I don’t let my smile drop, but inwardly I’m thinking,Shit, Ainsley’s going to see that letter.
She’ll probably think that I put Isla up to it. That I’m trying to worm my way back in through the kids. That I can’t respect her boundaries.
“Oh, right. I didn’t hear you going out. That was a really nice thing to do.”
Isla beams.
I dry my hands on the tea towel, thinking. Icouldleave it. Let the letter speak for itself. But if Ainsley thinks I orchestrated it—if she thinks I’m playing games?—
“Give me two minutes,” I tell Isla. “I just need to write a quick note.”
I find a scrap of paper and a pen, and scribble:
Just so you know, Isla wrote that note herself. She didn’t tell me about it until after she’d posted it. S.
Short. Factual. Nothing that could be misread.
I slip it through Ainsley’s letterbox.
Back inside, I check the time. “All right, princess, we better get you back to Bannock, eh?”
CHAPTER THIRTY
AINSLEY
Tuesday
A hairdryer whirs. Scissors snip. The till drawer slides open with a satisfyingclackthat’s becoming pleasantly familiar.
Three weeks in, and the salon isbusy. The appointment book is filling up. Word is spreading. I’m not just surviving—I’m building something.
This is what I wanted. What I worked for.
I should be proud. Content.
And I am. Obviously, I am.
As I work on Mrs Patterson’s hair, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. Smile in place. Posture confident. The picture of a woman who has her shit together.
So why does something feel . . . off?
I push the thought aside and reach for my thinning shears.
Wednesday
The Ferryman’s Rest is a lot quieter on a Wednesday than a Thursday. Means Blair and I can have a proper catch-up without our conversation being drowned out by a certain folk band.
“Cheers,” Blair says, raising her glass to mine.
“Cheers.” I take a sip of the white wine, letting the crisp tartness settle on my tongue.
We chat about nothing for a while—Finn’s new obsession with dinosaur facts, Lily’s ongoing Barbie empire, the weather turning properly autumnal. Easy, comfortable stuff.
Then Blair tilts her head, that gentle curiosity in her eyes that I’ve learned means she’s about to ask something I won’t want to answer.
“So,” she says. “Struan.”
I set my glass down. “Aye? What about him?”
