Page 37 of The Scottish Island Inn

‘Try not to worry, then,’ Sorrel said, knowing that Joan would still worry, privately, about her sister.

‘All right, dear. Wrap up warm,’ Aunt Joan called after her. ‘And don’t you worry, either. Whoever that man is, it’s nothing to do with us. Any of us.’

Sorrel nodded, but she didn’t reply. She was too emotional to trust herself to speak.

Aunt Joan knew. She knew that the man Chrissie had seen in the café was her real father. Joan wasn’t stupid; she was the sharpest thinker that Sorrel had ever known. Aunt Joan telling her that it was nothing to do with us meant that Joan, too, wanted to keep Sorrel away from her biological father.

And that meant that Joan – and probably Chrissie – had always known who he was. They had kept the secret, along with Catriona and Angus.

Sorrel stood at the entrance to the castle car park with tears welling up in her eyes. She felt the familiar roiling panic start in her chest; she took some deep breaths.

She knew what she wanted to do, but she wasn’t sure if she had the courage to do it.

Aunt Joan had told her where this man worked. What was to stop Sorrel just turning up and saying hello? The temptation was huge, but the fear was bigger. What if he was mean? What if he rejected her? What if her family found out and rejected her after, just as she was starting to rebuild her relationships with them? What would Bluebell think?

I can’t. Not yet, she thought. There was too much at stake, and her heart couldn’t take it.

There would be a day when she felt ready, but today wasn’t it.

NINETEEN

‘Darling, you look haggard. What’s up?’ Dom met her at the harbour, outside the SS Margaret. He was carrying a bag from the best bakery in Portree, which was called Bessie’s. Two portable coffee cups sat on the ground at his feet. He immediately gave her a bear-like hug and stepped back to take her in. ‘You’ve been crying. What is it?’

‘Oh, god. I could do with a coffee. Then I’ll tell you.’ Sorrel thought she’d done an okay job in reapplying her makeup when she’d parked her car at the harbour, but obviously not well enough to pass Dom’s notice.

‘Of course. You poor darling. Come on, we’ll have a coffee and some croissants, and you can tell me all about it.’ He shook the bag he was holding. ‘Bessie’s best. That woman’s bannocks are the finest I’ve ever had, and I live with one of the most talented chefs in Scotland.’ He patted his bear-like stomach. ‘As you can see.’

‘That’s just padding. You’re comfy.’ Sorrel smiled wryly.

‘Oh, I know. I made my peace with it years ago. I’m the beast. He’s the beauty.’ Dom chuckled. He put an arm around Sorrel’s shoulder and led her up the steps onto the yacht.

In the daylight, the SS Margaret, as Sorrel was still calling the boat in her mind, was a stately craft, larger than she remembered, and still a gleaming white among the other boats in the harbour, many of which were fishing boats. There were some other leisure boats there too, but Margaret was the biggest. On closer inspection, Sorrel could see that her hull was in need of a power wash, but she was doing pretty well for her age.

‘Come on in.’ Dom led her onto the deck, which held a couple of recliners and a table and chairs, all currently covered over with tarpaulin. He opened the door to the main cabin where they’d had dinner a couple of nights ago and ushered her in.

Now, the dining table and chairs had been put away, and, in the daylight, Sorrel could see that Margaret’s main cabin did look a little down at heel. When she’d come for dinner before, the lighting – and the cocktails – had distracted her from looking too carefully at the décor.

Now, though, she could see that the upholstery fabric was as vivid and bright as she remembered, but there were lots of signs of wear: patches where the fabric was thin or had even torn a little at the corners. The curtains were faded in the pleats, and the carpet needed replacing. The dark wood cabinets were serviceable, but the whole look was dated – gloriously so – but still dated.

‘Come on. Sit. Tell me what’s up,’ Dom instructed, putting the coffee cups and the bakery bag down on a coffee table and joining her on one of the long sofa-like upholstered chairs on one side of the room.

‘I’m here to give you some renovation pointers, not to bore you with my problems, Dom,’ Sorrel argued, but Dom frowned at her.

‘Sorrel Balhennie. Don’t make me tell you again,’ he said, tapping her knee with his fingertips. ‘We can chat all things décor in a minute. I brought some inspiration.’ He took a couple of interiors magazines out of his bag and put them on the coffee table.

‘Oh… where do I start, quite honestly?’ Sorrel took one of the coffees and sipped it. ‘Thanks for this, by the way.’

‘Welcome, dearest.’ Dom opened the paper bag from the bakery and took out four thick slices of fruited bannock – a kind of bread made in Scotland. Savoury bannocks were more like oaty scones, but the sweet kind was like a fruit bread. Bessie’s fruited bannock was glazed with butter and thick with sultanas and raisins. A rich, sweet, bready smell filled the air between them as soon as Dom opened the bag. ‘Gah. Just look at these beauties.’ He sighed. ‘Seems almost a shame to eat them. But eat them I will.’

‘Well. I suppose first I have to tell you why I left Skye in the first place,’ Sorrel began. Slowly, she told Dom the whole story, ending up with what Aunt Joan had told her just earlier. ‘It’s a shock, I guess. All this time, that part of my life was closed off to me. And now, suddenly, it’s open. I don’t know what to do with it.’

‘Gracious, darling. I am not in the slightest bit surprised that you’re spiralling. I would be too. Here. Sugar. No arguments.’ He handed her a slice of bannock.

‘Thanks.’ Sorrel bit into it: Bessie hadn’t lost her touch. The bannock was as buttery and soft as she remembered. ‘Wow. That is good.’

‘I always say, there’s nothing that can’t be solved by a good meal, a good sleep, and a good chat,’ Dom reflected. ‘I mean. Apart from large-scale social inequality, civil war, that kind of thing. Though, you do think, if people could just be sensible and actually talk to each other calmly over a cup of tea, there wouldn’t be as much of that either.’

‘I expect you’re right.’ Sorrel sighed. ‘In this case, I don’t know whether a chat would help. Half of me wants to go over there. Half of me, not so much.’