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“Thank you.”
Glancing back, he offered a tight-lipped smile and exited the truck.
NINE
NICK
Then, Tuesday, August 7, sixteen years ago
“Dad said we’ve got thirty minutes.” Nick slammed the passenger door of his grandmother’s Range Rover as Tarquin hopped on his skateboard and pushed off. “Tarq, seriously! No fucking around.” His stomach rolled, dreading the scolding they’d receive from Richard Balfour if they returned late.
Tossing his russet locks from his eyes, Rupert licked a trickling river of melting ice cream from his cone and pocketed the car keys. “You do realize you’re wasting your breath, right?” The middle Balfour brother nudged his black, thick-rimmed eyeglasses up his freckled nose and shared an exasperated look with Nick.
Leather shoes gleaming beneath his dress trousers, Tarquin stomped on the tail of his board and scraped his other foot forward, gaining air for a few precious moments until his wheels touched down on the sidewalk with a loud clack.
SQUAWWK! A gull screamed and flapped furiously, abandoning several flattened fries in the middle of the road.
“Shiiit!” Nick’s heart kicked against his ribs as he ducked the agitated bird, praying it wouldn’t soil his pink button-down, navy silk tie, or dark gray trousers. Running a hand through his hair, he checked his appearance in the flower shop’s window. “Honestly, Tarq!” he snarled over his shoulder. “Can you quit it?”
Unfazed, his fifteen-year-old brother ignored him and dug in, picking up speed on his board. With a bend of his knees, Tarquin leapt again, landing a shaky kickflip, but his wavering balance catapulted the board’s nose upward, chucking him off. “Bollocks! Fuck! Arse!” he hollered, tumbling into the street.
Nick fussed with his hair, ruffling it into the right amount of messy. “You never learn.”
Watching his board trundle off without him, Tarquin sulked. “You’re such a twat, Nico.” He looked back. “Always obsessing about your stupid hair. It’s windy here—get over it!” He shook his head. “And I do learn, unlike you, constantly blethering on like I broke Gran’s gift on purpose. It was, still is, and always will be an accident.”
“Mum’s gonna kill ya if come back filthy,” said Rupert, swerving around him.
“Rubbish! Like she’d even notice.” Tarquin brushed a grimy fry off his tie and rose to his feet. “She doesn’t care.”
“Well, you should. For Gran’s sake.” Nick abandoned his hairstyling and peered beyond his reflection. Buckets of tiger lilies fresh off the ferry mingled with jolly sunflowers and a buoyant balloon or two. Problem solved! He grinned, checking his watch. They could snap up a showstopping bouquet and be headed back to their grandmother’s with time to spare. “Whatcha reckon? These look nice.”
When no answer came, he glanced down Broad Street. Mid-frown, Tarquin was inspecting his scraped palms while Rupert chucked his ice cream in a bin and veered into Marwick’s.
“Like he’ll find anything better in there.” Nick followed begrudgingly. “It’s a shop for tourists, isn’t it?”
“Snobbishness, thy name is Nikolai.” Tarquin hopped on his board and attempted another ollie, landing it with barely a wobble. “While I’m a skating god!” He fist-pumped the air. “YES!”
“Skating wanker, more like,” murmured Nick, his narrowed eyes skirting over the stoneware mugs greeting him inside the shop. “And I’m not a snob. I’m…discerning.” His fingers raced along a shelf of fragrant candles and Ring of Brodgar-themed coasters. While charming, the items were hardly an eighteen-year-old boy’s nirvana, nor were they special enough for their doting grandma’s seventieth birthday. But the delicate Murano glass vase he and his brothers brought back from their family’s month-long sojourn in Venice, now that was special—until it became a heap of smashed shards after one of Tarquin’s boardslides gone horribly wrong. With a five-course, celebrity chef-created birthday celebration two hours away, Nick and his brothers were running out of time and choices. Something—anything—would have to do.
Rupert examined a black sweater with embroidered sheep circling the collar as Tarquin tramped in with his skateboard. Flicking a hand through his blond-tipped faux hawk, he lurched toward a throw pillow featuring a black and white photograph of Orkney’s famous Twatt road sign. “Hey, Nico!” He snickered. “Found your Christmas present. Even has your name on it!”
“Dickhead,” Nick retorted sharply and skulked deeper into the shop. Passing a pair of French-speaking seniors passionately discussing the “chutney de tomates fumées” and a pregnant woman with her dawdling toddler, Nick spied an impressive display of silver necklaces gracing the back wall. Now this is more like it. Pausing beside an ajar door affixed with a ‘Stockroom - Employees Only’ sign, his scrutinizing gaze landed on a delicate leaf-shaped pendant dangling from a silver chain.
A girlish giggle wafted around the doorjamb. “Did your wrist hurt?”
“A little. It took forever.” A familiar laugh, easy and quick, punctuated the reply. “I thought I was doing it wrong…”
Nick’s ears pricked as he liberated the necklace from its hook. Sounds like Evie? Sam’s sister always seemed slightly besotted in his presence, but in a sweet, non-abrasive way. Like her brother, she was discreet and trustworthy, never clingy or intense. A nice, normal kid. I should say hi.
“…but then he grunted and fisted my hair,” said Evie.
What? A knot cinched in Nick’s stomach. Someone hurt her?
“And?!” The other girl’s pitch rose. “My god, Eves, did Stuart, you know—?”
“Come? Yep. Alll over his rugby top.” She dissolved into giggles.
Little Evie? Nick’s jaw fell slack. But she’s only—and she’s wanking off some bloke?! When he stepped back, the floorboards complained beneath his size tens.
