12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Cillian pulled his collar up higher and adjusted his cap to shield his eyes. As disguises go, it wasn’t great, but it was the best he’d been able to pull together at short notice.
It was typical that the one time he was stuck in a tiny village with no hope of finding more, his guitar strings snapped, and he didn’t have spares. Calling Nick, who was bound to have a stash, had failed, so he’d decided to head to the city, too impatient to wait for an online delivery.
Apart from anything, he’d been climbing the walls stuck in Kitty’s cottage.
However nice it might be, he was quickly realising he couldn’t escape from his problems that easily.
His leg had gained a permanent twitch, which was mirrored by his left eyelid, and every time he tried to relax, to forget his worries, adrenaline bubbled in his chest, keeping his breath at arm’s length.
He’d survived the music shop without being recognised.
If the owner thought it strange that a man was in a winter overcoat on such a warm day, he didn’t show it, and Cillian supposed he must get all sorts in his shop.
His attempt at an English accent had been laughable, but the man behind the till didn’t flinch, and as Cillian left, he pocketed the packet of strings with a sense of accomplishment.
Now, all he had to do was get back to Saffron Bay without being spotted.
He walked along the street, keeping his head low.
As he passed a bridal shop, a movement caught his eye, and he paused.
His sister emerged from the back of the shop, head to toe in ivory lace. A lump formed in Cillian’s throat.
The dress was stunning, without being remotely over the top. It was long-sleeved and V-necked. It skimmed her body, giving off more of a festival vibe than posh. She looked beautiful, and he wished their mum had been able to fly over in time to share the moment with her.
Cillian brushed his damp eyes with the cuff of his jacket, watching the women gather around his sister. And without needing sound, he could guess at the exclamations they were making.
He should keep walking, but fate had led him here. He could share this moment with Kitty, so he stayed where he was, pulling out his phone to pretend he was sending a message should anyone see him.
Alice stood next to the mirror, in a just-as-beautiful, although very different wedding gown.
Hers was strapless, fitted, and made of plain, heavy silk.
There’d certainly be no confusing the brides.
Both Kitty and Alice twirled around, and a beaming shop assistant topped up glasses from a bottle of prosecco.
Cillian smiled and pressed on further along the street. He was going to make straight for the car park until he found himself outside the local library. He stopped, eyeing the entrance. It seemed too good an opportunity to pass up.
Libraries had always been one of his favourite places.
As a teenager, after school, he’d hidden away with his notebook, writing what at first he thought were poems, but soon realised were the lyrics of songs he was yet to write.
And now, whichever city he found himself in, if he had a spare few hours, he sought out the library.
It was the last place anyone would expect him to be, and it gave him a degree of anonymity he struggled to find in other public buildings.
Cillian stepped inside and walked between the shelves of books.
While there was an extra special atmosphere about libraries housed in grand old buildings, he experienced the same sense of peace he always did, even in this modernist concrete structure.
He found the poetry section and pulled out a volume of his favourite poet, W.B. Yeats. An idea occurred to him, and he pulled out his phone, typing a hasty message:
I’m in Plymouth at the library. Do you want to meet me once you finish shopping and we’ll try again organising this wedding?
He pressed send and settled himself in an armchair. Whether or not May could meet him, he’d found a place of sanctuary and would make the most of it.
May didn’t respond to his message, but an hour and a half later, Cillian looked up to find her standing in front of him.
‘You came,’ he said.
May shrugged. ‘We were done in the shop, and as you’re in town, it made sense.’
‘How did you know where I’d be? This library’s massive.’
‘Which is why I’ve just spent the last fifteen minutes walking round it.’ May threw herself into the armchair beside Cillian with a shake of her head. ‘Are you sure this is the best place to meet? Aren’t we meant to be sitting in silence?’
‘If we talk quietly, we’re all right.’ Cillian pulled out his little black notebook, and when May raised her eyebrows, he laughed. ‘This isn’t what you think it is,’ he said.
‘And what do I think it is?’ asked May.
‘You think it’s that kind of little black book. It’s not. It’s where I write my song lyrics, my ideas for songs, or anything else. Like crazy wedding preparations.’
‘Crazy is right.’ May grimaced. ‘How are we going to do this?’ she said, ‘when we can’t agree on a single thing?’
‘Well … maybe I was a bit judgmental before.’
‘Wow,’ said May, straightening in her chair. ‘Is that an apology?’
‘Not an apology,’ said Cillian, ‘just recognising I’m not quite the perfect specimen I like to think I am and maybe, just maybe, I’m not always right. Take your beach idea, for example. Perhaps it’s not as bad as I first thought.’
‘“Not as bad”?’ May parroted. ‘Wow, now we’re really getting somewhere.’
‘I still have concerns about the weather,’ said Cillian. ‘You can’t rely on anything in this country. What if we set up a beachside wedding, and there’s a storm?’
‘We have to make sure we have cover for light showers, gazebos,’ said May. ‘If, in the worst-case scenario, a violent storm hits the bay, we can decamp to the hall in the old Methodist church. Have you been in there yet?’
‘No,’ said Cillian. ‘I poked my head into the community centre, and it didn’t strike me as the most romantic venue.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said May, ‘but the old Methodist Hall is. It’s a gorgeous old building, and there’d be space enough for all the guests Alice and Kitty want to invite.’
‘Couldn’t we have the wedding there in the first place then?’ said Cillian.
‘You’re still not sold on the beach idea?’
‘I don’t know. It’s a bit risky.’
‘You’re being so negative,’ said May. ‘What if the day is actually beautifully hot and sunny?’
‘In that case, wouldn’t it be overrun with tourists?’
May slowly shook her head. ‘Not if we pick a quieter spot. Oh!’ She sat upright. ‘I’ve had the best idea.’
Cillian groaned. ‘What?’
‘I know exactly where we should hold the ceremony … Grandpa Jack’s beach!’
‘Your grandfather has his own beach?’
May shrugged. ‘He does.’
‘And where is this beach?’
‘About half a mile along the coast from Saffron Bay. It’s beautiful. Secluded. What more could you want?’
‘And he’d be all right with us using this beach, would he, your Grandpa Jack?’
‘Of course. It’s his granddaughter’s wedding. He’d be delighted.’
‘Do I get to see this beach before giving a firm yes?’
May pulled out her phone and scrolled through some photographs. Much as Cillian hated to admit it, the beach was stunning and, more importantly, private.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Say I agree to this. The plan would be, best-case scenario, the wedding’s held on your Grandpa Jack’s private beach. Worst-case scenario, we hold it in the Methodist hall. Is that right?’
‘I think we might have made our first decision,’ said May, holding out her hand for Cillian to shake.