Page 11 of Take Me Away

‘Don’t do that again.’

‘What?’ He has the decency to look a bit guilty. ‘I didn’t think she’d know who⁠—’

‘She’s eight, not stupid. And she doesn’t need to know about…’ I can’t even finish the sentence.

‘About what? About the life you had before you became Dad of the Year? Or the woman who might be staying in the cottage at the end of the lane – about fifty yards from your front door?’

My blood runs cold. ‘What?’

‘Maggie left her the place,’ Jude says quietly. ‘You didn’t know? Dad said Dot told him weeks ago.’

‘Why the hell didn’t Dad say anything?’ I meet my brother’s gaze. He shrugs. But we both know the answer neither of us wants to voice. He probably forgot. He’s been forgetting more and more recently.

I stare out at the water, at the horizon that never changes while everything else falls apart. Something twists in deep under my ribs – an old, familiar pain.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ I say eventually. ‘She won’t stay. She never does.’

Jude gives me a long look before picking up his toolbox. ‘Right. Well. I’ll leave you to your not caring, then.’ He walks away with that slight drag to his step that I’ve learned to stop noticing, but never stop feeling responsible for. Another epic Kit Harding fail.

I don’t watch him leave. Instead, I stay rooted to the spot, staring out at the sea like it might offer some wisdom. It doesn’t. It never does. Just rolls in and out, in and out, marking time.

Isla Quinn is back in Sea Salt Bay.

Isla Quinn is staying in Maggie’s cottage.

Isla Quinn, who left me standing in the rain outside the lighthouse ten years ago. I’d told her to go – to chase those dreams, to not let me hold her back. I’d meant but come back to me. I think all she heard was goodbye.

Goodbye is all I seem to hear.

I turn back to the boat engine, hands steady despite the storm in my chest. It doesn’t matter. The thing I’m learning about life is that it’s all just a phase. And Isla Quinn is a phase that belongs in my past.

‘Dad, you’re not paying attention.’ Maisie waves a hand in front of my face, snapping me back to the present. ‘You rolled a five.’

I blink. The tiny metal top hat in my hand suddenly feels ridiculous.

‘Right. Yeah. Sorry, love.’

I move five spaces around the board, land on some overpriced street I couldn’t afford if I sold the bloody house. Story of my life. ‘You’ve got me.’

We’re camped around the kitchen table – chipped wood, sticky in the corners, familiar as skin. Cap’s snoring near the fire, his tail twitching like he’s chasing gulls in his dreams. Outside, the wind’s making a racket with the windowpanes, but in here, it’s warm. Quiet. Ours.

‘Dad?’

‘Hmm?’ I pass her the fake money. She’s counting with her brow all crinkled like it’s a tax return.

‘Did you really know Isla Quinn when you were young?’

When I was young, like I’m ancient now. Jesus.

She shrugs, real casual. ‘Nina said she might be staying at that old lady’s cottage. The one down the lane.’

News travels faster than rot in Sea Salt Bay.

‘Maggie,’ I say. ‘Her name was Maggie. Isla’s gran. You saw her a lot when you were a baby before she went to the old people’s place at Pencross.’

‘So it’s true. You did know her!’

I weigh up lying, but what’s the point? She’ll hear it at school or from the butcher or Dot in the post office by Thursday.