I find the Harbour Inn easily enough—it’s right there in the name, after all—a three-storey building painted a cheerful yellow with window boxes overflowing with petunias. The woman at the front desk has silver hair in a neat bun and the kind of smile that should be bottled and sold as a cure for jet lag.
“Welcome to Ardmara, dear,” she says, handing over an actual metal key, not some plastic card. “First time in Scotland?”
“First time in Europe,” I admit. “Your town is beautiful.”
“Och, we think so. Your room’s just up the stairs, second door on the left. Lovely view of the harbour. I have it down that it’s three nights you’re staying with us, yes?”
“That’s the plan, but I might stay longer. I’m sort of playing it by ear.”
“Well, I’d be glad to extend your stay if that’s what you decide to do. Though with the school holidays coming up, it does get busy. You’ve timed it well, anyway. Weather’s been a bit iffy lately, but it’s due to brighten up from tomorrow.”
My room is small but spotless, with a tartan bedspread that screams, “Yes, you’re in Scotland.” Outside the window, fishing boats bob in the water. The ferry I saw from the hill is now tied up, and cars pour from its belly, clattering down the ramp.
One quick shower and a change of clothes later, I head back downstairs. “Can you point a jet-lagged American toward a good coffee?” I ask the receptionist.
“Oh, the Lighthouse Café does a lovely cup, and their shortbread is the best on the west coast. It’s on the pier. You can’t miss it.”
Outside, the air is sharp with salt and seaweed, and cleaner than I’m used to in New York. A seagull eyes me from a streetlight, head cocked as if hoping I’ll produce a sandwich from thin air. When I don’t, it loses interest.
The Lighthouse Café sits at the base of an old lighthouse, its windows looking straight out over the harbour mouth. Inside it’s a cosy little place with mismatched tables and chairs and the kind of atmosphere that makes you want to settle in with a good book. The woman behind the counter greets me with the same easy warmth as the hotel receptionist, and—blessedly—no spark of recognition. No curious probing about my spectacular career implosion. Just a smile, a latte, and a slab of shortbread I order on the receptionist’s recommendation.
I sink into a corner chair to enjoy it. The shortbread is buttery perfection, crumbling on my tongue with just the right amount of sweetness, while the coffee nudges me a little closer to human.
After I’m done, I pull a black-and-white photo from my bag. Mom found it when we cleared out Granny’s house. It showsGranny as a young girl, no more than eight or nine, beaming at the camera from in front of a whitewashed stone cottage with an arched doorway and climbing roses. It’s the house Granny grew up in. I’ve no clue where it is, but how hard can it be to track down one cottage in a town this size? Besides, who doesn’t love a little treasure hunt?
I leave the café and soon discover finding Granny’s cottage could be harder than I expected. Ardmara is no Manhattan, where everything’s numbered and runs in logical lines. No, this place was designed by someone who likes surprises. The streets curve and twist without warning, and every time I think I’m getting my bearings, the road I’m on decides to become a different road entirely, or splits into two paths that both look equally promising and equally likely to lead me in circles. I don’t really mind, though, because every person I pass offers a smile or a nod, like they’re genuinely happy I’m here. Of course, Icouldstop and show people the photo, ask for directions, but that would spoil the fun. I want to solve this myself.
Before long I’m somehow back at the waterfront, passing a bakery piping out the smell of fresh bread, only for it to be instantly upstaged by the fishmonger next door. A little further on, there’s a window overflowing with tweed caps and tartan scarves, plus a bulletin board advertising everything from ceilidhs to craft fairs.
I’m half-distracted by all the window boxes and painted storefronts when I spot a small building withardmara librarypainted in neat letters above the door.
Books used to be my world. My passion, my career, my whole identity. Manuscripts, deadlines, endless tracked changes, back-and-forth emails with authors. Now books are just a reminder of everything I’ve lost. I should walk past, keep looking for Granny’s house, focus on the reason I’m here.
But my feet have other ideas. Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m pushing through the library door.
It’s small and cosy, with shelves that reach the ceiling and a bay window fitted with a cushioned bench. What stops me in my tracks, though, is the children’s section.
A colourful mural of sea creatures spills across the wall, and on a display table, picture books are fanned out just so. Before I can stop myself, I’m gravitating toward the table.Just a quick look, I tell myself.
Right in the centre of the display is a Katie Morag book,Katie Morag and the Two Grandmothers. Because of course it is. I pick it up almost without thinking, my thumb tracing the familiar cover art, the feisty red-haired girl on her windswept island, perched on a bench between her fancy mainland grandma in pearls and her practical island granny in rain boots.
God, I haven’t seen one of these books in years. I flip it open, and there’s Katie in her tartan skirt, washing a sheep in a bubble bath. A couple of pages later, she’s rolling its wool into curls under a hairdryer. The illustrations are just as charming as I remember, full of character and life, with that slightly chaotic energy that makes them so appealing to kids—and that once upon a time, curled on my granny’s couch in Toronto, was irresistible to me.
My throat tightens. Granny read these to me every summer when I stayed with her while Mom and Dad worked back in New York. We’d spend entire afternoons on the couch, me tucked under her arm, working our way through Katie’s adventures. Granny loved that Katie was Scottish like her, and I loved that Katie was brave and got into scrapes and always figured her way out of them.
Those summers with Granny weren’t just visits, they were the foundation of everything I became. While other kids were at day camps or glued to screens, I was discovering that stories cantransport you anywhere, that books can be friends, that reading is magic. It’s because of those long lazy afternoons with Granny that I fell in love with children’s literature in the first place. That I chose a creative path instead of following my parents into accounting or healthcare administration.
A career I worked so hard for. A career that’s now behind me.
I close the book and set it back, blinking hard.
“Can I help you with anything?”
I turn to find a woman about my age watching me with kind eyes. She’s a little shorter than me, with long, frizzy dark-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and a soft, curvy figure in a baggy moss-green cardigan.
“Oh, I’m not local,” I say. “I’m not here to check anything out or anything. Just... having a look around.”
She laughs, a genuinely warm sound. “Aye, I could tell you weren’t local. I’ve lived in Ardmara my whole life—I know every face in this town. I’m Ellie. Technically, I’m just the library assistant, but since the actual librarian is based at a hub forty miles away, I pretty much run the place.”
