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It had all ended when Laurel’s mum had died when she’d been just eight. Cervical cancer, just six weeks from diagnosis to death. Her father had never been to Orkney, even though Isla grew up there, and he hadn’t wanted to go then, or ever.
Eilidh had come to Scarborough to visit them a few times, but those visits had tapered off in Laurel’s teen years, and somehow Laurel had never made it all the way up to Orkney again, even though she’d always said she would, and had told herself to plan a trip one day soon. Somehow it had never happened.
But she wanted to go now.
“What do you need, Laurel?” Eilidh asked gently.
“I want to invite myself for Christmas,” Laurel said in an embarrassed rush. “Zac and me…I don’t even know if you’ve met Zac…”
“Abby’s son,” Eilidh said quietly. “Only once, when he was a baby.”
“I’m taking care of him for a bit, which I can explain later, but…we need a break from, well, from real life, I suppose. And I thought of your cottage in Orkney…I have such wonderful memories from there.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “You do still have it, don’t you? I don’t even know…” She was ashamed to admit the depth of her ignorance. Maybe Eilidh had sold it years ago, and never told her.
“Yes, I still have it,” Eilidh said with a smile in her voice. “But I’m afraid I’m not there right now. I’m spending the winter in Spain…my joints, you know. I’m not as young as I once was.”
“Oh…” Disappointment swamped her, tasting thick and sour in her mouth. “It was a long shot,” Laurel said, trying to keep her voice from wobbling. She was feeling rather ridiculously bereft, considering how sudden and mad her idea had been. Going to Orkney wouldn’t have been some sort of cure-all, anyway. “I shouldn’t have even…”
“There’s no reason why you and Zac can’t go on your own,” Eilidh interjected. “If you want to. I know it might not be quite the same, but the place is empty, and the key is under the flower pot. You’re welcome to stay for as long as you like. I won’t be back until February.”
“Oh…” Eilidh made it sound so simple. Just get in the car and go. Yet Orkney had to be over seven hundred miles from London, plus the ferry…it would take well over twelve hours to get there. It really had been a mad idea.
“Just let me know,” Eilidh continued. “And I’ll make sure my neighbour Archie MacDougall looks out for you. He minds the place while I’m gone. I can send him an email tonight.”
“Are you sure…”
“It’s as simple as that.”
“Right.” Laurel’s mind spun. She couldn’t really hare off to Orkney Island for Christmas, could she, no matter what she’d been thinking a few moments ago, when the thought of Eilidh’s cosy welcome had loomed, bright and hopeful, a mumsy figure for both her and Zac, someone to take care of everything?
What if Abby needed to get in touch? What if she minded? What if Zac refused?
And yet…Orkney. A memory of sitting curled up in front of Eilidh’s fire while the sun set over the beach outside, sending golden rays slanting through the sashed window…feeling entirely at peace, as if all was right with the world. Knowing there was nowhere else she’d rather be.
“Let me work on a few things here,” Laurel said impulsively. “And then I’ll ring you back. Thank you so much for the offer, Aunt Eilidh. You’re brilliant.”
“It’s my pleasure, Laurel,” Eilidh answered, a trace of sorrow in her voice. “I hope you always know that.”
“I do,” Laurel answered, and she heard the same sorrow in her voice too, like a whisper from the past. She wished she’d kept in better touch with her aunt over the years. She wished her father had taken them to Orkney when they were children, and those magical summers had continued, stretching on to a golden horizon, shared memories that might have knit her and Abby, Eilidh, and her father, together all those years ago.
But he hadn’t, and they hadn’t, and here they were, all of them separate and isolated in their own ways.
“Thank you for the offer,” Laurel said, meaning every word. “Let me see if I can make it happen.”
Chapter Two
“This is it?”
Zac’s lip curled as he stared out at the twinkling lights of the tiny town of Stromness, obscured both by both darkness and a steadily falling rain as the ferry pulled into the choppy harbour.
Laurel’s stomach had been roiling since they’d got on the boat over an hour ago; ferry crossings in the North Sea in December were not, she’d realised, altogether advisable. She’d nearly lost her lunch more than once, and a cold sweat dotted her hairline and prickled between her shoulder blades as she said a silent prayer of thanks that the wretched ferry trip was nearly over.
“Yes, this is it,” she managed, trying desperately to inject a cheerful note into her voice despite her churning stomach. “Aunt Eilidh’s cottage is right on the coast, with a garden that leads straight onto the beach. It’s amazing.”
Of course, at half past eight at night in the middle of winter, it was also pitch dark and freezing cold. Somehow, when she’d been painting her magical picture of Orkney for Zac’s dubious benefit, Laurel had forgotten that they would be here in the dead of winter, rather than the endless, hazy days of July. A man on the ferry had cheerfully informed them that at this, the darkest time of the year, the island enjoyed just six hours of daylight. It was a bleak thought.
Zac had been nonplussed, to say the least, when Laurel had rather airily informed him last night that they were heading to Orkney for Christmas.
“Where?” He’d stared at her incredulously while Laurel had wittered on determinedly.
