Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Jake. There you are.’
‘Right where you left me, Frankie,’ said Jake from his bar stool. The fisherman was clearly a bit worse for wear by now, but Frankie had no choice. Needs must. She grabbed his arm. It was solid. Firm. Reassuring.
‘Can you come with me, please?’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ said Jake, his mouth quirking up in a cheeky grin.
Frankie tutted. ‘Not like that, you big idiot. I need you to help me find my dad. He’s not been down for ages.’
Jake frowned. ‘Where’s he been working this morning?’
‘Not sure. Up at the farm, I think. But he’s usually buzzed past on the gator by now.’
Although there was technically a no-vehicle rule on the island, they had a couple of ancient tractors and an ATV that they enjoyed tootling around on delivering hay, animal feed and other supplies or helping the tourists off the ferry with their luggage.
‘This rain’s not stopped for a second, Frankie. He’s probably sheltering somewhere.’
‘I hope so.’ She chewed at her lip.
Jake’s tone softened. ‘Let’s go look.’ He pulled his woolly hat down over his ears.
‘Thank you,’ said Frankie, already halfway out the door.
The wind buffeted them from all sides as they half walked, half staggered up the hill in the middle of the island towards the farm. Rain lashed in their faces. Frankie was already sick of this weather and it had only been a few hours.
‘Soooo…’ said Jake when they’d got under the trees where it was a little more sheltered.
‘So?’ said Frankie. And then, ‘Are you drunk? Probably should have asked that before we left the pub.’
‘I’m not drunk, and I very much resent the accusation,’ said Jake with a definite slur.
‘For goodness’ sake, Jacob, it’s not even the afternoon yet.’
‘What else is a man to do? Can’t fish. Can’t leave. Can’t…’ His voice trailed off.
‘Can’t what?’ she said, not looking at him.
‘Never mind. Look, who’s this Dylan guy anyway?’
Frankie bit her lip again. She definitely hadn’t been thinking about the nearly kiss. ‘Who?’ she said, as innocently as she could manage.
Jake made a kind of snorting noise. ‘You know exactly who I mean. Handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed castaway? Likes to show off his pecs?’
‘Oh… him.’
‘Yes. Him. Who the hell is he?’
Frankie went for a casual shrug, which she didn’t quite pull off.
‘Dunno. He claims to be in a band but I think he’s making it up.
It’s all a bit far-fetched. According to him, he got drunk after the festival and his mates dumped him on the last ferry.
I mean, as if that would happen. I found him in one of the cottages this morning.
Thought he was dead for a bit, in fact.’
Jake gave her the side eye. ‘But he’s not dead, is he? He’s very much alive and trapped here, at your mercy.’ He sounded like he was teasing although his face was serious and he was watching her carefully.
Frankie attempted to laugh it off. ‘Ha. Jake Matthews, who on earth do you think I am? Second thoughts, don’t answer that.’
He didn’t. Jake had descended into a broody silence. He was good at those.
Mercifully they had arrived at the small cluster of farm buildings in the centre of the island.
They could hear the cows moving about in the barn over to their right and for one heart-stopping moment Frankie wondered if her father had been trampled.
She looked over the fence with trepidation but the cows were all happily munching their hay.
It must have been recently delivered as it hadn’t yet been trampled into the mud.
Thankfully, there was no sign of her dad.
A gate clanged open behind them in the little row of terraced holiday cottages up on the hill. Frankie recognised two of their regular clients, Mr and Mrs Fisher, braving the wind, anoraked up to their chins and looking decidedly pissed off.
‘Lovely day,’ said Jake with a grin, and Mrs Fisher gave him a little flutter of her eyelashes.
She must have been at least sixty but her clear blue eyes were bright and the pair of them were as fit as fleas, prone to marching all over the island and spending hours watching the puffins on the craggy southern coast. When the weather was better, anyway.
‘Isn’t it?’ said Mr Fisher, grimly. ‘We’re heading down the hill. Nothing else for it.’
‘Charlie’s got a fire going in the pub, and there’s talk of Scrabble later,’ said Frankie, trying to sound as cheery as she could. ‘It won’t last, this,’ she said, indicating the weather. ‘It never lasts long.’
‘We don’t mind, Frankie,’ said Mrs Fisher, who was still looking at Jake. ‘Can’t be helped.’
‘We’ll see you down there in a bit,’ said Jake, with another of those grins.
‘Come on,’ said Frankie, grabbing his hand and dragging him along the lane towards her house. ‘And stop flirting with the guests,’ she added under her breath when they were out of earshot.
‘Moi?’ said Jake, his eyes wide.
Frankie laughed. ‘Yes, you. Mrs Fisher is old enough to be your gran, practically.’
‘Unlikely,’ said Jake. ‘She’s not bad for a tourist.’
‘Behave.’
As they approached the house, Frankie’s heart began to thump. Let him be okay, she prayed silently. Not only had they seen no sign of her dad, but they hadn’t heard the ATV either, and that was decidedly unusual.
The Manor House loomed on their right-hand side, foreboding under the grey clouds.
It was an old building in grey stone, exact age unknown, and famously once called ‘The ugliest house in Europe’ by a novelist who had been a former tenant of the island.
It had been renovated so many times by various families over the years, with extension upon extension, that it could reasonably be called handsome these days.
At least, her family was incredibly fond of it.
The yard out front was full of deep puddles, and as she stomped through them in her brand-new boots, a memory came to her mind of splashing through this yard as a child in her tiny pink wellies, chasing their ancient family dog Bruno about. Thinking of it made her heart clench.
‘Dad?’ she called out, her voice a little shaky. ‘Dad, are you here?’
Jake appeared from around the corner of the house, shaking his head. ‘He’s not in the garden.’
Frankie opened the front door and shouted up the stairs. ‘Dad? Are you here?’
No response. Her heart thrummed louder in her ears.
‘Where else?’ she said, turning to Jake.
‘Don’t panic,’ he said, clearly seeing it right there in her eyes.
‘Helpful, thanks,’ said Frankie.
‘I mean it. He’ll be okay.’
‘I hope so.’