Joel didn’t fuss him or sing to him. He just lay down on the bed next to him, and the two of them eyeballed each other. It was the oddest thing, as if something intangible flowed between them through eye contact alone. Joel’s large hand would reach out so Douglas could clasp a finger, and they would commune. Flora didn’t even know how to ask anyone if this was normal behavior. Sometimes Douglas would flap at Joel’s heavy gold watch and Joel would let him. Usually, after fifteen minutes of this, they would both be asleep, the long body gently cradling the tiny one.
Flora was supposedly on maternity leave, Isla and Iona running the café perfectly well, somewhat to Flora’s annoyance. But it was Joel, her workaholic boyfriend, who appeared to have taken it most to heart, and she couldn’t help occasionally feeling just a little jealous. Which was, of course, completely ridiculous. Everything was great. Fine. Great. I mean, Douglas cried at her but was totally calm with Joel, but she didn’t mind. Not a bit.
Chapter 1
Well, which is the best one?”
Isla Donnelly’s mother, Vera, was looking at her over the old teapot with the flowers and the chip in the top.
Isla, staring at it, realized something she had never quite put into words before: she hated that teapot. It was the stupidest thing she could imagine, hating a teapot. It was possibly because her mother treated it like a precious heirloom she needed to be more careful with rather than just a dumb crappy teapot. She sipped her tea.
“I don’t know, Mum,” she said again, trying not to get riled, which wouldn’t help.
“So, the MacKenzies need someone up at the new posh hotel.”
Vera Donnelly sniffed loudly. She didn’t think much of the new hotel. Not the kind of thing Mure needed in her opinion, and Vera had a lot of opinions. Too fancy, too expensive—who wanted that kind of thing?
Regardless, it was set to open this Christmas, and Flora had offered to help Fintan by moving one of her café staff up there.
Isla sighed. She was, in fact, indeed quite terrified, but she would never tell her mother that. Not good to give her the ammunition.
“Well, one of us will stay and take over more of the running of the Seaside Kitchen and one of us will go up to the Rock.”
Isla and her best friend, Iona, had worked in the Summer Seaside Kitchen for years, and neither was looking forward to getting separated. Isla in particular was very much the shyer of the two and absolutely dreading being without her cheeky chum.
“Yes, but which one is the best job?”
“I don’t know.”
Vera carefully picked up her treasured teapot and daintily poured herself another cup of tea. “You know, I just don’t want them taking advantage of you,” she said. “That Flora treats you like a scullery maid.”
“I’m just learning on the job,” said Isla, who adored Flora and didn’t quite have her mother’s expectations for her. She knew it was difficult being Vera’s only child. She hated constantly adding to her disappointment. “What are you doing today, Mum?”
“It’s Homes Under the Hammer!”
“You know there’s a choir rehearsal tonight . . . You should go to that.”
Isla’s main goal was to stop herself being Vera’s only area of attention.
“Bunch of busybodying old gossips. No thanks!”
Isla put on her coat and pulled her tam-o’-shanter down over her unruly dark chestnut curls, which pinged out every which way—unusual on the island, where people had fair or red hair, depending on whether they were descended from Celts or Vikings. There had once been a rumor of Spanish invaders making it as far north as Mure, which would have made more sense of her dark eyes, although the pale skin, lightly freckled in the summertime, was purest Scotland, to Isla’s eternal chagrin.
“Bye, Mum,” she said.
“Aye well. Good luck then,” said her mother grudgingly as she left, and Isla reminded herself that her mother loved her and wanted the best for her, even when it felt unpleasant.
A nor’wester was blowing down from the arctic circle straight into Mure and made walking in a straight line quite difficult, but it wasn’t far to the little Seaside Kitchen, down two cobbled streets and on the seafront.
The little café was always warm: the baking ovens through the back never really quite cooled down, and on freezing winter mornings it was cozy even before she lit the golden lamps that, together with the cheery spotted tablecloths and the pretty pictures on the wall, made the café so inviting. Iona would already be brewing up coffee, and together they could make a start on the scones, pies, tarts, and cakes for the day, while Mrs. Laird popped off the freshly baked bread. The coffee machine would hiss and grind in a comforting fashion, and the day could begin. And it wouldn’t be long before the first chilled worker arrived, fresh from milking or a fishing boat or waiting on the earliest ferry of the morning.
Chapter 2
Two hundred miles to the east, the expensive sheets of the bed were ruffled and crumpled. A pale figure was lying on them unconcerned and snoring heavily. The thick scent of stale beer was in the air.
A short man with an exceedingly tidy haircut entered the vast room, paused in front of the bed, and coughed loudly. Nothing happened.
“Ahem,” said the man.
There was an unpleasant hacking cough from the bed, followed by a snorting and some grunting. A large arm grabbed the shiny coverlet and pulled it over.
“Go away, Johann,” came a very croaky voice, muffled beneath the covers.
“Johann has been sent away,” said the man.
There was a pause in the room.
“Huh?”
The young man who emerged from the covers had fair hair sticking up in every conceivable direction, a very tiny amount of stubble, and a confused look in his round blue eyes, which became markedly rounder as he registered whom he was talking to.
“Pappa,” he said, and there was a notable tremor in his voice.
He clutched the covers round him. The man staring at him looked disappointed. Again.
“Uhm,” said the boy, whose name was Konstantin. “I mean, hello. Good to see you. You don’t normally . . .”
He glanced around at the large, lavish suite. There were pillars in the corners, gilt on the cornicing, and vast, ancient mirrors lining one wall.
Unfortunately there were also underpants and socks on the floor, empty bottles, books scattered everywhere, a snorting, piglike dog called Bjårk, who hadn’t woken up yet but had left muddy paw prints all over the wildly expensive rug and black-and-white tiled floor, and at least four towels.
“I don’t normally come here, no,” said the boy’s father, whose name was also Konstantin. There had been Konstantins, in fact, all the way back to the early seventeenth century, when they had first become dukes of Hordaland and the grand castle had been built on the beautiful Forgalfanna peninsula. Titles in Norway had been theoretically abolished. Of course, everyone still knew. An unbroken line. Which, the older Konstantin reflected sadly, was about to be broken when he kicked his dissolute only son down the 118 curved marble steps of the grand entrance hall. “Because it’s a revolting pigsty.”
“That’s Bjårk’s fault.”