Chapter Seven
“I wanted to introduce you to my friend Barry. I think you’ll have so much in common. You’re both gay, after all.”
KATIE MCCREARYwas smaller than she looked on screen. As a lesser McQueen onHollyoaksshe’d tottered over the screen in sky-high heels and masses of back-combed bright red hair. In the passenger seat of one of the Granshire’s company cars—Nate loved his sports car, but it was barely suitable for island roads, never mind transporting one bride and two bickering mothers—she had none of that distinctive bolshiness, and the setter-red hair had been bleached nearly white for the big day. Concealer and some very expensive foundation had smudged away the evidence of her crying fit, but she was still downcast and reserved—unlike her mother in the back seat.
Fiona McCreary’s sunny ebullience didn’t leave any room for niggling doubts about why a bridegroom might suddenly be plagued with tardiness. Her glass was neither half-empty nor half-full. It was waiting for a refill of champagne.
“Such a gorgeous island,” she trilled from behind Nate. He felt the seat jerk back as she grabbed hold of it to peer out his window at the angled fields. “Even the sheep look clean.”
“For God’s sake.”
Sheila Ferguson was probably a lovely woman, but when Katie’s character was killed onHollyoaks? Sheila would have been rooting for the strangler. She mostly kept her opinions to snorts and muttered asides she could deny, but it wasn’t hard to pick up on.
“Such a shame my Billy couldn’t come with us today,” Fiona sighed as she sat back. “He really wants to have a better look at the island.”
Nate glanced briefly away from the winding road to flash her a smile in the rearview mirror.
“I’m sure he’s having fun playing golf with Mr. Saint John, but I can arrange for a—”
His offer of a tour was interrupted by Sheila. “I thought he was sort of a baronet or something?” She sounded sharp and faintly accusatory, as though she’d caught him out.
“He is,” Nate said. “But he thinks Sir Saint John sounds a bit daft for day-to-day.”
Sheila sniffed, clearly disappointed. Out of the corner of his eye, Nate saw Katie roll her eyes. She pulled her sunglasses out of her cleavage and slid them on. Then she twisted her hands together in her lap and picked fretfully at her nails. Shreds of pale pink nail polish clung to the tattered denim of her jeans.
It was a couple of weeks before her wedding. Her nails would have time to grow back. That was assuming her groom didn’t do anything to put her on edge.
“Of course you’ll remember Star, Katie,” he said. “She’s the baker we picked out for your cake. Well, she’s also the co-owner of this restaurant. The food’s good, but the desserts are out of this world.”
Katie huffed out a sigh. “I might just start with cake. Then more cake. And if she could put some cake in a glass, that would be perfect.”
“What, you don’t want them to pour wine over the cake?” Sheila asked with a fake-sounding chuckle. “Or have you sworn off after last night?”
Nate caught himself leaning on the accelerator with a heavy foot. He lifted it and tapped the brakes to slow the car down—just in time to hit a cattle grid and rattle across it. In the back both Fiona and Sheila huffed in displeasure. It was the first thing they’d agreed on all day.
“If you keep an eye out on the passenger side,” he said, “you might see one of the local stags in the next stretch.”
Even Sheila turned her head to search for that, and they spent the next stretch of road craning their necks and gasping in excitement as Fiona pointed out the deer loitering at the top of the hill. Nate hoped they wouldn’t have venison on the menu at the Tax Shelter. Few people relished the realization that the Bambi they’d beenoohingandahhingover could well become bangers on someone’s plate.
By the time they got to the restaurant and found a space to park, Nate hoped Flynn was there, even if only for someone to complain to.
He wasn’t.
Nate swallowed his disappointment and got everyone seated. He dragged Star out of the kitchen in her chef’s whites with her fingers stained with food dyes, to claim she was delighted to see Katie again.
“This is going to be my favorite cake ever,” Star said earnestly. “It’s just so perfect, and I love raspberry.”
Sheila, it turned out, didn’t. That wasn’t a surprise.
Still, even she had to grudgingly admit that the Tax Shelter was “lovely.” It was all bleached pale wood and beaten-copper highlights. The tables were covered with long sheets of acrylic printed with views from the various scenic outlooks on the island. Their table was a row of narrow brick houses, each with a door of a different color.
“I actually live….” Nate ran his finger along the table and nudged the salt and pepper out of the way. He tapped a bright green door. “Right there. Although we’ve repainted all the doors since this was taken.”
Katie peered over the top of her menu at the picture. “Do you all have to agree?” she asked.
“Oh yeah.” Nate rolled his eyes. “It’s a whole thing. Last time we painted, two old fishermen nearly came to blows over whether the blue should be cornflower or robin’s egg.”
They hadn’t actually cared. The argument had been over which of them got red that year. By the time it got to the shades of blue, they dug in their heels for the sake of it. If Nate hadn’t already been gray, that month would have done it.
