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What if he’s ashamed of me? What if he’s worried I’m going to show him up? I caused a huge scene with Lexie at his masquerade ball the summer we met, after all; and I’m notorious in Heather Bay for being the girl who ran off stage at the Gala Day in her underpants.
And on fire.
So who would blame him if he was worried about what I might do to ruin any meeting he set up with his parents?
“Jack had a brother too, didn’t he?” asks Frankie, breaking into my paranoid fever dream of a thought-process.
“Yeah. Alexander. But he died when he was young. So it’s not him either,Alfonso,” I say, looking pointedly at McTavish.
“I wouldnae be so sure,” he replies seriously. “Everybody thought Toadies’ wife, Dee, was dead, but she turned up years later. Turns out she had an evil twin. So ye never know.”
“You’re talking aboutNeighboursagain, aren’t you? That’s asoap opera, McTavish,” I wail.
“Aye, but it could happen to anyone,” he insists.
I roll my eyes, but Frankie jumps in.
“Whoever your mystery messenger is,” she says firmly, “It sounds to me like they’ve been watching a few too many soap operas themselves.”
I consider this as I sip my coffee. It’s true that the messages have a certain drama about them; an “arch-villain” tone, as if whoever wrote them is sitting there cackling evilly as they hit send. That makes me think of Scarlett Scott again, but then another thought hits me.
“Well, maybe it’s McTavish,” I say, glaring at him. “Helikes soap operas. And that last message mentioned him directly. Or it could even beyou, Frankie. Who knows?”
“Haud yer wheest,” says McTavish. “Ye ken fine it isnae us.”
“DoI, though?” I ask, suddenly paranoid. “It could beanyone. And it’s driving me crazy, not knowing. I can’t even think about the wedding, or… oranything, really, because I know someone out there wants to break me and Jack up.”
“And it’s going to work, too, if you carry on like this,” says Frankie. I tense in anticipation of one of her lectures, but instead she just puts her hand on my arm, patting it comfortingly.
“It’s not me or McTavish,” she says kindly. “You know that. This person, whoever it is, is just messing with your head, Emerald. You can’t let them win. You have to tell Jack about this. Don’t make me say this again.”
“I know,” I say, sniffing loudly. “And I know it’s not either of you two either. Sorry about that.”
They nod understandingly, and I turn to McTavish, who’s shoveling the last of the chips into his mouth.
“Do you really have no idea what that message meant, though?” I ask. “About Jack lying to you? You must havesomeidea, surely?”
“I dinnae,” he says, shaking his head. “I really wish I did, Emerald, so I could clear this up for ye, but it’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”
I look at Frankie, who nods at me to go on.
“It’s just, Frankie said something earlier about you wanting to buy that land yourself?” I say cautiously. “The land Jack’s building Emerald View on? It’s kind of halfway between his house —ourhouse — and the farm.”
“Aye, I ken it well,” he replies. “But I couldnae buy that land in a million years, Emerald. Aye, I’d have liked to, if I could afford it. But I cannae. I can barely afford to buy these chips, tae be honest wi’ ye.”
He looks mournfully down at his empty plate, and Frankie and I exchange worried glances. It’s no secret that McTavish has been having money worries for a while now. He sold some of his farmland to Jack a while back, just to tide him over, but he always knew it would just be a stopgap, and now it sounds like things are worse than ever.
“This is my treat,” I say quickly. “Seeing as I’m the one who brought you both here.”
“Thanks, Emerald,” he says, pushing the plate away. “But I dinnae hae much appetite these days. I think I’ll only be able to manage the one slice o’ cake now.”
“Didthat land belong to your family at some point, though?” I ask as Frankie goes to the counter to order us all some cake. “Frankie thought it used to be part of the farm?”
“Aye,” says McTavish, scratching his head. “I think so. My granda’ always says it did, anyway, but my granda’s always been a bit touched, if ye ken what I mean. So who knows? Remember the time he thought Old Jimmy was Elvis?”
“Even so,” I say thoughtfully. “What if he was right, McTavish? What if that landdidrightfully belong to you?”
“Even if it did,” says McTavish, as Frankie squeezes back into the booth, carefully balancing three slices of cake on a tray. “It doesnae now, so that’s all there is to it. Jack owns that land as far as I’m concerned, and I cannae think o’ any reason he would lie to me about it. Or why ye shouldnae trust him.”
