Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
ELLIE
After Douglas and the twins leave, silence settles over the library.
I stand behind the desk for a moment, listening to it. The building makes its usual sounds: the faint tick of the heating, the gentle buzz of the lights, the muffled cry of a gull outside. Normal. Calm.
I go over to tidy the children’s section.
A couple of picture books have been left open on the beanbags, and a few more are jutting halfway out of the shelves.
I put them all back properly, then spot a green crayon on the floor near the activity table.
I thought I’d cleared all of them up this morning.
I pick it up and drop it into the pot, then glance up at the sea creatures painted across the wall.
You’d never know anything had happened. The kraken washed off without a trace, and the mermaid riding the dolphin—which really was quite good—is gone too.
The look on Rosie’s face when I told her I liked the mermaid, that sudden burst of delight? It was worth it just for that.
Of course, the Frasers’ visit had other highlights too.
You’ve got a good eye.
I straighten the activity table even though it already looks fine.
It was a nice thing to say, a kind, offhand compliment. I should leave it at that, but my brain, unhelpfully, has already latched onto it and refuses to let it go. Which is ridiculous, really. Douglas says one nice thing to me and I react like I’ve been handed a sonnet.
And then there was the other thing. The thing he said after.
The best view of Ardmara is from the water. You’d get better shots of the town from a boat.
I perked up when he said that, like a dog that’s heard the word “walk” and is waiting for the lead to come off the hook.
Because for one ridiculous, heart-skipping second, I thought he was going to follow it up.
Thought he might say something like, You should come out on the Mary Beth sometime. Or, I could show you, if you like.
But of course, he didn’t. Instead, he blinked at me, looked faintly confused, and then the moment passed.
I tidy the last of the children’s section and move back to the desk, where I busy myself with the returns pile.
There are five books to check in, and I give the task more attention than it needs because if I let my mind wander, I’ll start thinking about the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled at me, and that way madness lies.
Here is what I know about my feelings for Douglas Fraser. They are:
Silly.
Adolescent.
Entirely one-sided.
And I’ve been carrying them around for so long now that I barely question them anymore.
It’s not as though he comes without complications.
No, Douglas Fraser comes with two red-haired whirlwinds who drew on my wall this morning and who seem to run on a completely different energy supply from the rest of us.
They’re a lot. Wonderful, but a lot. And he’s steady in the middle of them—patient, solid, always slightly knackered.
If I’m being honest, that’s a large part of the problem.
Because I like the steadiness. I like the big hands and the weary blue eyes and the way he steers the twins through life like a man guiding a boat through weather.
I like that he showed up today tired and smelling of the sea and still managed to be gentle but firm about the mural.
I even like that he’s got a few years on me. More than a few, really. Eight.
But liking someone and having any realistic prospect of them liking you back are two very different things.
The returns dealt with, I drift towards the photography display.
Old photos beside new ones: the harbour then and now, the high street, the old kirk ruins.
I adjust the angle of one of the frames—the harbour shot, the one with the Mary Beth in it—and let my fingers rest on the edge of it for a moment.
I’m glad I only included one photograph of the Mary Beth, because I have rather a lot of them.
It’s one of my favourite things to photograph.
The lines of it. The blue hull against the harbour wall.
The way it sits in the water at dusk, when the light goes soft and golden and everything looks like a painting.
I have shots of it in rain, in mist, in the kind of sharp winter light that makes the colours almost unreal.
I have close-ups of the wheelhouse, the ropes coiled on the deck, the name painted on the bow.
It’s a photogenic boat. That’s all.
I definitely don’t photograph it because of who owns it.
The rest of the afternoon passes quietly: a couple of browsers, a returned book, the clock on the wall ticking steadily towards five. When it’s time, I shut down the computer and switch off the lights, then pull the library door closed behind me and turn the key in the lock.
I pause. From here, if I turn my head to the right and look past the shops towards the harbour, I can see her. The Mary Beth, tied up at her berth, her hull catching the last of the afternoon light. She looks small from this distance. Ordinary. Just another working boat among working boats.
I watch her for a moment, then I pocket the key and head up the hill towards Mum’s.
The front door is unlocked, as always. I let myself in and call from the hall, “Only me!”
“In here, love.”
Mum’s in the living room, settled in her usual armchair with the newspaper and a pen. The television is on low—some antiques programme—and the curtains are half drawn against the afternoon sun. She looks comfortable today, which is good. Her grey hair is neatly combed.
“How was your day?” I ask, bending to kiss her cheek. She smells of the same lavender hand cream she’s used for as long as I can remember.
“Oh, quiet. I watched a programme about the Outer Hebrides this morning. Lovely scenery. Terrible presenter.”
“What was wrong with the presenter?”
“Kept saying ‘dramatic’. Everything was dramatic. The cliffs were dramatic, the seabirds were dramatic, the weather was dramatic. It was raining sideways, Ellie. That’s not dramatic, just unpleasant.”
I grin.
“Anyway, I’m doing the crossword now.” She taps her pen against the folded newspaper. “Four across is giving me grief. ‘Vessel for preserving fruit.’ Six letters, starts with K.”
“Kilner.”
“Oh, Kilner! Of course it is.” She writes it in, satisfied. “Right, that’s given me a few letters for some of the others. Thank you.”
“I’ll pop the kettle on.”
In the kitchen, I go to fill the kettle and find the lunch dishes still sitting by the sink.
Not washed, not put away. It’s a small thing, but Mum has always washed up straight after eating.
Always. In this kitchen, dishes don’t sit around waiting to be dealt with.
She’s house-proud that way. Or at least, she used to be.
I don’t say anything, just roll up my sleeves, run the hot water, and sort them out. By the time the kettle boils, the kitchen looks the way it always does.
I make two cups of tea and carry them through. “There you go, Mum.”
She takes hers with both hands—her grip isn’t what it once was—and settles it carefully on the arm of the chair. “Thank you. Honestly, Ellie, you’re here so often you might as well just move in.”
It’s said lightly, a joke she’s made at least a dozen times before, except I’m never quite sure it really is a joke.
“Mum, I’m only five minutes away,” I say kindly.
“I know, I know. I’m just saying. Anyway, anything exciting happen at the library today?”
We chat easily while the antiques programme murmurs on, and I fill her in on the visit from the primary school and the additions to the library’s mural. Mum is appalled and doesn’t see the funny side at all. I have to assure her the mural is as good as new.
“What are you having for dinner?” I ask after I’ve finished my tea.
“Oh, I’ll sort something later. There’s a tin of soup in the cupboard.”
“I can heat it up before I go.”
“Ellie, I am perfectly capable of heating soup.”
“I know, but I’m here anyway.”
She hesitates, then sighs. “Well, in that case, I won’t say no.”
So I prepare her dinner, make sure she’s got everything for the evening, then kiss her cheek and let myself out.
Five minutes later I’m back at my wee cottage. After changing into pyjamas, I make my own dinner—cheesy pasta, because it’s Monday and that’s about as ambitious as I’m prepared to be.
I eat at the kitchen table with a book propped open in front of me. The house is quiet, just the clock ticking and the wind pressing softly against the windows.
I can’t seem to focus on the words tonight.
Instead, I find myself thinking about Douglas.
About the evening he described: feeding the twins, bathing them, then collapsing.
I imagine the noise of a house with two seven-year-olds who’ve been cooped up at school all day and have finally been let loose.
Douglas in the middle of it, sleeves rolled up, tired but there.
Meanwhile, my own evening stretches out, quiet and still.
I close the book. I’ve read the same paragraph three times.
The thing is, I know exactly what this is. A secret, stubborn, completely pointless crush on a man who is not available to me, and who has never once looked at me with anything resembling romantic interest.
It’s ridiculous, and it’s long past time I got over it. It’s not as though anything is going to happen between us. It can’t.
I wash up, dry the dishes, and put them away. Then I stand at the kitchen window for a moment, looking out. Beyond my garden and the rooftops below, a strip of sea catches the fading light.
I really should stop thinking about what he said.
The best view of Ardmara is from the water.
But I can’t help wondering how it would look through my camera. The town from the sea, framed through my lens. A shot I’ve never had.
Aye, Douglas didn’t offer to take me out on his boat, but why should I let that stop me?