Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DOUGLAS
I’m fifteen minutes early, which means I’ve been standing here with nothing to do except check my watch, adjust my collar, and wonder if I’m going to make a complete arse of this.
The harbour is quiet. Most of the boats are in for the night, rocking gently at their moorings.
The only sounds are the creak of ropes, the lap of water against stone, and a pair of oystercatchers having a domestic somewhere along the breakwater.
The evening light is low and gold, making everything look better than it has any right to.
I’m wearing the one good shirt I own: dark blue, button-down, bought for a wedding three years ago and worn exactly once since.
Struan told me to wear it. He also told me to iron it, which I did, badly, so there’s a crease down the front that I’ve been trying to smooth out with my hand for the past few minutes.
I’ve also tidied up my scruff. Properly, not just dragging a trimmer over my jaw at half four in the morning.
I check my watch again. Ten minutes to go.
Christ. I don’t think I’ve been this nervous since . . . I can’t remember when. And I don’t think my palms have ever sweated this much. I wipe them on my jeans. Clean jeans, no fish smell, or at least none I can detect, though my nose might not be the most reliable judge on that front.
I take a breath and let it out slow. Roll my shoulders like that might do something.
And then I see her.
She’s coming along the waterfront towards the harbour, and my brain—which has been overthinking everything, cycling through contingency plans and conversation topics and worst-case scenarios—just stops.
Her hair is down. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen it down before.
It’s always in that ponytail, strands escaping, but tonight it falls around her shoulders in waves, the light brown catching the evening light. It changes her. Softens her.
She’s wearing jeans, fitted ones, and a blue-green top that follows the curve of her in a way her jumpers never do. There’s more of her on show than I’m used to, and I find myself trying very hard not to look at her breasts.
But I can’t help it. They press against the fabric in a way that’s . . . distracting. Jesus.
She’s carrying a small bag, has a light jacket slung over one arm, and is walking towards me with a self-conscious half-smile, like she’s not quite sure what to do with herself.
“Hi,” she says when she reaches me. Her cheeks are pink.
“You look—” I begin, but nothing comes. The sentence just hangs there, unfinished, while my brain frantically searches for something adequate.
Beautiful is what I’m thinking. So beautiful I can barely think straight.
But what I actually say, after a pause that goes on about three seconds too long, is:
“—really nice.”
Really nice. Aye, Douglas. Inspired.
But Ellie smiles, warm and shy, and says, “Thanks. You too. I like the shirt.”
We stand there for a few moments. Ellie tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. I shove my hands in my pockets.
“So,” Ellie says eventually, looking around the harbour. “Lovely evening.”
“Aye. Perfect, actually. Come on. This way.”
I lead her along the quayside towards the Mary Beth. Only, when Ellie sees where we’re heading, she slows.
“Oh. Are we . . . ?”
“Aye. Thought we’d head out for a bit. If that’s all right?”
She glances down at her top, then at the jacket she’s carrying that wouldn’t keep a draught out, never mind an Atlantic breeze. “I probably should have worn a bit more.”
“No.” The word comes out fast, too fast, and before I can stop them, my eyes drop to her breasts again.
I quickly drag them back up. “I mean, you’re grand.
You look—” I stop myself before I say something I can’t take back.
“If you want to go home and change, you can. But I’ve got a spare jacket on board.
It’s not exactly fashionable, but it’ll keep the wind off. ”
Ellie considers this. “Okay. I’m fine for now, but I’ll take the jacket if I get cold.”
Pleased, I step down onto the deck, then turn and offer her my hand. She takes it. Hers is warm and small in mine, but she grips me firmly as she steps aboard.
I don’t let go immediately, and neither does she. Then the boat dips, Ellie sways, and I release her hand to catch her elbow instead. “You all right?”
“I’m fine.” She laughs. “Last time I got on this boat, you were pushing me up from the water and Ben was hauling me over the side. This is a big improvement.”
“Aye. No rescue operations tonight, hopefully.”
She swats my arm playfully, then looks around the deck, taking it in. I watch her notice things. The scrubbed boards, the neatly coiled ropes, the absence of the usual clutter of creels and bait buckets and other gear.
“It looks different,” she says.
“Aye, gave her a bit of a clean.”
That is an understatement. I spent the entire afternoon on my knees with a deck brush and a bucket.
Three rounds of scrubbing to get the bait smell out, or at least reduce it from overpowering to faint.
I stowed the creels on the quayside under a sheet.
Hosed everything twice. But she looks good.
Better than good. She looks like a boat someone might actually want to spend an evening on, which is all I was going for.
“She scrubs up well,” Ellie says, running her hand along the gunwale.
“Aye. Don’t tell her that, though. She’ll get ideas above her station.”
Ellie smiles, and I turn away before she can see how pleased I am.
I start the engine, the familiar rumble settling through the deck, then ease the Mary Beth away from the quay and out of the harbour.
Ellie stands near the wheelhouse, one hand on the rail, watching Ardmara open up behind us.
I keep my focus ahead but catch her expression when I can, and I see it in her face: the photographer’s instinct, the itch to frame the shot.
“No camera tonight?” I call.
She shakes her head. “Thought I’d give myself the night off.”
I take us north, past the headland and into a stretch of water where the curve of the coast shelters us from the worst of the wind.
I know these waters the way I know the rooms of my house—every depth, every current, every place you’d come to grief if you didn’t know better.
Out here, I don’t have to think. My hands know what to do.
I find the spot I have in mind, a stretch where the sea is calmer, then cut the engine, drop the anchor, and let the quiet settle. There’s just the soft slap of water against the hull, the distant cry of a gull, and the faint creak of the anchor chain.
Ellie lets out a slow breath. “Wow. It’s pretty here.”
“Aye.” I take in the curve of the bay and the hills beyond, then look at her. “Not a bad spot.”
“Not a bad spot,” she agrees.
I lay out a picnic blanket on the deck and set down the cushions I pinched off the sofa at home. “Have a seat.”
Ellie settles herself on the blanket, tucking her legs to one side, while I open the cool bag.
I bring out the food: scallops I seared earlier, with butter, garlic, and a squeeze of lemon; a sourdough loaf from the bakery, sliced thick; and a salad I put together.
Also in the cool bag is a bottle of wine Struan picked because I know nothing about wine and wasn’t about to pretend otherwise.
I pour two glasses and hand one to Ellie.
She takes it, and our fingers brush. I notice, she notices, but neither of us comments on it.
“Scallops,” Ellie says, looking at the food spread between us. “Douglas, this is lovely.”
“Well, the twins complain all I ever serve them is prawns, so I thought I’d try something different. Also, I didn’t catch these myself, so if they’re bad, I can blame someone else.”
She laughs, picks one up, and takes a bite. Her eyes close for a second. “Oh, these are good.”
“Aye?”
“Really good. The garlic is perfect.”
I try not to look too chuffed. Probably fail.
We eat and talk, the conversation starting carefully. She asks about the twins. Talks to me about her week at the library. Normal stuff. Safe ground.
But the setting does its work. There’s nowhere to hide on a small boat. No other diners, no background music, no waiter appearing at intervals to interrupt. Just us, the food, and the water stretching out around us. And gradually the conversation deepens.
I tell her about the Mary Beth. How she was Da’s boat before she was mine. How my grandfather fished these same waters, though his boat was smaller and he worked alone. No hauler, no GPS, just knowledge and stubbornness.
“And the name?” Ellie asks. “Mary Beth?”
“Da’s mum was called Mary and his granny was Beth. He combined the two.”
“That’s lovely.”
I talk about fishing—the rhythms of it, how the seasons change where you fish.
The early mornings, when the harbour is dark and the water is black and there are only a handful of lights on.
How you learn to read the sky, the way the clouds sit, whether the swell is building or easing.
How some days the sea gives you everything and other days it gives you nothing, and you go home either way.
I catch myself. I’ve been talking for a while. Ellie is watching me with her chin resting on her hand, her wine glass half-empty, and an expression I can’t quite read.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m probably boring you by talking about fishing endlessly.”
Ellie shakes her head. “Don’t apologise. I like hearing about it.” She pauses. Takes a sip of wine. “I, er . . .” A flush climbs her neck. “. . . think it’s sexy, actually. That you’re a fisherman.”
I stare at her.
“Sorry,” she says quickly, the flush deepening. “That was—I don’t know why I said that.”
“No, it’s—” I clear my throat. “Well. I’ve never heard that one before.”
Leah used to wrinkle her nose when I came home smelling of bait. She’d make comments about the hours, the income, the lack of glamour. Yet here’s Ellie, on my boat, telling me she thinks it’s sexy.