He gives a happy woof that I’m pretty sure means “absolutely yes, and can we go right now, please?”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re down by the pier, and I’ve got a to-go latte as well as a top hat of my own. Because why not?
The marshmallow is soft and sweet, the chocolate base is rich, and the Smartie on top—which, it turns out, is nothing like the tart American candy I expected but more like a tiny M&M—adds the perfect crunch.
“Mmm, that was ridiculously good,” I say to Finn, who demolished his in record time.
“Told you. Oh!” He bounces on his toes. “Look! There’s the ferry. My da is captaining that.”
I follow his pointing finger to a vessel in the distance, cutting through the dark water, gliding toward town, white wake trailing behind it. Squinting, I can just about make out tiny figures moving on the deck.
“Wow. He must really know what he’s doing to steer something that size.”
Finn nods. “He goes to Corraig and back twice every day. That’s the island way out there. The ferry is called theCalabrae, and he says she’s a good ship.”
There’s something sweet about the way he talks about his father’s work, like being a ferry captain is the coolest job in the world.
We make our way toward the playground, and nearly everyone we pass offers a “Good morning” or stops to give Gus a pat, which he accepts like visiting royalty. An elderly woman with one of those wheeled shopping bags tells me what a “bonny wee laddie” Finn is, while a man out walking his dog asks if Gus is behaving himself.
God, this place really is ridiculously friendly. In Manhattan, smiling at strangers earns you weird looks. Here, it seems rude not to.
We’re almost at the playground when Finn suddenly takes off running. “Logan! Rosie!” he shouts, waving both arms above his head.
Two kids about his age are perched on the jungle gym—twins, by the look of them, both with the most spectacular red hair. The girl waves back enthusiastically while the boy slides down the fire pole to meet Finn.
Within seconds, all three are deep in animated conversation, and I’m left standing there with Gus, feeling a little redundant.
“You must be Finn’s nanny.”
I turn to find an older couple on a nearby bench, both smiling warmly at me. The woman’s red hair is streaked with silver, while the man has a neat beard and weathered features.
“That’s me,” I say, walking over with Gus. “Well, I’m on a three-day trial. Assuming it goes okay, I’ll be Finn’s nanny for the summer. I’m Blair.”
“Donald,” the man says, standing to shake my hand. “And this is my wife, Roslyn.”
“Lovely to meet you both.”
“We’re the twins’ grandparents,” Roslyn explains, nodding toward the redheaded duo now engaged in what appears to be a very serious game of tag with Finn. “We’re looking after them this summer. And as much as we love them both, they’refullof energy. It’s going to be a long six weeks.”
Donald chuckles. “We’re hoping they tire themselves out at the park.”
“Finn’s dad, Lachlan, is friends with our son, Douglas,” Roslyn adds.
“Oh!” I perk up. “Is that the Douglas who lives on Braeview Drive, in the house with the beautiful climbing roses?”
“Aye, have you met him?”
“Well, no, actually, but...” I explain about the photograph, about Granny growing up in that very house, about my quest to find it on my first day in town.
They don’t remember Granny—which makes sense, given she was older and left when she was sixteen—but that doesn’t stopthem from being fascinated by the connection. Soon we’re deep in conversation about old Ardmara, about how the town has changed over the decades, about the families who’ve come and gone.
The sun warms my shoulders as I listen to their stories while watching Finn tear around the playground with his friends. Gus has settled at my feet, panting contentedly in the shade.
I’m getting paid for this. To sit in the sunshine, chat about my granny, and watch a happy kid play with his friends.
Despite my earlier doubts about working for Captain Grumpypants, this might actually be a pretty sweet job.
Back at the house, I set Finn’s lunch in front of him at the kitchen table. It’s a bowl of tomato soup and a cheese sandwich, cut diagonally because apparently even sandwiches have rules in this house.
