Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
ELLIE
Kate Cairns has been browsing the library shelves for a solid twenty minutes.
This isn’t unusual for Kate. She comes in most Fridays, moves along the shelves at a pace that would make a glacier look hasty, and leaves with exactly one book.
She’s not much of a talker—a nod when she comes in, a quiet thank-you when she leaves—and on any other day that’s perfectly fine.
Libraries are meant to be quiet, after all.
But today I am desperate for a distraction, and Kate Cairns is not providing one.
It’s been a long week. In the space of a few days I’ve run a boat onto rocks, been rescued in humiliatingly damsel-ish fashion by the man I fancy, blamed him for the whole incident, become the subject of a pub-wide toast I did not ask for, and been told by Douglas that he is not available.
The worst part isn’t that he said it. It’s that he’s right. He’s married. He has a complicated, messy situation with a woman who is still, legally, his wife.
None of that is new information. I’ve known it for years. But I suppose I’ve filed it away in the same mental drawer where I keep every other reason this crush, this infatuation, is pointless.
But for him to say it out loud in front of me like that . . .
Well, you know what? Maybe it’s exactly what I needed to hear. I’ve known for ages how stupid my feelings for Douglas are. Maybe now he’s made it perfectly clear he’s “hardly available”, I might actually be able to move on.
So yes, it’s a good thing. Even if it feels really bloody painful.
The door opens, the bell jingles, and because the universe apparently has a highly developed sense of humour, in walks Douglas with the twins.
My stomach lurches. My hand goes to my ponytail—is it tidy?—before I catch myself and press both hands flat on the desk.
Be normal. You are a library professional and this is a library.
“Afternoon,” I say.
Douglas nods. “Afternoon.”
He looks slightly off. He’s not giving off his usual energy, which is tired man moving through a checklist he can’t see the end of. And yes, I know most women wouldn’t find that attractive, but what can you do?
Today his energy is more . . . actually, I’m not sure what it is, but it’s different. He’s carrying a white plastic bag in one hand, and even from here I get a whiff of its contents, something briny and unmistakably of the sea. Wait, has he brought—
“We’re here to see the photos you took before you sailed onto a rock!” Logan announces, interrupting my thoughts.
“Logan,” Douglas says. “Volume.”
“That was my inside voice.”
“Try a quieter inside voice.”
“WE’RE HERE TO SEE—”
“Logan.”
Logan grins, completely unrepentant, and barrels towards my photo display. Rosie follows at a skip, giggling, clearly delighted by Logan’s performance.
“I’ll, er . . .” Douglas gestures towards the display. “I’ll just . . .” He follows the twins across the room, carrying what I strongly suspect is a bag of fish.
“Look at that massive one!” Logan jabs his finger at the picture of the seals. “He’s huge.”
“Don’t touch the display, Logan,” Douglas warns.
“I’m not touching it, I’m pointing at it.”
“That one looks like it’s smiling,” Rosie says. “The one in the water. See its face?”
After another thirty seconds or so, Douglas steers the kids towards the children’s section, then turns and walks over to the desk. Up close the smell from the bag is even stronger.
Douglas jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the display. “I had a look,” he says. “At the new photos.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. They’re good.” He nods once, as if that settles the matter. “Really good. The one of the town from the water is my favourite. You got it just right. Made Ardmara look perfect.”
“Well, I’ve got you to thank for that. You’re the one who gave me the tip.”
Douglas scratches at his scruff. “Aye, well, I didn’t expect it to end with you sailing onto the Sgeirean Glas.”
“Neither did I.”
For a moment we just stand there, the memory of Wednesday afternoon hanging awkwardly between us. Then the smell from the plastic bag drifts up again.
“So . . . the bag?” I say.
Douglas blinks, glances down. “Oh, right. The prawns. Almost forgot.” He sets the bag on the counter.
I look at it. Look at him.
“Prawns,” he says.
“Prawns,” I repeat.
“Aye. From today’s haul. A peace offering.”
Believe it or not, I’ve never been presented with a gift of shellfish in the library before, and I’m not quite sure how to respond. I’m also thrown by his words. A peace offering. Does he feel guilty about what he said last night?
“Douglas, you didn’t have to—”
“Aye, I did.” He shifts his weight. “About yesterday. That comment about not being available. I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”
I’m about to jump in, to tell him it’s okay and make light of the whole thing, but I hold back. Some quieter instinct says, Wait. Let him speak. Listen to what he came here to say.
“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you,” Douglas goes on. “It’s just, when Struan said that thing about us enjoying a private moment, I . . . well, I just . . . reacted. But it wasn’t about you.”
He came here to do this. He walked into the library with his children and a bag of prawns, and he’s standing in front of my desk apologising to me.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I appreciate you saying that.”
He nods, then adds haltingly, “What I said, about not being available. That’s . . .” He exhales. “It’s complicated. With Leah. But I shouldn’t have said it like that. Not to you.”
Not to you. What does he mean by that?
No, don’t go there. It’s an apology, not a declaration. No spiralling off into fantasy land.
“Da?” Logan’s voice carries across the library. “When are we going to see Mum next? It’s been ages.”
Something tightens around Douglas’s eyes. “Not too sure, mate. We’ll see.”
“Okay.” Logan accepts this without question and turns back to whatever he and Rosie are doing in the children’s section, which is hopefully not making a mess.
I know all about Leah. Everyone in Ardmara does. The long absences, the sudden returns, each one framed as a fresh start. Douglas always accepts her back into the house when she reappears, but she never stays long.
I’ve always thought Douglas deserves better than that, but it’s none of my business, and I’m not about to say anything about it now.
“Anyway . . .” Douglas taps a finger on my desk. “Where was I? Oh, aye, I was saying—”
“Why hasn’t that man got a top on?”
This question comes from Rosie, who has wandered up to Kate Cairns and is pointing at the romance novel in her hands. The cover features a shirtless man with so much shiny, sculpted skin it looks like he’s been attacked with a bottle of baby oil.
“Was he too hot?” Rosie presses, her head tilted with curiosity. “Is that why he took it off?”
Kate looks at me with the wide helpless eyes of someone who would very much like to be anywhere else. I’m already moving.
“Rosie,” I say, “there’s a brilliant book about mermaids over here. You like mermaids, don’t you? Want me to show you?”
Rosie considers this. “Are any of the mermaids topless?”
Well, that’s not a question I thought I’d be fielding today. “Er, I don’t think so, no. But the pictures are beautiful. Come on.”
I guide her back to the children’s section, casting a quick apologetic smile over my shoulder. Kate mouths thank you.
When I return to the desk, Douglas says, “Sorry about that. I don’t know what goes on in their heads sometimes.”
“It was a perfectly reasonable question. And the answer is always yes, by the way. He was too hot. That’s the explanation.”
A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Then, “Er, right, so I was saying . . .”
And that’s as far as he gets before Rosie returns, only she’s not carrying the mermaid book but a hardback with a photograph of a rock pool on the cover. “Da, look what I found! It’s about rock pooling. Can we look for starfish tomorrow?”
“Aye, of course.”
Rosie beams then whirls to me. “You should come, Ellie. You could take photos of the rock pools!”
At this, Logan appears out of thin air—I honestly didn’t see him coming over. “Aye! Bring your camera. Da’s terrible at taking photos.”
“I’m not—”
“He always cuts off our heads,” Rosie says.
“Or takes it all blurry,” Logan adds.
“Or takes a photo of his thumb.”
“I’m not that bad,” Douglas protests.
“You are,” the twins say in unison.
I laugh—can’t help myself—but then the implication catches up. They’re inviting me somewhere. With Douglas. On a Saturday morning.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude—”
“Please,” Rosie says.
“Pleeeease,” Logan echoes, drawing the word out even longer.
“You wouldn’t be intruding.” Douglas stuffs his hands into his pockets. “We always take a wee walk along the coast on a Saturday morning. Nothing fancy. You’re welcome to come along if you like.” A beat. “The twins would enjoy it.”
The twins would enjoy it, I notice. Not I’d enjoy it.
I get it. The twins have put him on the spot, and given he came here to apologise, he can hardly withdraw their invitation.
Smiling, I say, “Honestly, I appreciate the invite, but—”
“Aw, have you got something else on?” Logan pulls a face.
“Well, no, but—”
“Then you should come!” Rosie says eagerly.
I give Douglas a look that says help me out here. He smirks and shrugs. “Could be fun,” he suggests.
“Er . . . okay, then?” I hear myself say. “That would be nice.”
“Yes!” Logan pumps a fist.
Rosie does a little victory spin then places the rock-pooling book on the counter, beside the bag of prawns that I still haven’t decided what to do with between now and the library closing at five. “We’ll need to take this with us, so can I check it out, please?”
It’s just gone quarter past five when I let myself into Mum’s house, plastic bag in hand.
Mum and I have dinner together every Friday. It’s one of our routines, and Mum’s routines are the scaffolding her weeks are built around. I don’t mess with them.
“Only me,” I call from the hall.
“In here.”
I head through to the living room, where Mum is in her usual armchair, crossword open on her lap, the television on low. No surprises there. She looks comfortable enough, though there’s a tiredness around her eyes.
“I brought dinner.” I hold up the bag.
She peers at it, then wrinkles her nose. “What on earth is in there?”
“Prawns.”
An expression of profound suspicion creeps across her face. “And what are you planning to do with them?”
“Cook them. Eat them. The usual prawn-related activities.”
“Where did you get them?”
“Douglas Fraser gave them to me,” I say over my shoulder as I head through to the kitchen to set the bag down.
I fill the kettle and pop it on. I could do with a cup of tea before trying to figure out how to cook these things.
Fish fillets, fine. Prawns still in their shells?
That’s a different category entirely. I think I’m going to have to watch a YouTube video.
While the kettle boils, I pop back into the living room, where I find Mum has shifted forwards in her chair. She’s gripping the armrests, her arms shaking as she tries to push herself to her feet. Her multiple sclerosis and sarcopenia have been stealing more and more of her strength.
“Mum, is there something I can get you?”
She lets out a breath then settles back again. It’s not that she can’t stand, but it takes her a while.
“Douglas Fraser, eh?” She eyes me warily. “That’s the fisherman, the one who pulled you off those rocks.”
“Well, he didn’t pull me off, he helped me wade to his boat. But yes.”
Mum shakes her head. “I honestly don’t know what possessed you, Ellie. Going out on a boat on your own. You made a spectacle of yourself!”
My stomach sinks. The rest of the town has seen the funny side. Aye, there’s been a lot of ribbing, but it’s all been good-natured. Mum, though, thinks I made a spectacle of myself, which is just great.
“Right,” I say with forced brightness, because I’m not getting into this again. We’ve already discussed it, a lot. “I’ll go make us a couple of teas, okay? Back in a minute. And Mum, you stay in your chair. I’ve got this.”