Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
LACHLAN
The music carries to us on the breeze long before we reach the harbour: drums thundering in rhythm, pipes skirling over the top, bold enough to rattle windows.
Finn’s practically bouncing out of his trainers beside me, and even Gus is feeding off the energy, tail going like mad as he trots at my side.
Blair tilts her head, grinning. “Is that—oh my God, it is bagpipes! This is officially the most Scottish thing I’ve ever heard. Do you think the pipers will be in kilts?” She shoots me a sideways look, mischief dancing in her eyes. “And when am I going to see you in one?”
I grunt. “Not likely, lass.”
“Shame.” Her gaze lingers on my navy button-down, then drifts down to my chinos. “Though I’ve got to say, you look good today too. Nice to see you in something smart other than your captain’s uniform.”
She’s right. At the weekend I generally just put on whatever I find first in the drawer. But today... aye, today I actually made the effort.
But forget me. That sundress—soft yellow catching the light like bottled sunshine, skimming her curves like it was made for her. Her hair is down and sleek, her long fringe framing her bonny face. She thinks I look good? She should see herself.
“Da! Quit staring at Blair, you’re slowing us down. I want to see the stalls!” Finn hops from foot to foot impatiently.
Christ. My own son, calling me out.
“Sorry, lad.” I give him an apologetic wink. “C’mon, we’re almost there.”
And then we are. The waterfront is packed with folk. Bunting stretches between lampposts, stalls line the street on both sides, and the air is thick with frying onions, sugar, and sea salt. Laughing kids dart through the crowd carrying candy floss bigger than their heads.
It’s busy, all right. Last year I stayed home. Couldn’t face it. But this year’s different. I’m different. Walking into the crowd with Blair at my side, my son buzzing with excitement, and Gus trotting along like he owns the place... it feels less like bracing myself, more like belonging.
“Oh my God, Lachlan, look at this place!” Blair’s eyes are wide, her voice full of wonder.
She points out details I’d have walked right past—the hand-painted stall signs, the sweet smell of tablet, a juggler tossing bright clubs into the air.
Seeing it all through her eyes... it’s not just noise and crowds.
It’s something special, something worth showing off.
“Da! There’s Flora!” Finn pipes up, pointing to her behind a bake stall.
Sure enough, there she is, arranging cakes with her good hand while her other—still braced but now out of the sling—rests at her side. She looks up as we approach and breaks into a bright smile.
“Great to see you all out together!” she calls, and I catch the meaningful look she gives Blair and me. Blair’s cheeks go pink, but Flora just winks. “Don’t worry, dear. Half the town’s already guessed.”
Christ. Is it that obvious?
“Empire biscuits!” Finn’s delighted shout saves me from having to respond. “You’re back to making them again!”
“Aye, and do you know what’s even better? This one’s on the house.” She hands him one—two biscuits wedged together with jam, iced, and topped with a jelly sweet. “For my favourite six-year-old.”
While Finn demolishes it, Blair takes in the display. “Flora, these look amazing. Is that a clootie dumpling?”
“Aye.” Flora beams.
I frown and nod at her wrist. “Shouldn’t you have got someone else to run the stall this year?”
“Och, I can quite manage a cake stall, thank you very much.”
Blair’s already counting out coins. “I have to try it. My gran used to make clootie dumpling. I haven’t had it since she passed.”
She takes a bite, eyes closing, her face softening. “Oh... that’s just like hers. Takes me right back to her kitchen in Toronto.”
Flora glows at the praise. “Proper clootie dumpling is hard to come by these days. It’s a dying art.”
Just then, Logan and Rosie barrel through the crowd like twin hurricanes, Isla close behind. Their faces are painted with elaborate designs—Logan’s a fierce tiger, Rosie’s a rainbow butterfly, and Isla a glittery unicorn.
“Look at our faces!” Logan yells, nearly bowling over an elderly woman with a walking stick.
“Logan Fraser, mind where you’re going!” Douglas’s voice carries over the bustle before he appears, looking as frazzled as ever. Struan saunters behind him, hands in his pockets, grinning like chaos is his idea of entertainment.
Finn stares at the kids’ painted faces in awe then turns to me with pleading eyes. “Can I get mine done too?”
As if I’ve ever been able to say no to that look. “Aye, of course.”
“I’ll show you where they do it!” Logan crows, already shoving back through the crowd.
Blair calls a quick goodbye to Flora, and we follow the kids through the festival. At the face-painting tent, Finn rocks on his heels, jittering with more energy than his small body can hold. Whether it’s sugar from Flora’s biscuit or just the festival buzz , I can’t tell. Probably both.
Douglas edges up beside me. “Heard you were over on Corraig yesterday. How was that?”
“Hard,” I admit. Then, after a beat: “Good, though.”
Blair slips her hand into mine, and I give it a squeeze. Yesterday we faced ghosts together, and today I’m still standing. Thanks to her.
A woman I don’t know stops Blair for a quick chat about the weather and the festival. When she moves on, I lean closer to Blair. “Who was that?”
“Shona from the post office.”
Struan overhears and smirks. “Four years here, Lachlan, and you still barely know anyone. Meanwhile Blair’s been here one summer and already knows half the town.”
He’s not wrong.
“Aye, well. Time I did something about that, eh?”
Struan raises his brows. “That right?”
I nod. “Blair must be rubbing off on me.”
Douglas claps my back. “Good man.”
Finn reaches the front of the queue and soon he’s proudly showing off a small otter on his cheek.
An otter. Of course.
“Oh, Finn!” Blair says, laying a hand on her chest.
He grins back at her.
We drift through the festival together, the kids pulling us from stall to stall.
Feels a bit like Gus isn’t the only one tugging on a lead today.
Logan wins a rubber duck from the hook-a-duck, while Rosie misses every coconut on the shy but laughs like she’s won anyway.
Isla spots a stall selling flower crowns, bats her eyelashes at Struan, and moments later has one on her head.
Blair pauses now and then to admire the craft stalls.
Hand-painted mugs, driftwood carvings, bright watercolours of the harbour.
She looks at it all with the same delight she shows Finn’s drawings, like every bit of it’s worth her attention.
Before long, all four kids are clutching Irn-Bru slushies, tongues already turning orange. I know it’s a bad idea—sugar on top of sugar—but it’s one day a year, and I’m not about to be the killjoy.
Struan disappears for five minutes and comes back triumphant with plastic cups of lager for Douglas and me, a glass of wine for Blair, and a whisky for himself. Douglas takes a long pull of Golden Stag and, for the first time all day, actually looks relaxed.
The kids spot a bouncy castle and charge straight for it, kicking off trainers before I can say a word. “Not sure that’s the best plan after those slushies,” I mutter, but Struan just claps me on the shoulder.
“Relax, captain,” he says with a wink. “Drink.”
So I do.
But after a few minutes of bouncing, I remember I didn’t put any sun lotion on Finn today. “Finn, get down here a minute.”
Predictably, he ignores me.
“Would you mind asking him?” I say to Blair. “He never says no to you.”
She shoots me a grin and bumps her shoulder into mine. “Like father, like son.”
Sure enough, a minute later she’s got him standing still long enough to rub lotion on his face and arms before he clambers back onto the castle.
We linger a while longer, letting the kids bounce and shriek, then continue on to the storytelling tent.
Inside, canvas walls filter daylight to a warm glow.
Ellie sits in a low chair at the front, a picture book open in her lap, surrounded by a semicircle of wide-eyed bairns sitting cross-legged on cushions.
Her voice is calm but animated, and every child is glued to her like she’s some kind of story sorceress.
Our lot march right in and sit down, while me, Blair, and the guys hang back at the rear of the tent with the other parents and grandparents.
It’s a Katie Morag tale, and it doesn’t seem to matter that Finn and his pals missed the start; they hang on Ellie’s every word anyway. As does Blair. Like she’s six herself.
When Ellie shuts the book and everyone claps, Blair leans close to me and whispers, “I loved those stories as a kid. Made me think Scotland was full of adventures and mischief. And it turns out it is—I just didn’t expect the mischief to come from a golden retriever and a grumpy ferry captain.”
I raise a brow at her. “Grumpy? Have I been grumpy today?”
Her smile softens. “No, you’ve not. You’ve been charming all day. Maybe I should check you for a fever.”
I grunt, trying for stern, but my lips twitch anyway.
“Right! That’s me done for now,” Ellie says, standing and smoothing down her long skirt. “But I’ll be back in half an hour with more stories.” Spotting us, she waves us over, and the kids swarm her first. “Look at these beautiful painted faces!”
Logan growls like he’s the fiercest beast to ever stalk the Highlands. Rosie flaps her arms like a butterfly. Isla beams, glitter sparkling on her unicorn horn.
Ellie laughs, admiring them all, then her gaze turns to Finn. “Oh, that otter is wonderful!”
Finn puffs up with pride. “It’s the otter from Blair’s story, The Otter and the Boy . It’s really good. You should be reading it!”
Ellie turns her attention to Blair. “And how is the story coming along?”
“Oh, nearing the end now. But really, it’s just something I’ve been working on for Finn.”