Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
BLAIR
Festival music drifts after us as we walk from the ferry terminal back to the house, a cheerful mix of fiddle, guitar, and accordion. I wonder if it’s Ellie performing. Part of me wants to check it out, but honestly, we’re all too beat to care about anything except getting home.
Finn conked out on Lachlan’s shoulder somewhere between the ferry docking and the harbour road.
One minute he was chattering about all the people he’d met today, the next his head was lolling against his dad’s neck, his little arms hanging limp.
Lachlan carries him like he weighs nothing, one big hand steady at his back, the other looped around his legs.
When we get back to the house, Lachlan tips his chin toward the stairs and murmurs, “I’ll get him settled.”
I watch him carry Finn up, noting how he takes the steps slowly, careful not to jostle his sleeping son. Then, kneeling, I slip off Gus’s collar. He barely even lifts his head in acknowledgement. He looks wiped too. After a quick drink from his bowl, he flops onto his bed with a small sigh.
When Lachlan comes back down, he sinks into one of the kitchen chairs with a soft exhale. There’s something different about him tonight. He’s lighter somehow. Like something that’s been wound tight for years is finally starting to uncoil.
“I was going to make myself a camomile tea,” I say, already moving toward the kettle. “Fancy one?” But when I glance back at him, I can tell tea isn’t what he needs. “Or something stronger?”
“I’ll take a dram of whisky.”
He starts to get up but I wave him back down. “Sit. You carried Finn all the way from the ferry. I’ve got this.”
A few minutes later I set his glass down then settle across from him with my steaming mug.
“What a day, eh?” he says, rolling the glass between his palms.
What a day indeed. The reunion with Torq, the parade of islanders who’d emerged from cottages and gardens to greet Lachlan.
Finn being passed from hug to hug, wide-eyed but delighted by all the attention.
The stories people had shared about Leanne, about Lachlan, about their years on that little island.
The way Lachlan had gradually thawed as the afternoon wore on, his smiles coming easier, his laughter more genuine.
“You doing okay?” I ask.
He takes a sip of Scotch, considering. “Aye. Better than I thought I’d be. A lot better, in fact.” He pauses, staring into the amber liquid. “I should’ve done that a long time ago. Seeing the house... seeing them all again... It felt like breathing after holding it in too long.”
I take a sip of my tea—still a bit too hot, but soothing all the same. “Thanks for letting me come with you.”
“Thanks for being there.” His gaze finds mine across the table. “I’d never have done it without you.”
The weight of that admission settles between us.
Part of me wants to ask what this means for us, what happens now that he’s faced his past. He did say we’d figure things out after Corraig, and here we are, home again after visiting the island.
But it doesn’t feel like the moment to press. Not tonight.
So instead I say, “You still up for the festival tomorrow? I mean, you had a lot of people in your face today, and that’s not really your thing. Think you can handle round two?”
He doesn’t even blink. “Let’s do it.”
“Really?”
That half-smile I’ve grown so used to tugs at his mouth. “Aye. It’ll be fun.”