Page 32 of Take Me Away

I know exactly where Maisie has gone. And who she’s with.

‘For fuck’s sake.’ I stalk down the lane towards Salt Cottage. The clouds have cleared after yesterday’s rain, leaving the air sharp and salt-tinged. It’s Saturday, my day with Maisie and pancakes and doing homework and getting the school uniform washed. All things I should be doing instead of chasing my film-star-obsessed daughter.

I round the bend, and sure enough, there’s Cap, sprawled contentedly on Salt Cottage’s garden path like he belongs there. He lifts his head as I approach, tail thumping weakly against the ground in greeting. ‘Traitor.’ He thumps his tail some more, clearly unfazed about switching camps.

The gate stands open, although it’s so rickety and wonky now I’d easily be able to see Maisie sitting on the doorstep, a paper bag in her hands, chattering away to Isla Quinn, who sits beside her, wrapped in what look like three different sweaters despite the mild weather.

My steps falter a little.

Even from the end of the path, I can see Isla doesn’t look right. There is something hollow about her face, dark smudges beneath her eyes. Her hair is pulled back in a messy knot. Even when we were teenagers, Isla’s hair was always smooth and shiny. Running my fingers through the glossed lengths was almost a hobby for me at one point. She could spend a day on the beach and at the end of it only end up looking more beach-waved and perfect. Luxurious, I’d call it now. Back then I think my articulation went as far as Fuck, sexy.

I push the gate open with more force than necessary, making its last working hinge creak in protest. Both heads turn towards me, Maisie’s expression immediately guilty – damn right – Isla’s unreadable. No – not quite unreadable. For just a heartbeat, it’s raw and unguarded, broken. Something that makes my heartbeat kick up an erratic beat before she blinks it away.

‘Dad!’ Maisie jumps up, already launching into her defence. ‘I was just bringing Miss Quinn – I mean Isla – some of the cinnamon buns that Nina gave us from the freezer. She hasn’t had breakfast yet and⁠—’

‘Home. Now.’ My voice comes out hard, making Maisie flinch.

‘But we were just⁠—’

‘Now, Maisie. You can’t just run off like that, I had no clue where you were. Anything could have happened.’

Maisie tilts her head. ‘Dad, it’s just down the lane.’

‘But you didn’t tell me. You don’t run off without telling me. That’s basic rules.’

Her expression drops. I’m pretty fair. We made a pact after Jess died that we would always stick together, the two of us, and in the brief dimming of her smile I can see her recognise she’s broken that promise.

Cap gets to his feet, tail down. Maisie mumbles a quick goodbye to Isla before trudging past me, shoulders slumped in defeat.

I’m turning to follow when a hand catches my arm, fingers curling around my wrist and holding me back.

‘What’s your problem?’ Isla’s voice is low, just for me. Maisie is ahead and I find myself allowing Isla’s touch to pull me around.

Okay, so maybe I don’t offer any resistance at all, because Isla Quinn has her hand on my skin and it’s the first flash of skin-on-skin human connection I’ve had in a long, long while.

I turn back, and she’s much closer than I expect. Close enough that I can smell the faint trace of the perfume. It’s not fresh, but like a jolt it smacks into my memories. Vanilla and salt. It’s like watching a black-and-white movie of childhood and regret.

It makes me pause.

Makes me breathe.

Makes me close enough that I can see that the hollows under her cheekbones I tried to ignore last night in the dim lighting of The Ship Inn aren’t just shadows, that she’s pale and thin.

Her perfume does something to my brain. Laughter, warmth, wind in her hair, salt on her skin.

I block it. All of it.

‘My problem,’ I say, pulling my arm free, ignoring the ghost sensation of her touch that lingers, ‘is my daughter wandering off without permission to visit someone she barely knows.’

‘She was being kind,’ Isla says. ‘Which is more than I can say for you.’ A small frown chisels into her forehead.

‘Kindness isn’t the issue. Boundaries are. And I can’t have her just wandering wherever she wants. It’s not safe.’

‘Boundaries?’ She laughs, a short, humourless sound. ‘That’s rich, coming from you.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means I can see you’ve planted your Isla Quinn picket fence along with the rest of the world and decided what side of it you’re on without giving me a chance to explain anything. Your boundaries are more like no-man’s-land, Kit.’