Flora stood, warming her hands in front of the fire. There was a skeleton staff, all of whom seemed great. They just needed a chef and a bit of help in the kitchen. Fintan was panicking.

“But it’s all Colton’s,” said Flora softly. “It was his dream. It’s exactly how he wanted it.”

Flora eyed the huge antlered stag head above the fireplace and reflected that, for better or worse, it certainly was that.

He sighed. “It’s all that’s left of him. How could I sell that?”

His voice was anguished. Flora didn’t know what to say.

“Well, how would you feel if you did sell it?” she tried gently.

“We met for the first time on the lawn,” said Fintan bitterly. He now appeared to have completely changed his mind about selling it and was somehow blaming Flora for implying it. “We got married out there, or did you forget?”

Flora stayed silent. She understood Fintan’s bitterness and grief. She had just slightly hoped that he might get a bit more excited about moving forward, find energy in working on the new project, in making it as wonderful as Colton always hoped it would be.

Fintan, however, was still fuming at the world, specifically the Rock hotel section of it, the amazing boutique property that was now, technically, his to do as he liked with. To most people, Flora reflected, a little glumly, it would have been a wonderful legacy. But Fintan seemed determined to have none of it.

She tried to help. “We’ll just need to charge a lot of money,” said Flora. “Get the right people in.”

“Rich nobbers.”

Flora shrugged. “There are plenty of nice rich nobbers.”

“Are there, though?” said Fintan, looking cross.

“Well, you married one for starters.”

“Yes, but he . . . he was a one-off.”

Flora smiled sympathetically as they walked on to the dining room, which had cozy soft leather banquettes at the windows, comfortable tweed chairs, and wide dark oak flooring. There was paneling along one wall with expensive, terrible oil paintings of stags and Bonnie Prince Charlie. It was completely empty and still.

Flora looked around. “So many tables,” she said, half to herself. The Seaside Kitchen had twelve tables, at least two of which were permanently occupied by knitters who worked with the Fair Isle companies. Then there was the mums and babies group who spent copiously on the organic purees she put together each morning with whatever she had on hand, plus a long line of extremely hungry fishermen, farmers, hikers, bird-watchers, and holidaymakers who wanted sausage rolls and haggis pies and hot soup. She knew her clientele back to front and was fond of all of them. That she could manage. But this . . . even though it was technically a boutique hotel, it was still an awful lot of doing. Was Fintan up to it?

As if hearing her thoughts, Fintan let out a great sigh. “All I ever wanted to do was make cheese.”