I’d attended these meetings every month for a year, and hand on my heart, I still couldn’t pinpoint when the actual planning happened. From what I could tell, it was little more than an excuse for bored parents and almost retirees to chit-chat and pretend they were actually doing something meaningful with their time.
I needed that spot. Needed that prize money. Even if I’d have to face Annabelle and a room full of whispering gossips to get it.
Steeling myself, I slipped through the door of the tasting room, following the fly-trap buzz of conversation that suggested I was probably one of the last to arrive. The tasting room smelled faintly of egg sandwiches and sweat since everyone had come straight from work or childcare duties, but I kept my head down and beelined for the buffet table.
If I was here, might as well leave with a full belly.
“Isla, I thought that was you.” Regret instantly threatened to swallow me whole when Duncan grabbed my wrist, making me miss out on the last cheese sandwich. “I didn’t expect you to be back on your feet so soon after the accident.”
Typical Duncan prying. He made a point of keeping up to date on all the village “news”. A busybody if you asked me. Usually I’d avoid him, but given his role as commentator and head judge at the Cairn & Crust, it was in my best interest to keep him sweet.
“Oh, it was nothing. Barely more than a scratch.” Extracting my wrist, I choked down a very dry mouthful of sausage roll.
The pastry definitely needed more butter.
Duncan threw a hand over his heart, making the sandwiches stacked on his paper plate tilt precariously. “Marie sent me the footage; I’ve watched it at least a dozen times. All I could think about was your wee girl, losing both parents in one year.” So dramatic.
I bet he was just frothing at the mouth that he didn’t get to witness it with his own eyes.
“Cameron is still very much alive,” I defended, purely for accuracy’s sake.
“In some ways abandonment is worse than death.”
“At least she would have been able to watch my death in forty-eight megapixels,” I said, shoving a carrot stick in my mouth.
He nodded solemnly. “Thank heavens for small mercies.”
“Isla! Over here!” I could have wilted in relief at the sound of Heather’s voice.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, turning to squeeze my way through the crowd to the bar that she and Mal were manning.
The distillery tasting room always left me feeling like I’d travelled backwards in time. A study in mahogany, with rich-brown interiors and comfortable booths decorated in a deep-green tartan.
“Hey,” I grinned as they all greeted me. Juniper and Callum were sitting on stools, elbows resting against one another’s on the bar top. “I didn’t know you guys would be here.”
April was notably absent, and Juniper – the fashionable goth dressed all in black – looked like she’d been dragged here against her will.
“An unfortunate requirement when owning a small business.” She rolled her fingers over her temples. Juniper ran Ivy House, the village B&B.
She wasn’t exactly the committee-meeting type; I’d once heard her say she felt deeply suspicious of any gathering that involved a sign-up sheet, laminated agendas or encouraged collective enthusiasm.
“Remember the meeting when Jill Mortimer filibustereduntil they agreed to let her perform a solo of ‘Amazing Grace’ at the Christmas Eve carol concert?” Heather said, sliding me a water over the bar.
“Okay, maybe that one was a little fun.” A wicked smile curled the corners of Juniper’s lips.
I joined in the laughter, delighted to be in on the joke as I slid onto a stool beside Juniper. I’d recently discovered that Juniper and Jill Mortimer had long-standing beef, thanks to Jill’s relentless pursuit of Callum last autumn. She’d been pretty nasty to Juniper in the process.
I felt a little better about my own dislike of Jill. She was good friends with Annabelle and whenever we interacted, I couldn’t shake the feeling that every word out of my mouth was being fed back to Annabelle.
If Annabelle weren’t the head of the village committee, I’d avoid her and her posse entirely.
“Speaking of Jill Mortimer, this is more tragic than I expected.” Heather nodded across the room.
The icy condensation from my glass leaked against my fingers as my head snapped to the left, quickly locating the source of her disgust.
My stomach somersaulted, an ugly feeling ballooning in my chest.
Over by one of the booths, Jill Mortimer tossed her head back, laughing, while sliding a proprietary hand over Alistair’s shirtsleeve. He stared back at her intently.
