slightly clearer on the issue. But no, there was no sign of him at all.
She didn’t want to call the farmhouse, but she did, quickly.
“No, he’s not back,” said Fintan. “Isn’t he with you?”
“No, but Bramble is.”
“Bramble left his side?”
“I know.”
“And for you, when only terrible things happen to that dog when you’re about.”
“Okay, okay, shut up.”
Fintan paused.
“And you’re one hundred percent sure he’s not in the pub?”
It slightly astonished them both for a moment, realizing how few places there were for him to be, how little he did that wasn’t endless work on the farm. They both fell silent.
“Is the Land Rover still there?”
Fintan paused.
“Yup.”
“Should we just be leaving him to have his walk? I mean, it’s a lot to take in. A lot of new things. And the weather isn’t bad.”
“Probably,” said Fintan. “That is weird about Bramble, though.”
They paused.
“I hate being a grown-up,” said Flora.
“No, it’s awesome,” said Fintan. “Ooh, and how’s that strapping lad of yours?”
“Call me when Dad gets in,” said Flora, hanging up.
A crowd had gathered now; the girls from the bakery were out looking concerned, and Flora could hear mutterings about Eck’s age and general condition. But he wasn’t that old, was he? He was fine, her dad. Wasn’t he?
Clark the police came up, frowning.
“Can’t you alert the authorities?” said a passing backpacker, who’d stopped to see if he could help. Everyone turned to look at him.