Chapter 2
Maeve steeled herself to go out for the milk. If that damned sheep went for her again, she was just going to have to shoot it. Not that she had a gun. She might be able to rustle up a catapult from somewhere, though. One of Glinna's kids must have left something useful lying around.
She peered through the kitchen window. There it was.
Lurking by the garden gate like a little woolly assassin.
The sheep had appeared three weeks ago, having apparently decided that Maeve's herb garden was the finest dining establishment in the Highlands.
It had also decided that Maeve herself was a nemesis of the highest order.
The first time it had gone for her, she'd been so startled she'd dropped a full mug of tea.
The second time, it had actually drawn blood, a nip to the ankle that had required antiseptic and a truly impressive amount of swearing.
By the third time, Maeve had started taking the confrontations personally.
She'd named it Eejit, which was what her grandmother used to call people who couldn't find their way out of a paper bag. The sheep seemed to take this as a compliment.
"Right," Maeve muttered to herself. "Milk. You need milk. You're a grown woman. You've survived worse than a sheep."
This was true. She'd survived a lot worse than a sheep.
She'd survived being nineteen and stupid and convinced she was going to be a star.
She'd survived watching that star implode spectacularly, mostly because she'd been too drunk to hold it together.
She'd survived the long, awful years after, when getting out of bed felt like climbing Everest and staying sober felt like climbing it backwards, in the dark, while people threw rocks at her.
A sheep was nothing. A sheep was a minor inconvenience.
Eejit chose that moment to turn and look directly at the window, as if she knew Maeve was watching.
"I'm not afraid of you," Maeve said, narrowing her eyes.
She grabbed her jacket, checked that her boots were sturdy enough to withstand potential ovine assault, and opened the back door.
Eejit didn't move. She just stood there, watching, her rectangular pupils fixed on Maeve with an expression of malevolent calculation.
Maeve walked slowly toward the garden gate, keeping her eyes on the sheep.
The milk was delivered to the end of the lane.
She made it as far as the gate. Eejit made a rush for her, nipping at the hand that was closing the garden gate just as Maeve pulled it out of reach.
She laughed in shocked surprise and victory.
"Not this time, mate," she said.
Eejit made a sound that was somewhere between a bleat and a snort, then lumbered away off toward the back garden. Probably to poo on something in retaliation. When Maeve returned with the milk, the sheep had relocated to the exact center of her vegetable patch and was methodically eating the kale.
"Oi!" Maeve shouted. "That's my dinner, you arsehole!"
Eejit looked up, chewed slowly and deliberately, and went back to eating.
Maeve retreated inside with the milk. Some battles weren't worth fighting before breakfast.
The cottage was small, stone-built, and older than anyone could remember.
It had been a shepherd's hut once, back when Glinna's family had more sheep and fewer children.
Now it was Maeve's, or close enough to hers.
She'd been renting it for nearly fifteen years, which made it hers by squatter's rights as far as she was concerned.
Not that she'd ever claim those rights. The cottage belonged to Glinna, and Glinna could have it back any time she wanted. Maeve paid her rent on time and kept herself to herself and never caused any trouble, and in return, Glinna let her exist in this little bubble of solitude.
It was a good arrangement. A perfect arrangement, really.
The cottage had thick walls that kept out the worst of the Scottish weather, a fireplace that actually worked, and just enough room for one person who didn't need much.
A bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen that doubled as a living room.
Her guitar sat in the corner, the good one, the one she actually played.
Beside it, a stack of manuscript paper and a laptop that had seen better days.
This was where she worked. Where she wrote songs for other people to sing.
It had started as desperation. She'd needed money and had nothing to sell except the music in her head.
The first few songs had been terrible, written in the shaking aftermath of early sobriety, when she couldn't trust herself to string a sentence together, let alone a melody.
But she'd gotten better. The songs had gotten better.
And somewhere along the line, she'd realized that this was maybe a life she could live.
Write the song. Send it off. Collect the check. Never have to stand on a stage, never have to see her own face on a poster, never have to be Maeve Maureen MacDonnell, lead singer of The Stage Girls ever again.
Some of her songs had even been hits. She heard them on the radio sometimes, sung by people who were younger and stronger than she was. It was a strange feeling, hearing her words in someone else's mouth. But it was safe. Anonymous.
She was halfway through her second cup of tea when she heard chaos approaching.
Glinna Campbell didn't arrive anywhere quietly.
Glinna Campbell arrived with an entourage, whether she wanted one or not.
Today's entourage consisted of four of her six children.
Robbie, who was twelve and had inherited his mother's talent for being in everyone's business; the twins, Isla and Hamish, who were seven and had inherited nothing but a gift for destruction; and somewhere in the midst of it all, a baby that Maeve couldn't quite see but could definitely hear.
"Maeve!" Glinna called, pushing open the door without knocking. "Are you decent? Not that it matters, the twins have already seen everything there is to see in this world, haven't you both?"
"We saw a dead fox!" Hamish announced proudly.
"It was really dead," Isla added, in case there was any doubt. "It smelled."
"Lovely," Maeve said. She stayed exactly where she was, at the kitchen table, while the Campbell family invaded her space. "Tea?"
"God, yes." Glinna deposited the baby, which would be Charity, the youngest and Maeve's goddaughter, into Maeve's arms without asking and started filling the kettle. "Robbie, don't touch that. Twins, sit down. No, on chairs, not on… Hamish, I said chairs."
Charity looked up at Maeve with round, trusting eyes. She was, objectively, a very cute baby. Maeve held her awkwardly, the way she always held babies: like they were unexploded ordnance that might go off at any moment.
"You could look a bit more comfortable," Glinna observed.
"I could," Maeve agreed. "But that would require being a different person entirely."
"She won't break, you know."
"I've heard that before. Generally right before something breaks."
Glinna laughed, which was one of the things Maeve appreciated about her. She never took offense when Maeve was being prickly. She just assumed, correctly, usually, that Maeve didn't actually mean half of what she said.
They'd known each other for years now. Glinna had been the one to find Maeve, back when she'd first fled north, burned out and barely functional.
She'd seen something in the wreck that Maeve had been and decided it was worth salvaging.
She'd offered her the cottage. She'd offered her AA meetings and didn't judge when Maeve showed up shaking.
She'd offered her friendship, patient and persistent, until Maeve had finally stopped trying to push her away.
There weren't many people Maeve trusted. Glinna was one of them. Glinna was probably the only one, to be honest.
"So, I've got news," Glinna said, handing over a cup of tea and extracting Charity from Maeve's arms in one smooth motion. "And you're not going to like it."
"That's a promising start."
"The council's been on again. About the water supply." Glinna sat down at the table, shifting Charity to her hip. "They're finally connecting the cottages to the mains. All the old properties along this stretch."
Maeve felt something cold settle in her stomach. "Connecting them how?"
"Digging. Lots of digging. The whole lane, basically. They'll need access to the cottage, too. New pipes, new fixtures, the lot," Glinna said. "You'll need to move out for a few months. Two, maybe three."
"Move out." The words didn't quite compute. "Move out where?"
"Well, you could stay with us. The kids would love it. Charity adores you."
"Your house has six children in it. And Neil. And those chickens you keep in the kitchen."
"They're not in the kitchen, they're in the utility room, and they're only there because the coop's being repaired."
"Glinna." Maeve's voice came out sharper than she'd intended. She took a breath. "I can't. You know I can't."
Glinna nodded slowly. She knew. She knew about all of it.
The need for quiet, for control, for a space that was Maeve's own.
The way that too many people in one place made Maeve's skin itch and her brain start calculating the nearest exit.
They'd talked about it, in those early days.
About how Maeve had spent years in chaos and now needed stillness like other people needed air.
"Alright," Glinna said. "We'll figure something out. There's time yet. The work won't start for another month or so."
Maeve nodded, but her heart was still hammering.
This cottage was everything. Her sanctuary.
Her safe place. She couldn’t think about leaving it yet.
"While we're on the subject of things that need sorting," Maeve said, pushing down her panic with the ease of long practice, "that sheep of yours is back. "
"Eejit?" Glinna grinned. "She's taken a real shine to you, hasn't she?"
"She's taken a real shine to biting me. And eating my vegetables. Could you, I don't know, fetch her? Relocate her? Perhaps to a different continent?"
"She's good company for you."
"She's a menace."
"Oh well," Glinna was still grinning. "A bit of a menace might do you good."
"She tried to kill me last Tuesday."
"Did she succeed?"
Maeve opened her mouth to argue, then realized she'd been outmaneuvered. "Is she a spy sheep? Is that what this is? Are you using her to keep tabs on me?"
"If I needed to spy on you, I'd just ask the postman. You're not exactly a woman of mystery, Maeve."
"I'll have you know I'm very mysterious. I'm enigmatic."
Glinna snorted and stood up, Charity gurgling happily against her shoulder. "Think about what I said, alright? About staying with us. Or we can find you somewhere else. But you can't stay here during the work. It'll be too disruptive."
After Glinna had collected her children and left, Maeve sat at the kitchen table and stared at nothing.
A few months. That's all it was. A temporary inconvenience. The cottage would still be here when she got back. Nothing had to change.
But even as she told herself that, she knew it was a lie. Change didn't ask permission. It just showed up, uninvited, like a sheep in your garden, and started eating everything you'd carefully cultivated.
Maeve dreaded the idea of not having the cottage. She glared out of the window. Eejit glared back. Maeve stuck her tongue out and she'd swear to any God you'd like that Eejit rolled her eyes.
On the other hand, a sheep-free holiday might not be the worst idea.