Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
KIT
‘Maisie?’ I call for the third time, irritation climbing up my spine. She was right there in the garden with Cap not fifteen minutes ago when I’d gone to answer a call from Jude about the hydraulics on Dad’s boat – again. Now both of them are gone.
I check her usual hiding spots – the old apple tree with the low branches, the shed with the abandoned rabbit hutch, the stone wall where she used to collect snails, before collecting wildlife became babyish and YouTube shorts were staple. Nothing.
A prickle of unease replaces the irritation.
Sea Salt Bay is safe enough, everyone knows everyone, but Maisie has a knack for finding the one dangerous thing in any given situation.
Last month she decided to ‘surf’ on a floating dock that had come loose from its moorings.
The month before, she attempted to befriend a seal pup whose mother had been circling nearby.
‘Cap!’ I call, knowing the old dog rarely strays far from Maisie. No answering bark.
I pull out my phone, about to call Nina and see if Maisie has gone there, when a sinking feeling hits. Maisie would never just head off somewhere, unless the lure of something new and shiny outweighed breaking rules.
I know exactly where Maisie has gone. And who she’s with.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ I stalk down the lane towards Salt Cottage.
The clouds have cleared after yesterday’s rain, leaving the air sharp and salt-tinged.
It’s Saturday, my day with Maisie and pancakes and doing homework and getting the school uniform washed.
All things I should be doing instead of chasing my film-star-obsessed daughter.
I round the bend, and sure enough, there’s Cap, sprawled contentedly on Salt Cottage’s garden path like he belongs there. He lifts his head as I approach, tail thumping weakly against the ground in greeting. ‘Traitor.’ He thumps his tail some more, clearly unfazed about switching camps.
The gate stands open, although it’s so rickety and wonky now I’d easily be able to see Maisie sitting on the doorstep, a paper bag in her hands, chattering away to Isla Quinn, who sits beside her, wrapped in what look like three different sweaters despite the mild weather.
My steps falter a little.
Even from the end of the path, I can see Isla doesn’t look right.
There is something hollow about her face, dark smudges beneath her eyes.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy knot.
Even when we were teenagers, Isla’s hair was always smooth and shiny.
Running my fingers through the glossed lengths was almost a hobby for me at one point.
She could spend a day on the beach and at the end of it only end up looking more beach-waved and perfect.
Luxurious, I’d call it now. Back then I think my articulation went as far as Fuck, sexy.
I push the gate open with more force than necessary, making its last working hinge creak in protest. Both heads turn towards me, Maisie’s expression immediately guilty – damn right – Isla’s unreadable.
No – not quite unreadable. For just a heartbeat, it’s raw and unguarded, broken.
Something that makes my heartbeat kick up an erratic beat before she blinks it away.
‘Dad!’ Maisie jumps up, already launching into her defence. ‘I was just bringing Miss Quinn – I mean Isla – some of the cinnamon buns that Nina gave us from the freezer. She hasn’t had breakfast yet and—’
‘Home. Now.’ My voice comes out hard, making Maisie flinch.
‘But we were just—’
‘Now, Maisie. You can’t just run off like that, I had no clue where you were. Anything could have happened.’
Maisie tilts her head. ‘Dad, it’s just down the lane.’
‘But you didn’t tell me. You don’t run off without telling me. That’s basic rules.’
Her expression drops. I’m pretty fair. We made a pact after Jess died that we would always stick together, the two of us, and in the brief dimming of her smile I can see her recognise she’s broken that promise.
Cap gets to his feet, tail down. Maisie mumbles a quick goodbye to Isla before trudging past me, shoulders slumped in defeat.
I’m turning to follow when a hand catches my arm, fingers curling around my wrist and holding me back.
‘What’s your problem?’ Isla’s voice is low, just for me. Maisie is ahead and I find myself allowing Isla’s touch to pull me around.
Okay, so maybe I don’t offer any resistance at all, because Isla Quinn has her hand on my skin and it’s the first flash of skin-on-skin human connection I’ve had in a long, long while.
I turn back, and she’s much closer than I expect. Close enough that I can smell the faint trace of the perfume. It’s not fresh, but like a jolt it smacks into my memories. Vanilla and salt. It’s like watching a black-and-white movie of childhood and regret.
It makes me pause.
Makes me breathe.
Makes me close enough that I can see that the hollows under her cheekbones I tried to ignore last night in the dim lighting of The Ship Inn aren’t just shadows, that she’s pale and thin.
Her perfume does something to my brain. Laughter, warmth, wind in her hair, salt on her skin.
I block it. All of it.
‘My problem,’ I say, pulling my arm free, ignoring the ghost sensation of her touch that lingers, ‘is my daughter wandering off without permission to visit someone she barely knows.’
‘She was being kind,’ Isla says. ‘Which is more than I can say for you.’ A small frown chisels into her forehead.
‘Kindness isn’t the issue. Boundaries are. And I can’t have her just wandering wherever she wants. It’s not safe.’
‘Boundaries?’ She laughs, a short, humourless sound. ‘That’s rich, coming from you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means I can see you’ve planted your Isla Quinn picket fence along with the rest of the world and decided what side of it you’re on without giving me a chance to explain anything. Your boundaries are more like no-man’s-land, Kit.’
It takes a moment. A long one. The whole time she’s staring at me, waiting for me to respond.
Wait. What? She thinks this is because of the headlines, what they are saying about her?
My mouth flaps uselessly open.
I step back, needing distance from her. Her teeth catch her bottom lip, a nervous habit I’d forgotten until this moment.
‘There’s nothing to explain,’ I snap.
Something flickers across her face – hurt, anger, maybe. Her chest rises with a sharp intake of breath. She blinks rapidly, and with a jolt it hits me that she’s fighting tears.
‘Why are you being like this?’ she asks, voice suddenly quieter. She takes a step closer, erasing the distance I’d created.
You left. You never looked back. You were supposed to be my fucking best friend.
‘Like what?’ I keep my voice neutral, refusing to acknowledge the tightness in my chest. ‘A concerned parent when my child wanders off?’
This doesn’t even make sense to me, like not even a little bit. But I can’t back down. Can’t show this woman how much her not coming home all those fucking years ago still rankles with me.
‘Like I’m the enemy.’ Her eyes search mine. ‘Which bit of me is so unforgivable, Kit, me leaving, or me not coming back, because if you’d just let me ex—’
‘I need to get back to Maisie,’ I cut her off, spotting Maisie’s yellow rain hat down the lane, blocked by a stone wall and some of Maggie’s roses that have been left to spiral.
‘It’s the weekend, we have plans.’ We don’t.
But it’s not the point in the here and now.
‘And I’m sure you’ve got people who can help you.
’ I don’t know why it rankles, but it does.
Tilly all over Isla last night, saying, ‘You’re dating Reid Usher, aren’t you…
’ and Isla answering with a dreamy, ‘Mmmm.’
Her expression shuts. The slam of the door, the vulnerability replaced by a practiced neutrality that reminds me how many years she’s spent pretending to be other people.
‘Fine. Run along.’ She wraps her arms around herself, knuckles white where they grip her own elbows.
‘Apparently, that’s what you do best now. Go.’
I turn and walk away without looking back, ignoring the part of me that wants to turn around, to explain, to see if she’s watching me leave.
Bollocks.
‘New arrival in town,’ Jude announces later as I descend the dock ladder, wiping grease from my hands.
House-dad jobs done, I’ve come down to the harbour to …
okay, I’m hiding from thoughts of Isla Quinn being just a few doors away from me.
From thoughts of what Marcus Vale may or may not have done to her.
And also thoughts of her in bed with Reid Usher, an actor I actually had some time for, until I thought of him being with Isla.
So yeah. I’m hiding at the harbour. In truth, though, Jude is heading out for a two-day trawl and I don’t want any accidents, not from the boat anyway.
‘Expensive-looking. Designer everything,’ he carries on when I don’t answer. ‘Took a taxi from Truro station, according to Ruth.’
I grunt, focusing on the boat engine I’ve finally managed to coax back to life. ‘Tourist, probably.’
‘In October? Headed straight for Salt Cottage with a suitcase that probably cost more than we hauled in last month.’ He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. ‘Only one person I know staying there.’
My hands still on the rag. ‘Isla has a visitor?’ I ignore the tightening in my chest. ‘Reid Usher, was it? Just what we need. Another celebrity.’
‘Shall we unpick why you instantly think it’s a man visiting her?’ Jude punches me on the arm. Hard. ‘And no, it’s a woman. This one looks important – all angles and sharp edges. Terrifying, really. My type exactly.’
I snort. Jude’s ‘type’ encompasses approximately 90 per cent of the female population. ‘Wait, you called Ruth in the cab office?’
‘Can’t be too sure of strangers these days.’
I snort. ‘You are more of a gossip than Dot.’