And she went straight back out the door and onto her bicycle, her hands trembling, before she even turned around and saw her mother’s face, her hand still holding that damn teapot.

Chapter 60

T here weren’t really hours at the Harbour’s Rest. Inge-Britt generally closed up when everyone was done, which could be very early in the winter, and January, she closed altogether and went to Iceland to sit in volcanic hot pools. More than once the people of Mure had suggested clubbing together to fumigate the place while she wasn’t around—she normally left at least one fire exit propped open by mistake, it wouldn’t be a problem to get in—but it hadn’t happened so far.

In the summer, by contrast, when it didn’t get dark, often people got rather carried away and could be found carousing until the early hours, which were also broad daylight, so everything could get a touch confusing.

So ten P.M. on a December night found the cozy bar warm and welcoming, full of jolly locals celebrating Christmas or farmers having a quiet pint, this being their quieter time of year before the havoc of spring and lambing. As usual they were talking about the disastrous work of farming, but nobody minded so much, as there had never been a year ever when farmers hadn’t been talking about the disastrous work of farming.

Isla felt incredibly self-conscious as she walked in in her best dress. What if he wasn’t there? What if he’d changed his mind? What if the bar was full of everyone she knew and they all had to watch her being stood up? Why couldn’t there be at least one place to go where she didn’t know every single person on earth? Normally she’d found that such a nice, comforting thing about living in a small community. Tonight it was utterly unbearable.

She had texted Iona en route, particularly to tell her her big news—that she was thinking of moving out! Iona had been on her to do this for ages, had visions of them sharing a flat together, but she’d known Isla would never leave that awful mother of hers. Iona’s own mother was a riot, they would happily share a bottle of prosecco on a Saturday night watching Strictly together.

Isla glanced around the room and her heart leaped, as she suddenly forgot everyone else looking at her and saying hello, for there wasn’t a soul on Mure who hadn’t known Isla since she was a shy, wide-eyed bairn and barely a heart that hadn’t broken for her when good, gentle Roddy had passed and left that mainland harridan to mother her.

But in the corner, looking more handsome than ever—he needed a haircut, and his blond hair was looking floppy and falling over his eyes, which, it turned out, was exactly how Isla liked it—Konstantin was already getting up, patently absolutely delighted to see her. A few of the older farmers smiled wryly at each other. Young love.