He pulls away from the curb and performs a neat U-turn, heading back toward the Manse and the hotel, but takes a right turn just outside the village. I dislike being driven as a rule—I’ve been in too many cars in too many countries where the drivers appear to operate as if there are only two options, flat out and full brake—but Ben is a smooth driver, and I’m able to relax. I find I’m wondering what Jamie and Carrie are up to tonight. I wouldn’t think he would want to conduct a romance under the unflinching eye of his father. Perhaps he’ll take her out for a drink or a meal. Oh God, what if they’re at the same restaurant? How on earth would I deal with that? How would Carrie deal with that, and Jamie? I would think he would be embarrassed not to at least have given me an inkling that he wanted to ask my sister out, in all our “wee blethers.” Or perhaps not. We’ve never discussed that sort of thing . . .

“Bloody hell!” exclaims Ben, as he turns a bend to find a vehicle careening erratically past us. “Someone’s on track for an early death.”

“I’ve seen that Land Rover before,” I say, craning my neck to look back, but it has already disappeared round a corner. “Do you know the driver?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t see, it came on us so fast. And every third car is a Land Rover round here.”

“Do I need to buy one to fit in?”

He grins. “I’ll not deny it, it really might help.”

We talk about his travels, where I’ve been for work. I’m too on edge from having seen Carrie to try to be funny or smart or deep; we just talk. He’s easy to talk to. Though in only minutes we’re entering the next village and he’s drawing up to park on the street just along from the improbably named Ballashiels Thai. As I climb out, I surreptitiously scan the other cars. There’s a Mini and a Volvo and a couple of Land Rovers—of course—but I can’t see a shiny new jeep.

“Is this okay?” asks Ben, opening the door to reveal a warmly lit space with ten or so wooden tables and brightly colored cushions scattered on the bench-style seating. About half of the tables are filled, even though it’s reasonably early.

“Looks lovely,” I say genuinely.

A middle-aged Thai lady bustles up to us. “Ben! Welcome back. How’ve you been?” Her accent is an unexpected surprise—broad Scots, but from farther north than here, I’d guess. There’s almost a Scandinavian lilt to it. “Table for two?” They swap news as we’re led to a table near the back, then she bustles off to get us some drinks.