Chapter 3

Chapter Three

K irsty’s hand trembled as she pushed open the door to her parents’ café. The bell jangled overhead with a piercing sound, a herald of her return. The scent of coffee, butter, and cinnamon wrapped around her, sending nostalgia zipping through her veins. It was both comforting and confining. The café was a patchwork of memories.

Not all of them good.

It was here that her parents had both yelled at her when she’d opened up to them, confessing she wanted to be a writer. They’d called her daft and ungrateful when they’d heard Kirsty wouldn’t take over the Seaview Café.

They didn’t get her and vice versa.

After trying for years and years and giving up, her parents had been in their thirties when they’d had Kirsty, always calling her a ‘miracle baby’. Which, miraculously, turned out to be so vastly different from the two people who’d created her. Must have been like raising a cuckoo child.

Each worn table and mismatched chair was a witness to the past. Even the walls, with the framed black-and-white photos of Cairnhaven, seemed to watch her. Her parents’ old coffee machine, a stubborn beast, fizzled and sputtered in protest. As if it, too, recognised the prodigal daughter.

There was her mother, queen of the café. After nearly four decades behind that cramped counter, she moved with practised ease. Her smile was as warm as the steaming mugs she handed the customers. Yet Kirsty detected lines of worry etched into her face. It squeezed something tight in her chest. She’d been chasing dreams in London, lost in the city’s relentless pace, and forgotten all about this town.

Have you? Have you really?

Kirsty felt like a ghost, haunting the edges of someone else’s life. She stepped forward, and the clinking of cups paused as the two patrons turned to look at the newcomer with curiosity and suspicion. It could have been a scene in a Western with the outlawed villain entering the saloon at noon.

‘Kirsty, you’re here! What took you so long?’ Her mother’s voice punctuated the uncomfortable silence. ‘Glad you were able to arrange it after all. Now get to work. We don’t have all day and lots of rolls to butter.’

‘Love you, too, Maw. And I’m here now, for as long as you need me.’

‘About time.’

As Kirsty approached the counter, her mother enveloped her in a tight hug, the kind that spoke of relief and love. Liz Munro had a biting wit and an enormous heart. Kirsty let herself sink into the familiarity, the love that had never wholly wavered, even in her absence and despite all the fights and misunderstandings.

Pulling back, her mother held Kirsty at arm’s length and searched her face. There was softness in her blue eyes, but the usual sharpness in her words. ‘You look tired, Kirsty. And what in God’s name have you done to your hair? Makes you older.’

Kirsty pushed a strand behind her ear. ‘I dyed it brown.’

‘What was wrong with the red?’

‘Nothing, just wanted a change.’

Her mother put her hands on her hips in protest. ‘Well, your natural colour looks better on you.’

It reminded Kirsty that it had been a while since her last touch-up. The café’s rhythm resumed, but she felt the weight of every glance. They saw her – the city girl in her urban armour of trench coat, trainers, and Ray-Bans – as a stranger. The coffee beans crunched in the grinder, a rhythmic sound that grounded her in the present.

‘Is that really wee Kirsty?’ The white-haired man in the red fleece jumper surveyed her from top to bottom. ‘Haven’t seen you round here in a while.’

‘It is, aye,’ she replied. ‘Who’s asking?’

‘Don’t ye remember me?’ he said in response to her puzzled expression.

She shook her head. ‘Afraid not.’

‘Jesus, Kirsty! That’s Doctor Emslie, your old GP. One of our last loyal customers.’ Her mother’s voice was fraught with annoyance and a hint of guilt. ‘So sorry, Malcolm. She’s been away for too long. You know how it is.’ Liz let out a heavy sigh, her eyes saying, You’re an embarrassment .

‘Aye, I know, I know. Haven’t seen my Jamie in ages.’ Doctor Emslie took a sip of his coffee. ‘That Kirsty’s all grown up now. Not so wee anymore.’

She lifted one shoulder. ‘Tends to happen when you feed and water adolescents regularly. As you should know, Doctor.’

He laughed. ‘I see ye got yer mother’s tongue.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ She smiled. ‘How’s Jamie – does he have bairns?’

‘Aye, two lasses.’

‘Oh, I’m really, really glad that he managed that. Sweet relief.’ It earned her a confused look, but luckily, the good doctor didn’t probe.

Something was amiss. She’d taken the Caledonian Sleeper from London. It was almost nine in the morning. The café should have been buzzing with people getting a Saturday breakfast, or catering to the odd tourist. And yet the only guests were Doctor Emslie and two quiet lads in their hi-vis coveralls by the window.

Curious.

‘So, what do you need me to do, Maw?’

Liz looked up from wiping down the coffee machine. ‘For starters, go to the shop for some milk. We’re running out soon and I didn’t get round to do it yesterday. You still remember where it is?’

Another passive-aggressive remark. Kirsty would have to live with that for the next three weeks, possibly forever. ‘Course I do. I’ll be only a minute.’ She frowned. Something else wasn’t right. ‘Where’s Da?’

‘Upstairs. Resting and doing the books. You can say hello later. Now go get the milk. Chop, chop!’

‘Aye, captain.’

She stepped out into the heart of Cairnhaven under a sky painted with the bold strokes of a glorious Scottish summer’s morning. The houses crouched shoulder to shoulder under the bright July sun. Rays winked off the windows, casting shadows across the cobbled streets. And somewhere, just out of sight, there was certainly a gull eyeing someone’s buttery with the cold, calculating gaze of a ruthless feathered pirate.

The small former fishing town of Cairnhaven in this corner of Aberdeenshire was a picture of idyllic charm. Or so the postcard-pretty houses would have you believe. Their slate roofs were a testament to gravity-defying optimism. An excessive number of chimneys punctuated the skyline like exclamation marks, surprised at their own continued existence amidst the onslaught of the sea.

This was the place Kirsty had grown up. The place that shaped her. A shape she’d spent the past fourteen years to twist herself out of.

She could still draw the outlines of the tiny harbour and the skyline of crooked houses with her eyes closed, and it would be roughly accurate. Its bones hadn’t changed in two centuries. Certainly not in the time she’d been away.

Then why did Cairnhaven feel so uncomfortable, like a shirt with an irritating tag?

Pushing through the automatic doors of the town’s only big supermarket, the neon tubes cast a sterile glow on the fresh produce. On her quest for the milk fridge, Kirsty grabbed a basket and moved into one of the aisles that rose like human-made canyons stocked with the spoils of far-off lands and nearby farms or factories. Everything was different, of course. The last time she’d been in here, she’d bought a large bottle of Irn-Bru and Jammie Dodgers for the train ride to London. New Year’s Day.

Her heart stopped as she caught sight of a vaguely familiar, unruly shock of dark, wavy hair at the end of the aisle. That thick skull…

It can’t be. Can it? No.

Every cell in her body refused to believe what couldn’t possibly be true.

But there, by the milk fridge, stood Connor Bannerman.

In. The. Flesh.

Statistically speaking, an encounter like this might have been inevitable in a town as tiny as Cairnhaven. But that didn’t prevent the shock that wrapped around her like a sudden gale. She didn’t even know he still lived here, her parents hadn’t mentioned him. And Kirsty had never asked. She’d assumed he’d moved away. Most people did, eventually.

Each heartbeat boomed deep into her stomach as she watched him, her teenage love and the main reason for her abrupt and permanent departure from Cairnhaven, browse the shelves. Like nothing had ever happened.

Connor fucking Bannerman.

Still towering over anyone, still broad-shouldered, like a massive wardrobe. But he also looked different. More rugged, more serious, more…grown-up and manly. But unmistakably Connor. There was a familiarity in his features and stance, a memory tickling the corners of Kirsty’s mind. He wore a faded plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular, tanned forearms. And then he did the thing, softly tapping a rhythmic beat on his thigh. He’d always done it when he was concentrating or thinking.

Kirsty was a million times more prepared to become baby Gigi Amadeus’ devoted personal assistant for the rest of her life than to face the first man who’d ever broken her heart.

Well, that wasn’t quite accurate.

Broke it, shredded it, set it on fire, and then pissed on it.

She turned on her heel, intent on leaving the shop before he had any chance to notice her. Heart still a rowdy knot of nerves and memories, she navigated the aisle with the grace of a newborn deer on ice. Her body bumped sideways into a cardboard display of stacked bags of crisps. The display wobbled precariously, then gave way, sending a cascade of crisp packets down. The crash reverberated through the aisle, announcing her presence to everyone.

Smooth. Real smooth.

Connor spun around at the commotion, and their gazes locked. It knocked the wind out of her with the force of a wrecking ball. All those memories surged back into her mind.

How he’d secured her poem from the nasty hands of Maisie MacPhee, saving her further humiliation in their first week in secondary one. The first sip of cider on the steps of the war memorial. Their first kiss on the beach. Sneaking off to go night-swimming in the quarry… All the first times of everything important had been with him. He’d been her first boyfriend and first man and best friend.

Until he wasn’t.

As she tried to turn and run in panic, her foot slipped on a rogue packet and down she went, arms flailing. Blindly, she grabbed for support, any support – and latched onto Connor’s belt.

God have mercy. He must have got closer while I zoned out.

She wanted to combust on the spot.

‘Kirsty? Is that you?’ His deep voice broke through the fog of remembrance as he looked down on her. His pupils dilated in disbelief, as if he thought she was an illusion or something.

‘Erm… No?’

It was then she realised that she was still holding on to his belt. She let go as if it were lava.

Connor narrowed his eyes. ‘Liar. Who else would tackle me in the snack aisle?’

She got up and squared her shoulders, mortification battling with anger and the desperate urge to disappear. ‘Sorry, no. You got me confused. I’m Isabel. Kirsty’s evil twin.’

Humour had always been her most reliable shield.

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he chuckled, a warm rumble that sent an unwelcome tingle down her spine. ‘I bet if we asked Isabel who the evil twin is, she’d give a different answer.’

An uneasy silence stretched between them, filled only by the incessant hum of the refrigerators and the inane pop song blaring from the market’s speakers – Bon Jovi’s You Give Love a Bad Name.

How very fitting.

She studied the scuffed toes of her trainers, aware of his presence mere feet away. Even as a boy and young man, he’d had a certain gravity about him. The only person with whom Kirsty had felt grounded. She’d been the balloon and he the string.

God, he even smelled the same, like pine and soap and something delicious. A pheromone cocktail that hit her right where it shouldn’t. This prick still had the same effect on her, at least according to the tingle in her toes and the flutter in her belly. As if the past years had been erased.

Fascinating how scents do that. Catapult you back into the past.

Connor Bannerman with his muscly arms and stubbled face and mossy eyes was like a shot of whisky, igniting a stinging burning within her. Against her will.

Damn him.

He broke the silence. ‘Other than inciting a riot – what are you doing here, if you don’t mind me asking?’

She slanted her eyes at him while she lifted the cardboard display from the ground. ‘I definitely do mind. But I’ll tell you. I’m here to help my parents.’

He scoffed. ‘That’s a first.’

Putting the bags back in place, she now pulled a double-squint. It was the next best thing to punching him without getting into trouble with the law. ‘And where have you been all these years?’ she asked sweetly. ‘Prison?’

‘Of sorts,’ he grumbled, picked up two bags of crisps, and handed them to her.

So he was still evasive when he wanted to be. Fine. Monosyllabic arse. The air was charged with years of unspoken thoughts. ‘I’d better go,’ Kirsty blurted out. She didn’t trust herself to say more, knowing each word might betray the tumult stirring in the pit of her stomach.

Connor cocked an eyebrow, that same old quirk. Still annoying. Without another word, she turned and left.

‘You never were good at goodbyes, Kirsty Munro.’

Her head jerked around so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash. ‘And whose fault was that, if you don’t mind me asking?’

The comment hung in the air. For a moment they weren’t in a supermarket aisle, but back in that last, never-ending summer. When promises were as fragile and fleeting as dandelion seeds in the wind.

‘You wanted to leave first.’ His words were soft, but they struck with the force of Thor’s hammer.

‘Well, then here it is: Bad bye, Bannerman,’ Kirsty grunted and made a beeline for the checkout, pulse racing, before realising she hadn’t got the milk. She half-turned, stealing a glance back at Connor, only to find him watching her with a burning gaze.

Shit.

Her mind was a muddle, even more so than usual. She was back in Cairnhaven, back in the life she had left behind. And whether or not she liked it, Connor used to be part of that life. A chapter she’d never fully closed. These were going to be an interesting three weeks.

Welcome fucking home.