Wildflower Bay (32 page)

‘This is the one she was talking about.’ Finn pulled a brown, A4 envelope out from the little wooden dresser in the hall. Looking to Shona for approval – she
nodded, smiling – he opened it up, pulling out a sheaf of photographs. Each one was of a young Finn, and Shona. He picked one up, then another, studying them. Shona stood silently by his
side. In every single one of these pictures, Shona was looking at him as he played, or was holding him as a baby, feeding him baby food as a toddler – the one thing linking every single image
was the unmistakable maternal love that shone from her as she looked at him. He turned to look at her, still holding a handful of photographs in one hand. Shona had tears coursing down her
cheeks.

‘I did the best thing I could at the time, Finn –’ she choked, trying to hold back a sob – ‘I’m just so sorry that I couldn’t –’

He reached out, pulling Shona – his mother – into his arms, and held her, and together they cried for the past they’d missed out on, and for Ruth, the mother they’d both
lost.

Later – hours of talking later – they walked back from Ruth’s house to town together.

‘About Mum’s letters.’ Shona, her arm linked with Finn’s, stopped, turning to look at him. ‘Look, you know it goes without saying that if you wanted to join us in
Australia, we’d love to have you, and there’s always a place for you.’

Finn smiled back at her. Shona’s husband, her two girls, and the life she’d built over there didn’t need a hulking great thirty-five-year-old to come marching in and set up
camp in the spare room, even if he’d wanted to.

‘But I suspect your life is here. So I want you to know this – I’ve got some money put away for you. Mum says –’ Shona looked stricken for a moment, correcting
herself – ‘said – you wanted time to focus on your art.’

Finn rubbed a hand over his eyes, thinking of all the times Ruth had told him to stop messing around, stop fearing failure, just get on with it. ‘Yeah, well, she always could see right
through me.’ He laughed, sadly.

‘Well, maybe it’s time to give it a go.’ Shona gave his arm an affectionate rub, and they carried on walking. ‘And about the cottage. I think letting Isla have the use of
it is a wonderful idea. She’s a gorgeous girl.’

‘I know.’ Finn sighed. It was a bit late, really, for regrets. He hadn’t heard from Isla in days. Time to start facing facts: he’d blown it this time, completely.

Isla steered her car down the ramp and off the last boat. She’d only just made it, driving on with a smile of relief as the man on the ground waved her through.
‘I’m only letting you on in the hope I can swap your wee car for my Ford Focus and drive off at the other side,’ he’d teased, winking at her.

She’d only just made the shop in time, as well. With milk in one hand and a box of cereal for the morning in the other, she was juggling her purse and the car keys when she crashed –
full on, ricocheting backwards – into Finn.

‘I’d say fancy meeting you here,’ he teased, ‘but it’s hardly downtown New York, is it?’ He looked her up and down. ‘You look amazing.’

Isla, still clad in her interview outfit, was seriously overdressed for Kilmannan. Over the last couple of months she’d eased off on her super-dressy work outfits, ending up spending most
days in flats and slim black trousers. She’d been secretly quite relieved to lose the heels, and a day in them had just about killed her. Why on earth she hadn’t packed something to
change into was beyond her, but she’d been off the island on the first ferry that morning, and every bit of concentration had been used up on making sure she looked the part.

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ve been wondering where you were.’ Finn rubbed at his neck as he spoke, clearly as uncomfortable as she felt. ‘I was beginning to think you’d disappeared back to
Edinburgh without saying goodbye.’

‘I wouldn’t do that.’ Isla looked at him directly. With heels on, she was almost exactly his height. She took in the stubble, the shadows under his eyes, the hollows in his
cheeks. He looked terrible.

‘I’m glad.’ He frowned for a moment. ‘You don’t fancy a quick drink? It’s just – I’ve got something for you.’

‘Let me take the car back. In fact, if you don’t mind waiting, I might just change out of these shoes.’ She smiled at him. ‘They are absolutely
killing
me.’

Finn followed the little red convertible back to the street where Jessie’s salon stood and waited outside in the Land Rover. Isla, surprisingly quickly, re-emerged in jeans and a pale
cream shirt, a pair of Converse on her feet in place of the skyscraper heels.

‘About that drink.’ She opened the car door.

‘Look . . .’ The letter was burning a hole in his pocket. There was no way he could show it to her in the crowded pub in town. ‘I think we need to go somewhere a bit less
chaotic. You’ll understand when I show you.’

‘OK.’

He set out on the road that ran parallel to the sea, heading south to the tiny collection of houses that gathered around the pale red sand of the bay. There was a little country pub there where
they could sit in quiet and he could show her Ruth’s letter, letting her open it (or not – he remembered his own experience) in her own time.

‘You’re sure you just want a coffee?’

Isla nodded, reaching for the cup gratefully. ‘It’s been a seriously long day.’

Finn reached into the pocket of his shirt, pulling out a small cream envelope. ‘I’ve been carrying this around every day since I found it, waiting for the right moment.’
‘And then I crashed into you. Perfect timing.’ Isla looked over her cup at him, laughing. He seemed nervous, not his usual self. It was probably grief – it affected everyone
differently, and Finn had been so focused before Ruth’s funeral on getting everything sorted that it wasn’t surprising he was coming apart now.

‘I’m going to give you a minute.’ He handed it over. ‘It’s for you.’

Isla looked down at the letter for a second, and Finn slipped out of his seat. She watched him make his way across the empty pub to the bar, where he sat at the far end, looking out of the
window and across to sea.

It was from Ruth. The fine, old-fashioned handwriting was instantly recognizable.

There was a postscript, too, written on the other side of the paper, as if Ruth had saved the best part for last. Isla smiled at it, put the letter back inside the envelope and handed it
back.

Oh, lovely Ruth. She looked across at Finn, who was glancing nervously in her direction. She smiled, beckoning him over.

‘So.’ He took a drink and looked at her. ‘D’you think you’ll make it over once in a while?’

Isla nodded. ‘Once in a while, yes.’

The skies were almost black, and at ten o’clock Finn still had the car lights on. Rain was thundering on the windscreen, and the wipers were struggling to keep up.

He’d been over to Duntarvie House early that morning, sharing a coffee with Kate and Roddy, talking about his plans. He’d decided that Ruth was right – he was taking a couple
of years off, with the money Shona had insisted was his by right, and he was going to put everything he had into making something of his work. He’d stayed up late into the night, gathering a
list of the galleries that he’d worked with before, researching potential new leads. It was time to get his work out there.

He looked up, waiting at the traffic light, seeing the ferry pulling into dock. At the front of the queue, dwarfed by trucks and hulking Range Rovers, Isla’s car was a red exclamation
mark. She was off again.

Kate had taken him aside that morning, whilst Roddy disappeared to take a call. In the quiet of their scruffy, comfortable sitting room, she’d beckoned for him to sit down.

‘It’s not a disease, you know.’ She’d smiled at him, affectionately.

‘What isn’t?’

‘Falling in love.’ Kate raised an eyebrow. ‘Happens to us all, Finn. Even you.’

‘I’m not –’ he began, hopelessly.

‘Of course not.’

‘Look, I fucked it up, Kate.’ He ran a hand through his hair, groaning. ‘It’s too late now.’

‘As you once pointed out to me, Casanova, it’s never too late.’ Kate had reached out a hand so he could pull her up from the sofa. ‘Now get off your arse, and work out
what you’re going to do about it.’

Fine
, thought Finn,
I’ll show you
. As the light turned green, he turned the Land Rover right with a squeal of tyres on wet tarmac, and joined the ferry queue.

His was the last vehicle on the boat – the next one was cancelled, the ticket man informed him, so everyone had decided to cram on. He turned off the engine and headed upstairs to the
cafe.

‘All right, Finn, man, how you doing?’ Rab, Shannon’s boyfriend, raised a hand in greeting.

‘Great, thanks, Rab.’ Finn gave a nod, scanning the passengers who were sitting along the rows of benches. No sign of Isla’s dark brown bobbed hair there. Maybe she was in the
other lounge.

‘Finn, darling!’ Oh Christ, Sandra Gilfillan from the hotel. ‘How are you, sweetie? Haven’t seen you in ages . . .’ Finn managed to give her a vague grimace of
greeting, extracting his arm from her vice-like grip as he strode through the waiting area. No Isla there, either. He was beginning to wonder if he’d hallucinated her car. He spun round on
his heel, checking the long coffee queue. No sign. More people trying to say hello. How the hell did he know so many people on one tiny boat?

‘Kate.’ Dark curls tied back in a ponytail, she was holding a paper cup of tea and an iced bun. ‘What are you doing here?’

She put a hand to her bump, unthinkingly. ‘Forgot I had a scan at the hospital. Mum turned up to pick me up in her car about five minutes after you left. I swear this pregnancy
lark’s doing something to my brain.’

‘Right.’ Finn looked over her head.

‘What are
you
doing on here, anyway? Thought you were going back to sort out the workshop?’ Kate’s eyes lit up. ‘Ahh.’ She beamed at him. ‘I think
you’ll find she’s out on the deck.’

The rain had died down, but the wind was still whipping up spray. He opened the door to the outside deck, hauling it shut as a gust of wind tried to wrest it from his hands. The red metal seats
were empty, soaked with rain.

Even the most dedicated smokers weren’t outside in this weather. And there was no Isla. Unless . . .

He ran two at a time up the metal staircase to the viewing platform. She was holding on to the railing, her hair blowing madly in the wind, looking back at the island as the boat pulled away
from the harbour.

Saying goodbye.

Watching the island as the boat slipped away, Isla smiled despite the rain and the howling wind. She pushed her hair back, realizing it was completely soaked, but not caring.
She never would have thought that she’d grow fond of such a funny little place: the weird people, the tattered little shops. Looking at it now as it grew ever more distant, each street
familiar, she marvelled at how much had changed.

Hearing footsteps behind her, Isla turned.

‘Finn?’ He was soaked, with only a shirt on. It was already dark with sea spray and rain.

‘Isla, I –’ He stopped, a catch in his voice. ‘It’s bloody freezing.’

‘I know.’ She beamed at him, pushing another sopping wet strand of hair back from her face. ‘It’s lovely.’

‘Are you mad?’

‘Probably. It’s all the time I spent on that place.’ Isla motioned to the island, only just visible now as the boat gained speed.

‘When does the new job start, then?’

‘New job?’ Isla couldn’t help it – she was laughing at him.

‘You went for the interview yesterday. I presume you got it – they’d be crazy not to take you, you’re amazing.’ He was completely drenched now, his shirt plastered
to his chest.

‘I got the job, yes.’ She stepped forward and took his soaking wet hand in hers, lacing her fingers through his. She watched his blue eyes widen in surprise. ‘Didn’t take
it, though.’

Shirley Hepworth had been stunned when Isla, with an apologetic smile, turned down the job in favour of staying on to help Jessie, who’d decided that she was absolutely certain about
giving up working life. And Isla had decided, after staying up all night looking up her options online, that life was far too short not to do the things you loved. So she was off – on a whim,
because she could – to spend a fortune in Glasgow on books, and get a head start on her part-time university access course.

But seeing Finn standing there in front of her, soaking wet, she realized that Ruth’s final postscript had been right.

It’s not for me to say, my lovely girl, but I’ve never seen Finn look at anyone the way he looks at you. And when you’re together, you look like an old-fashioned love story.
But it’s not my story to tell, and I’m being the interfering old bag who . . .

Finn kept looking into her eyes as he reached into his pocket with one hand – the other still clasped in hers – and shook the letter out, raindrops splashing onto the page. He
flipped it over to the reverse side where a postscript had been written, and quoted: ‘She might have been “an interfering old bag who read too many romance novels” . . .’ He
folded the letter up, and tucked it back into his pocket. ‘But I think she knew what she was talking about, don’t you?’