Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

K irsty’s eyes flicked towards the wall of regrets. It had started as a small idea, a way to connect with their customers. But it was gaining attention. Many fresh notes had been added in the past few days, some scrawled in shaky handwriting and others in bold letters. Some even with doodles and drawings. It made her think about Connor’s note – if it was his – tucked away inside her wallet.

My biggest regret is that I let her go that night.

Whatever that was supposed to mean. Kirsty stirred her iced latte – also known as cold coffee with milk and ice cubes – listening to the hum of conversation in the café juxtaposed against the clatter of dishes and the spitting of the evil espresso machine. People were coming by to read the wall and leave their own regrets behind. On a Thursday. Some of them struck up conversations with others who were also reading through the notes. Many of them bought a rowie and a cuppa.

Can’t believe it’s working.

Not enough to put the business on a green branch, but at least the branch wasn’t decaying underneath them anymore. She’d even seen some pictures appear on social media. Her next move? Create an Instagram account for the Seaview Café.

Kirsty wasn’t a total alien anymore. After barely a week in Cairnhaven, the few regulars were used to her presence. The initial reservations towards her were fading. Even her parents’ shady comments were getting softer.

Don’t get too comfy. You have a fucked-up life to get back to.

It wasn’t all unicorns and rainbows, though. It would never be. As far as her parents were concerned, writing wasn’t a proper job for a working-class girl. And Kirsty was their only child. In refusing to take over the Seaview Café, she was rejecting their life’s work, their legacy and identity. In the eyes of Liz and Myles Munro and their circle in Cairnhaven, Kirsty had become an ungrateful, snooty cow.

She was thirty-three and her parents didn’t take her seriously, couldn’t accept who she was and what she wanted.

That was the rift none of them could get over.

She heard her father’s shuffling steps behind her. ‘I see you’re working yourself to the bone again?’ Sarcasm tinged his words.

‘Always hustling, Da. Always hustling.’

He grunted, a sound that was both disapproving and affectionate. Kirsty turned, expecting to see the habitual crease of scepticism on his face. Instead, she was met by a hint of a smile. The beginning of a small bridge connecting two worlds too stubborn to meet halfway.

He waved a hand at the wall of regrets. ‘People seem to fancy it. Good for business, aye. That’s worth a nod.’

Kirsty chortled. ‘A nod from you is like a standing ovation from anyone else, Da. I’ll take it.’

‘What are yous on about?’ her mother shouted from behind the counter.

‘Nothing, love,’ her da said. ‘Just talking shop.’

‘Less talking, more doing. When I’m under the knife, getting my new hip, I need to know that this place won’t fall apart,’ Liz called over. ‘Have you decided what to do about the festival this weekend?’

‘We put the application in,’ her father said. ‘There’s the marquee from the last year. But I cannae do that and run the café while you’re in hospital.’

‘We could ask the fruit of our loins if she’d like to pitch in,’ Liz said.

Her dad crinkled his brow. ‘Not sure if that’s her sort of thing. She’s a Londoner now.’

‘Ew, guys. The fruit of your loins is right here and can hear you.’

‘We’re still getting used to that,’ her father replied.

A patron chipped in. ‘Naw, Liz. We need yer pies at the festival. Ye cannae let Isa win.’

The food festival. Cairnhaven tradition. Important for business. This town had little enough going for it as it was. Mainly that it wasn’t too far from Aberdeen and looked comparatively cute. So this was a much-needed event. For Cairnhaven as well as the café. But watching the stand meant talking to people all day, for three days. To tourists. To the community she was just getting used to again. Kirsty weighed the proposition in her mind. The idea of staffing the stall at the festival was only slightly more appealing than being baby Gigi’s designated wet nurse.

But her parents needed her. It was either roll up her sleeves for some heavy-duty mingling or… Actually, there wasn’t much of an alternative. ‘Fine then,’ she said with a defeated sigh that was more theatrics than true resignation. ‘I’ll run the stall. But I’m not wearing any tartan aprons or that sort of shite.’

‘Aye, that’s all very well. But who’s gonna build the stall?’ her father asked. ‘I’m too wobbly and all that.’

‘We’ll find someone. Or we don’t.’ Kirsty was ready to leave it up to fate.

But, as it happened, fate had a crude sense of humour.

Her father’s eyes lit up as he spotted something outside. Kirsty turned around to see what it was.

A swaying fishing rod?

When she glanced back again, her father was already scurrying out the door. Surprisingly spry for someone with Parkinson’s, early stages or not. She hurried after him, trying to keep up with his determined pace. ‘Be careful, Da!’

‘Haud yer wheesht, I’m not an invalid yet.’

When she stepped outside the café behind him, she saw what his plan was.

Oh, no. No, no, no. Nope. Absolutely not. Never.

‘Connor Bannerman!’ her father bellowed. ‘I’ve got a proposition for you, son.’ He reached Connor’s side and clapped him on the back.

‘Myles.’ Connor seemed flabbergasted, holding on a tad too tightly to his fishing rod and cooler bag. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘We need some muscle to help build our stall for the food festival tomorrow. Metal beams, bit of tarp. And who better than a lad like yourself, working on an oil rig and all. You’re sure to have the skill and some strength to spare.’

Connor looked as if someone had asked him to take a bath with a thousand tarantulas. His face changed colour from pale to red in different spots. Like a confused chameleon.

‘No, Da. Leave the poor man alone,’ Kirsty stammered and pulled on her father’s arm. ‘I’m sure he has lots to do. Right, Connor? And…I can be the muscle!’

Her father grunted. ‘Kirsty, you’re a capable lass. But you can’t build a stall. Have you seen your arms?’

‘Aye, okay. Fair enough. But we could pay someone!’ There was shrill desperation in her voice.

‘With what?’ her father scoffed. ‘Hot pies and tepid handshakes?’

Connor’s gaze darted between Kirsty and her dad, hesitation written all over his face.

‘You don’t have to do this, Connor. I mean it,’ Kirsty urged. They looked at each other, a stand-off that had the intensity of a Highland cattle auction. For a brief moment, his eyes held a glint of something mysterious and deep, and she knew what he was going to say before the words left his lips.

‘I’ll do it,’ he declared sternly.

The stiff smile on her father’s face was almost worth it. ‘Ah, that’s good of you, son. The stall brings in a chunk of money every year. God knows we need it. You don’t mind helping Kirsty out a bit with the selling?’

She turned to her father, trying to communicate telepathically that he was playing with fire. Or more accurately, with highly volatile ex-teenage-relationship dynamite. But her father was as adept at mind-reading as he was at playing Mongolian overtone music on a melodica. And he wouldn’t have listened anyway.

Give him an inch and he’d take a mile .

Three days of being close to Connor. Depending on him. Working with him. The thought of it made Kirsty’s insides flip like a kipper on a skillet.

Connor rubbed the back of his neck, still mottled in the face. ‘Erm…if she doesn’t mind.’

‘She does,’ Kirsty squawked.

‘She doesn’t,’ her dad said in the same second.

Kirsty shot him a look that could curdle milk. Yet, there was Connor, all rugged and unassuming, ready to play the knight to her damsel in involuntary distress. She bit her tongue to stop the tide of expletives threatening to crash into the conversation. Instead, she forced an appeasing smile. ‘What I meant was, I don’t want to impose on Connor’s goodwill.’

‘It’s no bother,’ Connor replied, still staring at her.

The words lingered in the fresh summer air, thick with the promise of upcoming awkwardness. His dark-green eyes met hers, glaring at her with smouldering defiance. Heat rippled across his skin, glowing red underneath the stubble.

He really was gorgeous when he blushed.

‘Thanks,’ Kirsty finally managed, her pride swallowing the sour taste this arrangement left in her mouth. ‘We appreciate the help.’

Her father clapped his hands together as if he had brokered peace between two feuding clans. Which wasn’t too far from the truth. ‘That’s settled then. Connor, you can come by the café in the morning. Pick up the stuff, get started bright and early.’

Connor nodded, though the crease between his brows hinted at his inner turmoil. ‘Awright.’

‘But just so you two know,’ Kirsty said, ‘I’ll come up with a new concept for the stall.’

‘You can come up with whatever you like,’ her father said as he made his way back into the café, ‘as long as you get your arse into that marquee and sell.’

Kirsty watched him go, the frustration knitting itself into a tight scarf around her neck. She turned toward Connor, and her face softened when she noticed the way his hands fiddled with the fishing rod, a clear sign of nerves.

‘Look, I’m sorry for dragging you into this,’ she said. ‘I know you’ve got better things to do than pander to my da’s whims.’

His deep voice carried a sincerity. ‘I told you, Freckles. I’m always here.’

Few words, but the weight behind them struck her silent. Something in the way he said it, so calm yet leaving no doubt. His eyes held hers, steady and true. No dramatics needed; it got straight to her core.

And it made her want to run.

‘Whatever. See you tomorrow then, Bannerman.’

‘You bet, Munro.’