I rotate back to the view and rake a hand through my hair. “I’m on the ferry to Skye now. They won’t release Grandad for a few more days, so Gran asked me to go up and check on things.”
“Does it look the way you remember?” he asks.
“It does. And it feels the same too. Like coming home.”
CHAPTER TWO
Avonlea – Now
Idrum my fingers on the steering wheel and follow the slow line of cars off the ferry. It’s been a year since I set foot here, and that was only to settle my grandparents’ estate. Before that…
Well, I’d gone a whole decade.
Now though—now I’m here indefinitely.
And it isn’t where I thought I’d ever move to. At least not until recently. Not until I received an offer I couldn’t refuse.
But the anxiety making itself known in my pulse has nothing to do with my love for this place. There’s nowhere on earth as beautiful as the Isle of Skye, in my humble opinion. No. It has everything to do with the memories—the shame and pain tied to this town are what’s kept me from wanting to come back.
I drive down the narrow roads, away from the Armadale Ferry Terminal, toward the town I called home for eight summers. Toward Cluaran, and the Thistle & Tartan Inn.
During those summers, Aileen and Angus Murray were like a second set of grandparents to me. No, they were better, because my grandparents were…
I shake the thoughts of them away. They won’t help me settle in here. It’s enough that I’ll be working next door to their old farm, bombarded by the memories of that place every day.
I’m doing this for Angus, I remind myself. Dying or not, he wouldn’t have asked me to drop everything ahead of schedule without good reason.
But I’m doing this for me too. Living in the city has lost its appeal. It’s busy. It’s noisy. It’s dirty and crowded. Being in Glasgow was the best thing for me and Lennox these past ten years, but I have to believe this change will do us good.
I scrunch my nose against the sting of tears. Leaving my son behind for two months to finish the school year is grating on me. I know it’s what’s best. I know he’ll be fine with Mum and Dad. And I know that making him transfer mid-year would’ve thrown him further off-balance, especially since he’s already struggling. But I feel like I’m missing a limb being this far from him.
Angus said I could take whatever time I need to see him on weekends, and my parents are planning a visit to Skye next month, but it’s hard. I miss my boy even now, and it’s only been five hours since I kissed him goodbye outside his school.
My heart rate picks up as the quaint town of Cluaran appears ahead of me.
When Angus called me two weeks ago and asked me to move up the timeline of our arrangement, I almost backed out completely. I wasn’t ready yet. But I couldn’t do that. Not when I learned he’d had a heart attack. That his heart is failing him, that staying on as head chef of the T&T Pub is no longer an option. His words about wanting to keep the legacy of his kitchen in the family had my eyes overflowing with tears.
Family. The Murrays were family.Arefamily…
And now Angus is dying, and the unfairness of that makes me want to scream.
The Thistle & Tartan Inn fills my windshield. Its white stone walls stand out against the green of the trees and hills behind it, and beyond it is the farm. The farm where I spent my summers. The one I haven’t set foot on since I was seventeen. Not even when I came here last year to finalize its sale. I met with the solicitor in the inn, unwilling to revisit that part of my life. Especially with Lennox in tow.
Little did I know that day would set all of this in motion. Seeing Angus. Seeing Aileen. Remembering the part of myself that loved this place. Loved them. Having them meet Lennox and embrace him with that same love, easily and openly. They healed something in me that day.
I step out of my car and my shoulders fall away from their position close to my ears as the smell of the nearby loch registers as the scent of home. The wooden door before me is adorned with a brass thistle, wrapped in Murray tartan. The deep greens and blues are struck through by a vibrant red, creating a plaid pattern I know by heart. Almost as well as I know my own Stewart family tartan.
The heavy metal handle compresses under my fingers and the door opens silently. Someone must’ve recently oiled the hinges. I lift my chin and take in the entry. Wood paneling, rock floors, cozy couches, and a fire in the hearth warming the space. A wistful smile tilts my lips when I find it still looks the same as it did last year—and every summer of my childhood.
Distracted, I catch my foot on the coat rack and the bloody thing pitches forward. I barely catch it—and myself—before I go sprawling across the floor.
The racket draws the attention of the man behind the reception counter, and his head snaps up. “Christ, are you okay?”
I nearly let the rack drop to the floor in my shock.
You know when you’re watching a movie dubbed in another language and you see the actor,knowwhat they’re supposed to sound like, but the voice doesn’t match with the words coming out of their mouth?
That is my current predicament.
