Page 24 of Take Me Away
Every so often, Kit’s gaze brushes mine, but when I meet it, he’s already looking away. It’s like we’re engaged in some bizarre game of emotional chicken, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
I’m halfway through my drink when Maisie reappears at my side, clutching a piece of paper.
‘I brought my drawing to you,’ she announces, placing it on the table with ceremonial importance. ‘Since you couldn’t come over.’
It’s a crayon masterpiece featuring what is indeed a dragon with a mermaid tail, breathing fire over what appears to be a castle made of seashells. In the corner is a small stick figure with wild hair holding what might be a sword.
‘That’s you,’ she explains, pointing to the stick figure. ‘Fighting the dragon-maid to save the kingdom.’
‘It’s brilliant,’ I tell her, genuinely impressed by the detail, imagination. And the sheer level of glitter involved. ‘You’re very talented.’
She beams, cheeks flushing with pleasure. ‘Really? Dad says I’m good, but he has to say that.’
‘Well, I don’t have to say it, and I think it’s marvellous.’
‘You can keep it,’ she says magnanimously. ‘If you want.’
‘I’d be honoured,’ I tell her, carefully folding the drawing and slipping it into my pocket. ‘I’ll put it on the fridge when I get back.’
Kit appears behind Maisie, a hand on her shoulder. ‘Time to go, Mais,’ he says all gruff, gaze sliding past me. ‘It’s getting late.’
‘But Dad—’
‘No buts. You’ve got swimming in the morning.’
She sighs dramatically but doesn’t argue further. ‘Bye, Isla,’ she says. ‘It was really nice meeting you. Again.’
‘You too, Maisie,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the drawing.’
Kit’s eyes meet mine over his daughter’s head, finally. ‘Isla,’ he says with a stiff nod. ‘Welcome back.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, matching his tone.
‘Riveting conversation, you two,’ Frankie mutters into his beer.
Kit’s jaw tightens. ‘Have a good night,’ he says, then steers Maisie towards the door, calling goodbyes to various people as they go.
I nod, because what else can I do. Kit Harding is not the man I left behind.
I watch them leave, strangely hollow, all my insides echoing like a chasm. This isn’t how I imagined our first real conversation after all these years. Not that I had a clear picture of what it would be like, but not this. Not this polite, distant acknowledgment, like I’m something he’s stepped in that he doesn’t know how to remove from his shoe.
I finish my drink and stand. ‘I should head back too. It’s been a long day.’
‘Come by the shack tomorrow,’ Frankie says. ‘We’ve got fresh scallops coming in.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, though we all know it’s a polite no-thanks. I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow. Maybe I’m packing up my Samsonite and moving on again, because this, coming back here, hasn’t felt like I wanted it to. I should have let Piper’s people-who-know-people handle the cottage.
Maybe a twenty-four-hour spa would’ve been better.
I say a goodbye to the pub in general. Nina, the woman with the café, gives me a cheery wave and tells me to pop in. I do the noncommittal ‘maybe’ again, because yep, that Samsonite is calling loudly. I could have a car come and pick me up in the hour. One call to Piper and things would be organised with the tap of manicured nails. Agendas would be aligned, reservations made.
And I could be anywhere.
Cannes.
LA.
New York.
