Page 7 of Take Me Away

Life-changing.

Kit and I held hands on the train all the way home, my head against his shoulder, the crook of his neck the only place I’d ever felt home. But the air had been cooler. The brightness of the future sterile against the weighty warmth of our sand-dusted path. As the train pulled into Truro he’d kissed the top of my head, my breath catching in my throat as he’d whispered, ‘You’re going to go far, Isla Quinn.’

And all I’d heard was a goodbye. He wasn’t going to come with me.

Now?

Now, the town still stands. Kit’s still here. Married. Widowed. A father. Maggie is gone.

Kit has a beard, and nothing in the universe has ever looked more right.

Standing, shaking off my pity party for one, I step to the mantel and pick up the solicitor’s letter again.

I pour another tea and glance at my phone. Three missed calls from my agent. A text blinks up: Call me. We need to lock in some appearances. Isla, you can’t drop a career-detonating bomb and then disappear.

Can’t I?

Who says?

How am I supposed to make ‘appearances’ now that my name has exploded along with the outing of Marcus Vale as a sex predator? The press are circling like vultures, waiting to see if I’ll show up in full meltdown or play the ice queen in couture.

The trouble is, I don’t know which version of me I can go on acting. I turn my phone back over, screen hidden.

Denial.

For now.

Chapter Three

KIT

‘Dad! Cap’s stealing my toast again!’

I look up from the peanut butter sandwich I’m mangling – too much spread, not enough patience – to find our dog Cap halfway on the table, one paw on Maisie’s plate, toast clamped between his teeth like a prize.

‘Cap. Off.’

He freezes, busted, then slinks under the table like he’s just remembered he’s supposed to have arthritis. Toast and all.

I let him go. He’s old. I hope someone lets me keep my toast when I’m eighty-five and cranky.

‘Sorry, kid. Last slice’s gone.’ I hold up the empty bread bag like proof of incompetence. Which it totally is. ‘Should’ve hit the shop yesterday.’

I wince. Bread’s basic. Running out of it is a dad fail. Big one.

Maisie just sighs, eight going on middle-aged.

‘’S okay. I wasn’t that hungry.’

Liar. She’s always hungry.

The truth is, I didn’t go to the shop, didn’t remember because Bill Tanner came chasing up to me as I locked the boat shed yesterday afternoon, using the voice he uses for tide charts and Sunday footie scores to announce, She’s back. Maggie’s girl. Fish bap with vinegar and everything.

Just like that.

One minute my day was fine. Perfect even. The catch had been good, waters behaving, Dad had managed to stay off my back and Jude was being less of a dick than usual.

Until, in a split moment, it shattered and the day went to shit.