Padruig was a bit of a hermit—he didn’t leave Càidh Island that often, and rarely for more than a few days—but Aonghas’s grandfather was not an ascetic. His books had been bestsellers in the 1960s and 1970s, and they’d enjoyed a resurgence since Aonghas started writing them. His grandfather had plenty of money, and if there was something he cared about, he didn’t mind spending money on it. The wine cellar in the castle was proof enough of that. And the old man’s library had something in the neighborhood of ten thousand books. He’d also spent a fortune to make sure Càidh Island was close to self-sufficient: it was a fortress with the cistern and the diesel stores and the food stocked away in the cellars. While Aonghas always brought fresh produce and perishables, the castle could go for a year, maybe two, between deliveries of water and fuel and dry goods. But really, more than anything, Padruig was a clotheshorse. He’d had his jackets and shirts and trousers made to order in London for as long as Aonghas could remember, and his bootmaker was actually the grandson of the man who’d made boots for Padruig’s father. Aonghas had never been all that particular about clothing himself, and once, when he saw his grandfather’s bill from the tailor, he’d almost fainted. The man was, to borrow an old girlfriend’s expression, always well-turned-out. The problem was that it made it hard to figure out if Padruig was dressed for a special occasion, since he was always dressed impeccably. But the old man had a tell: the houndstooth newsboy hat.
The hat had been a wedding present to Padruig from Aonghas’s grandmother. He’d never met the woman, but when she died it had broken his grandfather’s heart. Even though Aonghas was only seven when his parents died in the crash, he still remembered the way his mother described his grandmother’s death: “For Da, it was like all the color drained out of the world.”
Aonghas had seen his grandfather wear the hat on only a few occasions: his parents’ funeral; Aonghas’s graduation from college; each of the three times Padruig had won a Gold Dagger Award from the Crime Writers’ Association, which, after Lionel Davidson’s death in 2009, left him as the only living author with that hat trick; and the day, when Aonghas was fifteen, when they’d both been invited to Balmoral Castle to go hunting with the queen, who was a huge fan of the Harry Thorton series.
So it was the hat that made Aonghas relax. The ring had been his mother’s, and he’d had to ask his grandfather for it, so both of them knew what was coming this weekend, but seeing that houndstooth newsboy hat on his grandfather’s head made Aonghas realize that if he was nervous about introducing Thuy to his grandfather, and if he was nervous about asking Thuy to marry him—and the Lord knew he was nervous—well, his grandfather was also nervous about meeting his girlfriend.
If anything, however, it almost went too well: Aonghas was left to carry the bags and boxes by himself while his grandfather took Thuy on the five-minute tour that Càidh Island warranted and required, and then showed her around the castle itself. And then, Aonghas was left by himself in the living room to listen to the BBC Radio nan Gàidheal and look out over the water while Thuy showed his grandfather how to make curry.
The news was still dominated by China and the nuclear explosion, but Aonghas found himself tired of it. There was nothing new to report, and it seemed as though nobody really knew anything. By the time dinner was on the table, he was relieved when his grandfather turned off the radio.
“It’s a shame, that sort of thing,” his grandfather said. “I’d like to think we’re at the edge of the world out here, but there are some things that are too big to hide from.”
Thuy poured some more wine and leaned against Aonghas. She smelled of garlic and lemongrass, and he kissed her on the top of the head. Her parents had raised her strictly Scottish, except for cooking, and for that he was thankful. He’d never realized how much he loved Vietnamese food until they started dating. Of course, that was because he’d never had Vietnamese food until they started dating.
“I don’t know, Padruig,” Thuy said. “It seems like you could hide from anything here. You could whittle away a year without too much trouble.”
His grandfather smiled and reached across the table to pat Thuy’s hand. “A year’s not so long, and not everything can be hidden from, dear. Do you know what Oppenheimer said after the first successful nuclear explosion?” Thuy shook her head. “He said, ‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’?”
Aonghas laughed. “You know that’s not true. He said that later, but he didn’t say it at the time. It was only years and years and years later that he said that.”
His grandfather lifted both hands and then pounded them on the table with enough force that the silverware chattered and the wine sloshed in their glasses. Thuy jumped back, but Aonghas didn’t move. He could see the smile on his grandfather’s face. He was used to the old man’s theatrics.
“But it makes for the better story,” his grandfather roared. “The story. The story!” He picked up his knife and pointed it at Aonghas. “Never forget the story.” With that, Padruig put the knife back down and looked at Thuy. “And he doesn’t, you know. He doesn’t forget the story. As much as it pains me to say it, I think the boy is doing a better job with the books than I ever did. Though,” he said, dropping to a stage whisper, “he’s not yet won a Dagger Award.”
Outside, the light looked weaker. Clouds papered the sky, and the water had started to whip up a bit. Nothing to be worried about yet, but it hinted at a coming storm.