The Endless Beach Page 11

“Here,” said Colton, hurling it across the table. “Look at this.”

  “You want me to take it away?”

  “You can’t take it away,” said Colton. “You read it and redraft it and I get it typed up. Now. Today.”

  Joel blinked, then put his head down and started to read. Colton watched him intently. There was absolute silence in the room.

  After half an hour, Joel raised his head. “Colton, you can’t do this.”

  Colton shrugged. “I can do what I like.”

  Joel looked at it again. “But . . . but, Colton. It’s wrong. What it’ll do . . .” His voice trailed off. “I mean. Seriously. Are you sure?”

  Colton shrugged. “Well, it’s my money.”

  “But . . .”

  There was silence. Colton’s face became mutinous. “Joel, you’re my lawyer.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “No buts about it. You’re hired. You’re my lawyer. I don’t want anyone else. You do what I ask. Or I can fire your ass and you can leave the island and break that sweet girl’s heart and wash up fuck knows where, like I give a shit. Or a reference.”

  He stared at Joel, very hard.

  “But . . .”

  “Joel, you’re a lawyer. You get murderers out of jail.”

  There was a long silence.

  “You gotta do it. Or I’m just going to find someone else, and you’ll just make this whole thing take longer. Oh, and by the way, you breathe a word of this and you’ll find yourself in more trouble than you can possibly imagine. I will dedicate the rest of my life to making yours a misery. And don’t you forget that.”

  There was a very long silence. Then Joel spoke up. “I can redraft from these notes.”

  “Good,” said Colton. “Do it. And hurry up. I’m getting out of this hellhole.” He gesticulated to the stunning Manhattan views outside his window. “And getting back to where things really matter.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Are you absolutely, totally, one hundred percent sure he isn’t just a dickhead?”

  Fintan was doing his best to be encouraging.

  Flora thought back to how Joel had been as her boss in London: squiring a selection of models; never even glancing at people he considered his inferiors; his rude manner.

  “Well,” she said, as Fintan parked the car. She was jet-lagged and exhausted. “Well, I can see how people might think he was a dickhead.”

  She looked up. “He likes dogs.”

  “Mate,” said Fintan. “Only psychos don’t like dogs. I didn’t accuse him of being a psycho. Just a dickhead.”

  They turned onto the little soil path up the hill to the farm. Bramble and the other family dogs immediately went utterly bananas. Flora almost raised a smile at that.

  “Don’t upset Dad,” said Fintan.

  “Why?” said Flora, instantly stricken. Her father had been very down after the death of her mother three years ago.

  “No reason,” said Fintan. “Only, he’s so happy that you’re settled—and Joel’s someone Mum would have liked.”

  “Unless she thought he was a dickhead,” said Flora mournfully.

  “Well, yeah, that’s possible too,” said Fintan. “Anyway.”

  Innes and Hamish came wandering in from the fields cheerfully. Since the farm had been bought out, the cushion of a little money, plus a new, guaranteed home for their organic produce, had taken a lot of the strain and worry from their lives. Farmers’ lives were never without worry, of course—but even so, you could see a lightness in Innes’s happy face as he took off his big boots and waved at them. Agot was inside the farmhouse.

  “ATTI FLOWA!” She jumped up.

  “You are not still watching Peppa Pig,” said Flora, smiling, and she picked the girl up in her arms and whirled her round.

  “I’S LOVES PEPPA.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

  Agot looked around mischievously then leaned toward Flora’s ear and announced in a loud stage whisper, “YOU GOT PRESENT FOAH AGOT?”

  “Agot!” said Innes. “Literally that was the exact and precise thing I told you not to say when Flora walked through the door.”

  The imp looked utterly unrepentant. “BUT LIKE PRESENTS,” she said, as if this was a ridiculous demand to have placed on her.

  Flora smiled and sat down. “Well,” she said, and drew out of her bag a snow globe that had all the New York landmarks underneath it. She shook it for the little one, who gave a great gasp.

  “SNOWZING!”

  “It is snowzing, yes.”

  Agot snatched it from Flora’s hands, eyes wide.

  “Be careful with it,” said Flora. “Don’t drop it.”

  “NOTS DROP SNOWZING,” agreed Agot, nevertheless waving it about in a highly dangerous fashion, her eyes fixed on it.

  “What do you say, Agot?” said Innes, watching happily.

  “THANK YOU, ATTI FLOWA.” Agot’s little face looked up, then creased into a frown. “WHAT WRONG?”

  Flora blinked. “There’s nothing wrong,” she said.

  “YOU CRYING? SAD ATTI FLOWA? YOU SAD? YOU SAD? NOT CRY.”

  Agot scrambled up into Flora’s lap and started using her little hands to wipe away the remnants of tears from Flora’s eyes.

  “I’m fine!” said Flora, slightly desperately. “Just a bit tired, that’s all.”

  “Are you missing Joel?” said Innes.

  “Neh, he was being a dickhead,” said Fintan.

  “Shut up, Fintan!”

  “DOAN BE SAD.” Agot was unswervable on the topic.

  “I’m not sad,” said Flora. “I am very happy. Why don’t you play with your snow globe?”

  Agot looked at it. Bramble was trying to eat it.

  “SNOWZER WAN WATCH PEPPA,” she said, snatching it back.

  “Well, good,” said Flora. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

  “WAZ A DICKHEAD, ATTI FLOWA?”

  The boys had already started squabbling about who was making dinner, and suddenly Flora felt overwhelmingly tired.

  “Actually, I think I’m a bit jet-lagged,” she said. “I think I’ll just go to bed.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Dear Colton,

  I regret to . . .

  Joel stared at the blinking cursor in frustration.

  He couldn’t think straight. He could barely think at all. He had messed everything up so thoroughly . . . Maybe he should resign. Resign and leave Mure and stay here in New York or Singapore or anywhere else . . . He would always be in demand.

  The thought of leaving all of it behind: the only place that stilled his restless damaged heart; the only place he could breathe, away from the wretched air-conditioning and the constant traffic noise and the beep-beep-beeping of everybody’s phones and the endless lines of people and issues and problems all jangling up against him and crackling across the air . . .

  Christ. He deleted the e-mail.

  Dear Flora,

  He flashed back suddenly to that weekend they’d spent together in the depths of winter: Flora pretending to be reading even though she kept falling asleep; he was working. Every time he looked up, her head would be drooping, then she’d see him looking at her and smile and say, “It’s actually very interesting,” and he’d smile back as the flames crackled in the wood-burner. The room had felt cozy, and Bramble, who had appeared to become a permanent feature ever since Flora had returned and disliked leaving her side, had turned over with a groaning noise that sounded exactly like a seventy-year-old man—which is what he was in dog years. Joel had suddenly found that he had completely lost interest in the work he was doing. He had pushed aside the folders and gotten up and put her book down. He had pulled her up toward him in the firelight and kissed her ferociously and she had leaned into him with such hunger, instantly and completely awake, those pale eyes of hers taking on a characteristically misty distant look he had learned to recognize very well. Then they had fumbled as she tried to take off the four layers of r
idiculous clothes she was wearing and they had laughed—which was strange for Joel, as he rarely laughed—and they had locked Bramble in the bathroom and the flakes of snow had swirled around outside and settled on the harborside so prettily as the heat of their bodies was magnified by the licking of the flames that threw their shadows against the wall. And he thought he had never been so happy—no, that he had never been happy at all.

  And what had he done afterward? He had slept. He had slept for nine hours.

  Joel never slept anywhere. He had learned not to early in life: in foster homes, with children of the family who might make their displeasure at your appearance obvious in different ways, at unpredictable times of day; at boarding school, where one was never entirely safe from a master looking for miscreants, or older boys looking for trouble. His entire life was lived on guard.

  Except for Mure. There, he was . . . there he was safe.

  New York wasn’t safe. It was confusing and busy and made him anxious. It made him have to keep a tight lid on himself, and what had he done? He had looked at her and seen in her eyes not the clear gaze of trust she gave him when they sat on the harbor wall; not the calm, focused look she had when she was working in Annie’s Café by the Sea, perfectly following recipes handed down from her mother; not that clouded, melting look whenever he placed a hand on her, cheeks reddened, every time, her hands trembling in a way he found utterly irresistible . . .

  No. She had looked at him in pain and confusion and disappointment, and in all the kinds of terrible ways Joel couldn’t bear to be looked at—that triggered the panic, so deeply buried, of a little boy who, if he wasn’t pleasing people, couldn’t be certain of a roof over his head and food to eat, never mind someone to love him. And to make matters worse, now Colton was working to destroy it all.

  There was no connection in Joel’s life that you could screw up and still be loved. None. It simply had never happened to him. That was why he had fought so hard to be the best: to be the most successful, to turn in the most billable hours, to always beat the other guy, to seduce the most beautiful women, to always succeed.

  To fail in Flora’s eyes felt like the worst failure of all and he wasn’t sure if he could bear it. And he didn’t know what to do about it.

  He deleted the e-mail, cursing. He was no good for anyone or anything, it seemed.

  Joel paced the suite, trying to distract himself. Something occurred to him—something that, even if he had screwed everything up, even if he had to move, he could do. One useful thing.

  The country may be different, the context might be strange, but there was one thing that nobody knew more about than Joel: child services.

  He reopened the laptop.

  Dear Saif,

  I just wanted you to know I have heard your wonderful news, and would be delighted to represent you, pro bono, for anything that may lie ahead.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sometimes a good night’s sleep can solve everything. Sometimes you get two seconds before you realize that, no, everything is still pretty rubbish. Flora blinked at the ceiling and sighed. She hadn’t called Joel. She didn’t know how. She didn’t know how she felt or where she was going to go, or where they were. She stared at the ceiling. Oh yes. And she had a wedding to prep for that she’d completely ignored while dashing off to the other side of the world.

  The wind was coming in off the sea but it was salty and fresh and helped get the jet-lag cobwebs out of her brain as she opened up the kitchen door and let the dogs out, their huge tails wagging cheerfully in the morning light. She headed into the kitchen. “Ta-da!” said Fintan. He held up some freshly made sausages in a paper packet. “Haggis and herb.”

  “That sounds gross.”

  “And that is where you are wrong,” he said, turning up the Aga. “Just you wait. These will cure all ills.”

  Flora smiled sadly. “How’s Colton this morning?”

  Fintan’s face lit up. “He’s great! He’s in L.A. shouting at shareholders. If it wasn’t for this stupid wedding I’d be there too.”

  Flora smiled. “Ah, good.”

  Fintan leaned over. “If he’s not making you happy . . .”

  “Don’t start,” said Flora. “I can’t think about it just now.”

  “That means you’ll just stay in the same place forever, if he thinks doing this kind of thing is okay.”

  “I know,” said Flora. “I do know that. It’s just . . . I met his psychiatrist.”

  “He took you to meet his psychiatrist?”

  “It’s an unusual situation.”

  “Does he have literally no friends? Did he have to pay him?”

  “It’s not like that,” said Flora, going pink. She had never mentioned Joel’s past to anyone, which was difficult, as it made it harder to excuse him. “He’s had a rough time of it.”

  Fintan paused and turned the sausages, which were spattering in the pan. “He’s a rich, handsome lawyer who can travel the world.”

  “Rich, handsome lawyers have problems too.”

  Fintan looked at his sister. “I think . . .” he said slowly. “I just think . . . he should be treating you like a princess.”

  Flora smiled. “Cinder-bloody-ella, you mean. The jobs list for tomorrow is insane.”

  “I know,” said Fintan. “Isn’t it brilliant?”

  * * *

  Charlie and Jan’s wedding was booked in the ancient chapel that overlooked the headland, the lines of ancient graves standing sentinel against the waves. It was old—old old. By the time the missionaries had arrived, there had already been people living on Mure for thousands of years. Conversion had been swift—too swift, some said. The people had accepted the new religion, but had never quite forgotten the old, layered stories of sea gods, of seals, and of Viking gods and princes in ice towers that were brought over the cold sea and told down the generations round the fire and out of earshot of the minister.

  The reception was to be in the Harbor’s Rest, slightly to Flora’s surprise—she had expected a large tent in Jan’s rich parents’ garden, rather than the old, slightly slovenly hotel on the edge of town. Still, it would be handy that you could just leave when you’d had enough rather than waiting for the entire town to go, and the Rock of course still wasn’t open. There was a guest list, obviously, but it was accepted that locals—and particularly the town’s elderly residents—might well just turn up anyway at the church, weddings being rare on Mure in their small community (although outsiders came to get married there all the time for the picturesque backdrop and as a bit of one-upmanship, weddingstyle, in terms of how complex they could make getting there for their guests). These extra guests would probably tag along to the reception too, so Jan had requested a buffet rather than a sit-down, and a reasonable limit on the cash bar.

  But for the food, she wanted everything. Flora cursed her, under her breath, and tried to think of the money as she rolled out hundreds of individual sausage rolls; miniature scones, all light, fluffy, and perfect, to be served with local cream and bramble jam; tiny immaculate simnel cakes; pies of every description; jellies and possets, even though Flora had had to dig deep into her mother’s recipe book even to find out what they were. But not the wedding cake, of course, Jan had said smugly. That would be sent over from the mainland, the implication being that of course they wouldn’t entrust Flora with the really important stuff . . . Flora had just smiled and bitten her tongue and said that was fine.

  There was—she could not fail to admit—a tiny bit of her thinking: what if?

  Could it have been her waking up this bright and breezy spring morning, not with a sense of dread, but with a secure sense of happiness? Knowing that she was going to marry a handsome, kind, upstanding man with whom she could build a life, straightforwardly and happily? With whom she could raise children who would speak Gaelic and English and who would go to Lorna’s school? Seeing each other every day; working reasonable hours . . . ?

  A very simple kind of happiness . . . That had been
offered. But Charlie had seen the doubt in her eyes, the way her head turned whenever that damned impossible American had entered the room; he had seen it and known it and left her alone. She was doomed—never to have a simple, happy life like everyone else.

  Flora felt incredibly sorry for herself—even as she fired up soda bread to be served with plenty of butter and island whisky, smoked salmon and local roe, and iced ginger buns that popped in the mouth with crème pâtissière squirting out, and endless eclairs, as Isla and Iona cut cucumber sandwiches in the back kitchen with the radio turned up loud and talked about what boys they hoped were going to show up and how short they could wear the black skirts Jan had requested.

  By eleven o’clock, however, when the ceremony was going on—she didn’t know if Jan thought she might have tried to crash it—she surveyed the room in pleasure. The carpet was faded (and a little dusty around the edges) and the ceiling was still tobacco stained after all these years, but the long tables were absolutely stuffed and groaning with food around the centerpiece of a cake (which was very plain and unadorned and nothing Flora couldn’t have knocked up in the Café by the Sea). There were heavy jugs of cream, two sides of locally smoked salmon, and little hot bowls of Cullen skink, and it really was quite beautiful.

  Flora allowed herself a little smile. So . . . a bride she was not. But she was definitely edging closer to being able to call herself a cook. Fintan stuck his head round the door, and gave her two thumbs-up.

  * * *

  They heard the wedding party before they saw it; it was a lovely bright and windy shining day and there were no wedding cars on Mure, unless you wanted to put flowers on a Land Rover (and some people did), so the entire party simply walked down the main street, to shouts and congratulations from holidaymakers and passersby, delighted to find themselves in the middle of a wedding procession, as the bells rang out from the church. Flora steeled herself a little. This was Jan’s day, and there weren’t many people who didn’t know that she and Charlie had had something of a flirtation the previous summer. She wished just for once that Joel could be by her side for something that mattered to her. Fintan, as if he could sense this, moved closer to her and squeezed her arm. He also dusted off some of the flour that had fallen on her apron and in her hair.