‘Where’d you learn to cook this one, then?’ Struan swept up one of the green salad leaves just to see her nose scrunch again, then regretted it when the overpowering taste of soap coated his tongue. Not salad, but his archnemesis: coriander.
‘Have you spoken to my dad a lot recently?’ Rae questioned, as though Struan hadn’t spoken at all.
He tried to scrape the unpleasant taste from his tongue, and when that didn’t work, grabbed a glass of water to swill out his mouth. ‘Loo’way,’ he pleaded before spitting the coriander into the sink. He’d meantlook away, but she hadn’t, instead blinking disbelievingly at him. Perfect. He’d already made an arse of himself. ‘Please don’t use a lot of that stuff. It doesn’t taste good.’
‘That’s because it’s a garnish, not a snack,’ she chided, folding her arms and leaning her back against the counter. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘You didn’t answer mine.’
‘Gran said Dad hasn’t been that well. Did he seem off lately? Does he go with the hiking group a lot now? Has anything like this ever happened before?’
Being faced with so many questions at once was dizzying, leaving Struan’s forehead wrinkled. She was worried. He’d sensed it before, which was why he’d asked her to get water, keep her busy. ‘Have you banged your head recently? I can check for concussion—’
‘I’m serious!’ Rae burst out.
‘Okay, okay.’ Struan’s fingers flexed with the urge to reach out, calm her, but he locked them at his sides instead. ‘Aye, he joins the group most weeks, and no, nothing’s happened before.I think maybe you’re worrying more than you need to. It was warm out there today. He probably forgot to stay hydrated, especially with Dot nattering to him constantly. He’s fine. I promise.’
It soothed her enough that her posture sagged, and she went back to stirring the simmering pot of couscous. ‘Thank you.’
‘Of course,’ Struan said softly. ‘I know it’s scary when something like this happens. If you needed to worry, I’d tell you. Promise.’
He still remembered the day his dad had gone for a mountain bike ride and never made it home. Struan had been seventeen, unprepared to lose a parent so young, but accidents happened to even the most seasoned of cyclists and hikers. At least now, he could help other people.
Rae had been there through all of it, holding Martha’s hand while they waited for news on whether he’d been found. The rest was a blur – until the funeral. Everybody had been focused on Mum and Martha, their grief written in streaks across their face, while Struan had tried to do what Dad would have: hold himself together, make silly jokes so that everyone remembered how to smile, take care of his girls.
Nobody had noticed him sneak off alone at the wake. Nobody but Rae. She’d sat with him in the grass in the back garden, a plate of finger sandwiches between them. It was the first and possibly only time Struan had felt allowed to grieve in the presence of someone else. She’d been there as Martha’s support, but she’d still taken time for him.
He’d never forget that. If something was wrong with Doug, he’d be there.
‘He’s not ill, is he?’ Struan asked quietly.
‘He’s struggling, I think.’ Rae glanced out of the window at the daisy-peppered fields, bleached pink as the sun began to set.
‘Is that why you’re back?’
‘No. I didn’t know. The farm isn’t running like it used to, though, so… maybe it’s good I am.’
‘So, you’re staying?’
‘For summer, at least.’
Struan considered it, drumming his fingers against the cold countertop. ‘I can help if you need. My busier tours don’t start until the week after next. If there’s anything I can do, you know I will.’
Rae nodded. ‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’
‘No bother, Little Rae.’ He nudged her gently, glad when the corner of her mouth tugged up in appreciation. It was in his nature to help her, just as it was to help Martha. He reminded himself of that as he continued to watch her work. She was off-limits, and that was that. It didn’t mean he couldn’t offer his support – or enjoy the view.
4
‘The lamb is undercooked.’ Gran poked at the browned meat with her fork.
‘No, it’s not.’ Frustration rose in Rae as she refolded her napkin, and then her dad’s for good measure. Twice.
‘It’s pink inside.’
‘It’s supposed to be.’ Thrice.
‘Is it supposed to arrive on the plate still bleating, too?’
