Chapter 6 #3
Instead, I let them steer the conversation to safer waters – how fishing’s been this season, the new council restrictions, the scandalous price of parking at the beach, the fact that Tom the vet is thinking of expanding his practice to include a shelter for abandoned pets. That’s cute. I’ve always wanted a cat.
The pub buzzes around us, and gradually, I relax. This, at least, hasn’t changed – the warm glow of the lights, the easy laughter, the sense of community that wraps around you like a well-worn blanket.
Every so often, Kit’s gaze brushes mine, but when I meet it, he’s already looking away. It’s like we’re engaged in some bizarre game of emotional chicken, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
I’m halfway through my drink when Maisie reappears at my side, clutching a piece of paper.
‘I brought my drawing to you,’ she announces, placing it on the table with ceremonial importance. ‘Since you couldn’t come over.’
It’s a crayon masterpiece featuring what is indeed a dragon with a mermaid tail, breathing fire over what appears to be a castle made of seashells. In the corner is a small stick figure with wild hair holding what might be a sword.
‘That’s you,’ she explains, pointing to the stick figure. ‘Fighting the dragon-maid to save the kingdom.’
‘It’s brilliant,’ I tell her, genuinely impressed by the detail, imagination. And the sheer level of glitter involved. ‘You’re very talented.’
She beams, cheeks flushing with pleasure. ‘Really? Dad says I’m good, but he has to say that.’
‘Well, I don’t have to say it, and I think it’s marvellous.’
‘You can keep it,’ she says magnanimously. ‘If you want.’
‘I’d be honoured,’ I tell her, carefully folding the drawing and slipping it into my pocket. ‘I’ll put it on the fridge when I get back.’
Kit appears behind Maisie, a hand on her shoulder. ‘Time to go, Mais,’ he says all gruff, gaze sliding past me. ‘It’s getting late.’
‘But Dad—’
‘No buts. You’ve got swimming in the morning.’
She sighs dramatically but doesn’t argue further. ‘Bye, Isla,’ she says. ‘It was really nice meeting you. Again.’
‘You too, Maisie,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the drawing.’
Kit’s eyes meet mine over his daughter’s head, finally. ‘Isla,’ he says with a stiff nod. ‘Welcome back.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, matching his tone.
‘Riveting conversation, you two,’ Frankie mutters into his beer.
Kit’s jaw tightens. ‘Have a good night,’ he says, then steers Maisie towards the door, calling goodbyes to various people as they go.
I nod, because what else can I do. Kit Harding is not the man I left behind.
I watch them leave, strangely hollow, all my insides echoing like a chasm.
This isn’t how I imagined our first real conversation after all these years.
Not that I had a clear picture of what it would be like, but not this.
Not this polite, distant acknowledgment, like I’m something he’s stepped in that he doesn’t know how to remove from his shoe.
I finish my drink and stand. ‘I should head back too. It’s been a long day.’
‘Come by the shack tomorrow,’ Frankie says. ‘We’ve got fresh scallops coming in.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, though we all know it’s a polite no-thanks. I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow. Maybe I’m packing up my Samsonite and moving on again, because this, coming back here, hasn’t felt like I wanted it to. I should have let Piper’s people-who-know-people handle the cottage.
Maybe a twenty-four-hour spa would’ve been better.
I say a goodbye to the pub in general. Nina, the woman with the café, gives me a cheery wave and tells me to pop in.
I do the noncommittal ‘maybe’ again, because yep, that Samsonite is calling loudly.
I could have a car come and pick me up in the hour.
One call to Piper and things would be organised with the tap of manicured nails.
Agendas would be aligned, reservations made.
And I could be anywhere.
Cannes.
LA.
New York.
London.
With every step I take down the uneven cobblestones I’m preparing my grovelling call to Piper. Bail me out, I’ve made a mistake…
Until I see shadows walking ahead.
Kit and Maisie, making their way home from the pub, although where their home is, I’m not sure.
I consider turning around, taking the longer route, but something makes me continue, my footsteps soft on the wonky pavement.
As I draw closer, I can hear Maisie chattering away, her voice carrying in the still night. ‘But Dad, she’s really nice. And she liked my drawing. And she’s Isla Quinn. She was in The Lighthouse!’
Kit murmurs something I can’t quite catch, his voice a low rumble in the darkness.
‘But why can’t we just say hi when we see her?’ Maisie persists. ‘That’s what you always tell me to do with people. Be polite.’
I slow my pace, torn between listening in and giving them privacy, knowing which one will win out. ‘It’s complicated, Maisie,’ Kit says, just loud enough for me to hear.
‘Because she’s famous?’
‘No. Because…’ He sighs, and even from this distance, I can feel the weight of it. ‘Because sometimes grown-ups have history.’
‘Like I’m learning about the Romans at school? Mrs Denver says we should look at pots to know about them.’
I bite down on a laugh while a soft chuckle from Kit bounces into the night air. ‘Not exactly.’
They’re nearly at the fork in the road now where I’ll go right, up to Salt Cottage. I should call out, announce my presence. The longer I wait, the more awkward it becomes.
But before I can speak, Kit’s head turns slightly. His posture stiffens. ‘Hold up.’ He places a hand on Maisie’s shoulder, while I wish he would just give me a smile … something…
Maisie whirls around, face breaking into a toothy grin when she spots me. ‘Isla!’
‘Sorry,’ I say quickly, stepping forward into a patch of moonlight. ‘I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I was just heading home.’
‘We’re going home too,’ Maisie informs me, as if this is a remarkable coincidence. ‘We live in the blue house with the door knocker that looks like a fish.’ She points just along the lane, the same fork to the one I need to take.
‘Oh right,’ I say, though what I remember is the old couple who used to live there, not Kit and his family. ‘Didn’t Jerry and Anne live there?’ I ask, peering up the dark lane.
There’s the briefest nod. No round of applause that I recall the names of previous tenants I haven’t set eyes on in a decade, and I do think that deserves slightly more accolade than a head dip.
‘It’s late, Maisie,’ Kit says. ‘We should let Miss Quinn get home.’
‘But she’s going the same way!’ Maisie protests.
‘Please call me Isla, Kit. I can’t cope with being Miss Quinn the whole time I’m here.’ My heart thumps just with the act of talking to him.
He’s all tall and brooding, this mountain of disdain, and yeah, maybe he hates me, maybe to him I’m the devil in designer clothes who’s come back to his bloody beloved village – but he can bloody stop calling me Miss Bloody Quinn. Right. Now.
‘Isla,’ he says, and he says it in such a way that I die a little on the inside and my eyes prickle at the back with water saltier than that sea right there.
Maisie’s eyes are bugging out and she’s staring between us. Our unspoken tension has got vibes even a child can pick up on.
‘Dad.’ She tugs on his hand. ‘You’re totally being embarrassing right now.’
Kit seems to realise we’re at an impasse.
Refusing to walk together would only make things more uncomfortable.
And I guess no dad wants to be a total dick in front of their daughter.
He drops his shoulders, probably a good thing too before he gets stuck like that.
‘Fine,’ he says, with forced lightness. ‘But straight home, no detours. You’ve got swimming in the morning. ’
‘I know, I know,’ Maisie sighs, but she’s too pleased by this turn of events to truly be annoyed.
And so we fall into step together, the three of us walking down the moonlit lane. Maisie in the middle, chattering away. Kit on one side, silent and tense. Me on the other, trying to read his body language in the dark. Which is like trying to catch fireflies on the first of July.