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Archie nodded sagely. “Can’t be easy for the pair of you. Where’s his mum?”
“In rehab.” Laurel felt a bit disloyal for admitting that much. “And you’re right, it isn’t easy. In fact, right now it feels downright impossible.” She was not going to cry. Archie had already seen her in tears once today.
She wasn’t sure what had possessed her to walk across a muddy paddock in near-darkness with a tray bake of brownies; after Zac had slammed his way upstairs, she’d drifted around for a bit, battling a sense of both hurt and despair, and then she’d decided she needed to get out. She needed to see a friendly face, and the only one around was Archie’s. So she’d left a note for Zac, not that he’d bother to come downstairs and see it, and here she was.
“Here we are.” Archie rootled around in a cupboard and then appeared, brandishing a bottle of what looked like very dark, very old whisky.
“I don’t know if I should…” Laurel began, even though part of her was tempted to grab the bottle from him and neck it. “With Zac, you know…”
“A wee dram,” Archie answered with a smile. “It’s medicinal, especially when taken with a brownie.”
“All right, then.” Laurel came into the kitchen, taking a seat at the big square table that dominated the cosy space. Everything was exactly as it had been this morning, at least as far as she could tell—dogs, laundry, piles of post, a lovable mess that enveloped her with its warmth.
Archie poured them both small glasses and then pushed one over to her. Then he cut two large brownies from the tray bake and passed her one, as well. Whisky and chocolate. What more could she possibly ask for?
“Now, tell me what this is all about,” he instructed, except he said aboot and it made Laurel smile.
“I don’t even know where to begin.” Or if she should be pouring her heart out—if that was in fact what she about to do—to Archie MacDougall, part stranger, part fairy godfather.
“Start anywhere you like.” He sat down across from her and drained his whisky in one. Laurel took a small sip of hers; she hadn’t been sure she liked whisky, but actually, it tasted quite nice. Smoky and peaty and, yes, a bit medicinal.
“Well I suppose it begins when a staff person at a rehab facility outside London called me nearly two weeks ago now, and said my sister had checked herself in and I needed to come to London to take care of Zac.” Laurel took another sip of whisky, feeling it burn its way down her throat. “But really, it starts long before that—when my mum died, perhaps, or when Abby left…”
“Left?”
“When I was thirteen. She went to university, but it was more than that.” That wretched lump was coming back, growing bigger, making her feel as if she were being strangled from the inside. Laurel gazed down into the amber depths of what was left of her drink. Archie just waited, relaxed in his chair. One of the dogs ambled over and placed its head on his knee. From the corner of her eye Laurel watched him stroke it, his long, brown fingers sliding over the silky fur.
She drew a quick, steadying breath. “After my mum died, Abby did just about everything for me. She made the meals, did the housework, made sure I had my PE kit and my schoolbooks, tucked me in at night…”
A sudden memory, sharp in its poignancy, made her catch her breath. Abby carrying a paper mâché model of the Tower of London into school for her; they’d worked together for hours to make it. Laurel had been so proud.
“Anyway, she was really there for me, again and again,” Laurel resumed when she trusted herself to speak and sound normal. Sort of. She picked a piece of her brownie off and nibbled it, more to stall for time than because she wanted to eat it. “And then she went to uni when I was turning thirteen, and it was just as if…” She trailed off, unsure if she could put her hurt into words.
After a long moment while Archie waited, stroking the head of one of the dogs, he prompted, “As if?”
“As if she couldn’t wait to get away… from me. She hardly ever came back, and when she did, it was like she wasn’t really there. She was always out, doing other things, itching to go back, barely aware of me or our dad. And truth be told, she only came back once twice—Christmas and Easter. Then she left for good, although at the time I told my
self she’d come back. I told myself that for years.” There was the lump, as big as a golf ball, making it hard to swallow or even breathe. “Sorry, you must think me such a nutter,” Laurel said with a wobbly laugh. “Descending on you and telling you all this…”
Honestly, what was she doing? She didn’t even know Archie MacDougall. The first time she’d met him, yesterday, he’d been pointing a gun at her. She was crazy. Clearly completely crazy, and yet desperate to talk about this stuff that had swum up from the depths of her soul—all the hurt and confusion she’d pushed down for far too long, rising to the surface here and now. But even so, to Archie…?
Laurel hadn’t realised she’d half-lurched from her seat until Archie reached over and stayed her with one hand; his palm was warm and callused on her own.
“I don’t think you’re mad,” he said quietly. “Just under some stress, maybe, considering all that’s happened.”
The way he said stress—“strayss”—made her smile again and she relaxed back into her seat.
“Your accent is kind of amazing. Eilidh has one too, I know, and so did my mum, so I’m used to it, but I think I’ve forgotten. Or maybe yours is a wee bit stronger.”
Archie smiled wryly. “Perhaps it is, at that. I couldna change my voice if I tried. Anyway.” He poured her another generous slosh of whisky even though Laurel knew she didn’t need it. Her head was already starting to spin. She took a big bite of brownie to counteract the alcohol, and Archie followed suit.
“Delicious,” he said as he wiped crumbs from his mouth. “Much better than my lemon drizzle.”
“No…”
“You’ll have to give me the recipe.”
She almost laughed at that; she simply couldn’t picture this man’s man, with his craggy face and crinkly eyes, exchanging recipes like some 1950s housewife.
