Page 78 of A Secret Scottish Escape

I peered down at the plastic window of the envelope, with my name and address staring back at me.

My stomach lurched and swooped. I could see Dad and Ed’s faces mingling and interchanging in front of me. This involved them every bit as much as it did me.

These past few months – the betrayal by Mac, my mother’s revelation – it was all pressing down on me. But then I angled myself round on the wooden step. The Conch Club sat behind me, full of the promise of laughter and music that would echo around the hills and the woods here.

Despite the pain and the deception, I had come so far. I had pushed through and I had achieved something.

“Go on,” urged Dad, tense beside me. “Open it.” He seized one of my hands in his. “Whatever it says, it will be fine. We will be fine, OK?”

My heart was zinging around my chest like an out-of-control pinball machine.

I steeled myself and took one long breath. The scent of the leaves and fresh water was glorious.

Dad fiddled with the collar of his long-sleeved polo shirt beside me. “It’s like the Oscars.”

I slid open the envelope with one trembly finger. My hand fumbled inside, pulling out the folded letter. It made a crackling sound as I flapped it open.

The air lodged itself in my ribcage, while I impatiently scanned the letter. The beginning of it consisted of references to scientific data. My attention focused on the second paragraph.

Mr Harold George Devlin is not excluded as the biological father of Ms Layla Rosalind Devlin, with a Probable Paternity Ratio of 99.99%.”

I buried a gasp and thrust the letter at Dad. I didn’t know what to say, so I just gave a nod of my head and a tiny smile. The relief and happiness sweeping through me was overwhelming.

Dad scanned the letter. He didn’t say anything for a moment. He just sat there, contemplating its contents, before turning, pulling me to him, and planting a kiss on the top of my head. His voice crackled. “It’s all right. Everything’s all right.”

Dad reached for his mobile. “I had better ring Ed. I promised I would tell him as soon as we knew.”

I reached for the coffee beside me and held it, allowing the warm sensation to seep into my fingers.

Ed answered after a few rings and I listened as Dad relayed the DNA results to him. When the call was over, Dad lowered his phone and appraised me. “I think Ed’s a bit disappointed about not being your dad after all.” Dad stretched out his legs. “He admitted that he wasn’t too sure how he was feeling right now.” He rubbed his forehead. “I think part of him had started to come around to the idea of having a grown-up daughter.”

My eyes widened. “Well, that wasn’t the reaction I expected.”

Dad agreed with me. “I don’t think Ed’s reaction was what he expected either.”

We sat together for a few more moments in quiet contemplation, with only shafts of papery sunlight slithering through the branches for company.

Eventually, I gave Dad a playful frown and broke off a bit of my croissant. “It’s hungry work, directing the position of signs.”

“I bet it is.”

I popped another piece into my mouth and slid my eyes down to my mobile, which was sitting beside me. In all the drama of the DNA results arriving, I realised Faith hadn’t responded to my text yet. I knew she would though. My best friend was nothing if not reliable.

Sitting here, next to Dad, with the water slapping against the end of the jetty and the faint crackle of tree branches, reminded me of when I was little. I had feared that those memories would be stolen from me. Now I treasured them even more.

I glanced at my watch, determined for our lives to move on and for things to get back to normal. Dad handed me back the letter and I grinned before folding it up and putting it in my back pocket. “Molly should be here soon to deliver the menus,” I said to Dad.

My mobile chose that moment to let out an indignant beep, signalling that I had received a text.

I grabbed my phone, thinking it might be Faith, but it was Molly, saying there had been a traffic-light failure on the road from her house in nearby Finton and she apologised, explaining that she would be ten minutes late.

I had never met Molly before, but Alec assured me her artwork was first class. When I took a look at her website, her originality and her passion were evident, and she had shown that in the sign she had produced for me. The woman appeared to be able to turn her hand to almost anything.

Dad and I were chatting about possible solo singers I could scout when a Ford Transit Connect in school bus yellow swung into the tourist parking area opposite and eased into an available space by the picnic tables.

We observed a curvy redhead climb out and move round to the passenger side, from where she fetched a rectangular box.

As she approached, her curls bounced around her shoulders and the ankle-length camel maxi-dress she was wearing fluttered over a pair of jewelled sandals.