The Cafe by the Sea

by Jenny Colgan

  “Where do you live?” he asked suddenly.

  “Shoreditch,” said Joel. Flora tried not to roll her eyes.

  “I was talking to her,” said Colton.

  “MacKenzie Farm,” said Flora.

  “Which one is that?”

  “The one that goes down to the beach.”

  “Oh yes. I know it. It’s a beautiful spot.”

  “Are you opening the Rock?”

  “Trying.” Colton wrinkled his nose. “I can’t . . . My people don’t want to work here. And getting stuff brought in . . . I’m not sure it’s worth it.”

  “Why can’t local people work here?”

  “Because you all move away,” said Colton, eyeing her coldly. “You don’t really live on MacKenzie Farm, do you?”

  Flora flushed, and shook her head.

  “How’s it doing? Making a living?”

  Flora thought uncomfortably back to what Innes had said about the books.

  “But there’s great produce here,” she offered.

  “I don’t see much of it. Most of your fish goes straight out the door. Turnips, if you like that kind of thing.”

  “People do, done right,” said Flora. “And there’s seaweed. And cheese . . .”

  “Cheese? Where?”

  Flora bit her lip.

  “And there are some great bakers on the island.”

  Colton shrugged. “Huh. Well, we were meant to be ready . . . I’ll maybe give them a push.”

  The quad bike bumped over several large open areas of wilderness, broken up by new forests. The young trees were host to hordes of deer, more than Flora had ever seen in one place. There were family groups, the little bobbing tails of the fawns, newly born in the spring, dancing up and down, and larger stags crashing through the undergrowth behind.

  It was an awe-inspiring sight.

  “You can hunt stag here?” said Joel, sounding genuinely interested for once.

  “Stag. Grouse. Pheasant. Just keep away from the golden eagles.”

  “You have eagles?”

  “Yeah, and if I shoot one I get ceremonially burned to death, then arrested, then put in prison for a hundred years, then hung, drawn, and quartered,” said Colton. He saw Flora’s face. “I don’t want to catch an eagle, jeez. Just joking. Have to be careful, that’s all.”

  “So you’ll bring your clients over here?”

  Flora could swear she saw dollar signs in Joel’s eyes. He’d probably learn Gaelic if it would get him access to Colton’s colleagues.

  “I’ll bring anyone over here,” said Colton. “Anyone I like. No one who’s going to ask me where the nearest Gucci store is.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Where is it?” said Flora, interested. She hadn’t expected to like Colton but was finding out that she did. And she’d hoped to like Joel but was finding out that she wasn’t sure about that.

  “Reykjavik,” said Colton. “See, no distance at all if you take the jet, don’t know what people moan about.”

  They turned down a perfect sandy path—seriously, was someone up here raking it every morning? Flora supposed that when you were as rich as Colton, it was no hassle to have someone doing that. Where did all his staff come from, though? Did he keep them hermetically sealed in his basement? It was very odd.

  And there it was.

  Colton raised his arm.

  “Look at this,” he said. “Look at this. Nothing. Not a thing. Not a telegraph pole. Not a television antenna. Not a house or a skyscraper or a subway system or a bus stop or a power station or an advertising billboard. Not a sidewalk, not a garbage can. Nothing man-made at all. In every single direction.”

  Except for the Rock.

  It was undeniably beautiful. Flora knew it wasn’t finished, and wasn’t expecting much of an improvement on the little ruined croft that used to sit here. But as she stepped off the quad bike, she realized immediately that this was a long distance from that.

  She was genuinely amazed. She’d gotten used, she realized, to that swanky metropolitan outlook that there was really no point in going outside London for anything, and that anyone north of the Watford Gap probably couldn’t make you a cappuccino that wasn’t out of a packet.

  But this . . .

  There was a little jetty at the front, lined with lanterns that would be lit up when the dark months came. An actual red carpet led up a rocky path. They moved round to the front of the building, and walked up a flight of stone steps so clean they appeared to have been vacuumed.

  The hotel itself was low, built of gray stone, the same color as the landscape, as if designed to look like part of the earth. There were pale gray wooden doors and window frames, and gentle lighting at each window, even during the day, that made it look like the most welcoming place ever.

  There were coos from circling birds, but apart from that the only sound was the light tinkling of gentle music. Flora raised her eyebrows.

  “We can pick guests up from the harbor, see?” said Colton. “Then nobody has to come past my house to get here. Plus you get to arrive by boat, which is, like, awesome and cool.”

  To the side was a beautiful Japanese knot garden, with succulent plants that could survive the winter onslaughts while still giving off a heady scent. Next to it was a large herb garden with rows of lavender and mint. Flora found herself wishing she’d brought along a pair of nail scissors for clipping. And along the back was a walled vegetable garden, where she could just glimpse rows of cabbages and potatoes—she guessed everything grown there would be used in the hotel restaurant. Colton certainly had high ambitions.

  The entire edifice was on the edge of a perfectly white beach, the sand bleached startlingly pale, like bone. It went on for what seemed like miles. Behind them were low gorse bushes leading back into the dunes. Ahead of them was nothing but sea, all the way to the North Pole. It seemed to Flora there was complete emptiness ahead of them, complete tranquility all around. She thought briefly about how much Bramble would like it.

  “Apart from the Rock itself, there is nothing man-made here at all,” continued Colton gravely, as if he was narrating a film trailer. “Nothing at all. Do you have any idea how rare this is? How unlikely it is? Especially in this itty-bitty little country. But anywhere now. There are cell phone towers in the desert. There are plastic bags strewn over the endless jungles of Africa. There are ads everywhere. All over the world. And this little piece of it—with the freshest air and the best water—this is mine, and I’m paying a lot to keep it this way. Perfect. Pristine. I’m not developing the Rock to get rich—I am rich. I’m developing it to be wonderful, and beautiful, and after I’m dead, I want to leave it to the people of Scotland . . . and this is why you had to see it.”

  Flora blinked.

  “Why?”

  “Because, just as we’re ready to open it, they want to stick a big wind farm right out there. Whirring away. Right across the eyeline of anyone who comes here. Spoiling my view, but most importantly, spoiling everything that makes this place special.”

  As if on cue, two sandpipers marched past, chittering to each other with their long pointed orange beaks, as if making an arrangement to have lunch, which perhaps they were.

  “The uniqueness of this place, what makes it special—what will make it special to anyone who comes here—all gone, to fulfill some stupid targets on renewables. Which, by the way, don’t even work; by the time you’ve used the fuel to make them and, Jesus Christ, to transport them out into the sea and put them down, that’s like half an oil field right there. But if they must—if they absolutely must do it, to line some guy’s pockets in Brussels or whatever—then they can take them a little farther. Or round the headland. Or, hell, opposite your damn farm; it’s hardly a beauty spot.”

  “Thanks so much,” said Flora.

  “I just want it off of here. Away. And that’s what I need you guys for.”

  “Normally we handle business mergers and acquisitions,” said Joel thoughtfully. He was looking at the landscape
, Flora noticed, but not like he really got it. Not like he saw what it meant, more like he was measuring it up, in pounds and pence. “I mean, Scottish planning . . . it’s different.”

  “Yeah, but can you do it? I know you guys. I don’t want to have to start talking to some self-satisfied prig in Edinburgh who spends a lot of money on stationery.”

  Joel nodded.

  “Who approves these things?”

  “Town council,” said Flora automatically. “They handle planning. Unless it’s a massive problem, then I suppose Mure Council would decide.”

  “Why won’t they move it?”

  Colton shrugged.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what they think of me round here, but I haven’t had much support so far.”

  Both men were suddenly looking at Flora.

  “What?” said Flora, who didn’t want to answer the question and had been looking out to sea because she thought she’d suddenly seen a seal’s head pop up. She looked again; yes, there it was, its whiskers glinting in the sun. She wanted to nudge Joel to show him, but obviously it would be completely inappropriate.

  “What do they think of Colton on the island?” prompted Joel, looking annoyed that she hadn’t been paying attention.

  “Oh . . .” Flora wasn’t sure what to do here: tell the truth or flatter the client. “Well . . . they don’t see you around that much,” she said, adding diplomatically, “You know, you’re not here that often.”

  Colton frowned.

  “But I bring a lot of money to this island.”

  There was a pause.

  “With respect,” began Flora. Joel shot her a warning glance, but she figured there wasn’t a lot of point in beating around the bush. The locals weren’t going to come out and support him, and that was that. “You don’t . . . I mean, you bring your own people in, and you don’t shop in the village.”

  “That’s because the produce is—”

  “I’m just saying,” said Flora. “You don’t drink in the pub.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Flora. “It’s just something people do.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do pubs exist?”

  Colton smiled.

  “Okay, go on. How else am I failing Mure, apart from investing in it, building on it, protecting its flora and fauna . . .”

  “You’ll be shooting quite a lot of that.”

  “Law firms are definitely getting quite bracing these days,” said Colton to Joel, who was watching without saying anything. Flora felt nervous, like she’d gone too far.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “No, no,” said Joel. “Actually, Colton, it’s useful. To know where you stand when we’re putting our strategy together.”

  “What, that everybody hates me?”

  “No!” said Flora. “But nobody knows you.”

  There was a pause, as the waves lapped quietly against the perfect sand.

  “So I should go and make nice? So people will support me?”

  “You could just make nice anyway,” said Flora, smiling slightly.

  Colton smiled back.

  “Yeah, yeah, all right . . . so speaks a lawyer.”

  “I’m not—” began Flora, but Joel stopped her.

  “What about an animal protection measure?” he said.

  Flora shook her head.

  “What?” said Joel.

  “Island’s too small,” she said. “If you couldn’t have a wind farm because of the wildlife, the protection zone would go all the way round. You couldn’t put it anywhere.”

  “Well, let’s not put it anywhere,” said Colton.

  “Then they’ll build a nuclear power plant,” said Joel. “Then you’ll be sorry.”

  “There he is,” said Flora, pointing.

  “What?”

  Colton and Joel followed her outstretched arm but couldn’t work out what she meant at first.

  “Look!” she said, surprised. “Can’t you see?”

  The seal popped up with a surprised look on his smiling face, his whiskers trailing water.

  “Well, look at that,” said Colton.

  “Don’t shoot it,” said Flora.

  He rolled his eyes.

  “No, ma’am. Well now, isn’t he lovely?”

  “He is,” said Flora.

  Joel squinted.

  “What is that, a sea lion?”

  They both looked at him.

  “You’ve spent too long with sharks in suits,” said Colton. He looked at Flora. “I notice it was you who spotted it.”

  Flora blinked impatiently.

  “I can see why there’s that old legend.”

  “What old legend?” said Joel.

  “Seal people,” said Colton. “They believe that stuff up here. Seals that turn into humans. They get married sometimes, but they always go back to the sea in the end. Are you one? Is that your cousin?”

  Flora desperately tried to smile, but couldn’t.

  “Don’t they have your coloring?” said Colton.

  She suddenly flashed back to the funeral, that awful, awful day, and was filled with a terrifying sense that she might cry.

  “Hmm,” she said.

  Joel looked at her. Her pale face was distraught. On the white beach, with the green sea behind her that exactly matched the color of her eyes, he saw, suddenly, that what looked colorless in the city was right at home here. He changed the subject.

  “So, what’s the answer?”

  “Farther out,” said Flora promptly, grabbing her way back to the conversation. “Somewhere you can’t see it. They could put it behind Benbecula; that’s uninhabited apart from the birds. You have to tow the turbines out anyway; that’s your cost. Moving them a bit farther . . . I can’t see how that can matter. And the birds won’t mind.”

  “They’ll probably like it,” said Colton. “Something new to shit on.”

  “So there’s a solution,” said Flora. “It’s basically a PR job now.”

  Joel shot her a sharp look.

  “That we could also totally handle for you,” she continued smoothly.

  “Okay, where would you start?” said Colton.

  Flora smiled at him. “Councilors.”

  Something struck her.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I might have a . . . a bit of a conflict. My dad’s on the council.”

  “This is excellent news.”

  Flora shrugged.

  “I’m not sure he’s your biggest fan.”

  “Seriously? Am I going to have to charm-offensive everyone?”

  “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “It can hurt me!” said Colton. “This is meant to be my haven of peace and tranquility! I don’t want to have to spend every minute of the day chatting up old drunks I can’t understand. No offense to your father.”

  “Ahem,” said Flora.

  “Who else is on the council?” Joel said. And they wrote down the list: Maggie Buchanan, old Mrs. Kennedy, Fraser Mathieson. Not a group naturally in favor of radical change. Which might work, Colton pointed out, if you didn’t want a wind farm on your doorstep. And might not if it would bring cheaper electricity to the residents.

  “Well,” said Joel as they headed back. “You guys know what you’re doing. I’ll get back to London and you can keep me abreast of any developments.”

  “Hang on,” said Colton. “I want you here to help me draw up the new proposals. People will want to see a real lawyer, and that I’m serious about this.”

  “Won’t she do?” said Joel. Flora glanced at him, alarmed, and he had the grace to look slightly shamefaced about it.

  “We’re going to make an impression,” said Colton. “Get on the ground tomorrow, ask around, then we’ll meet and have dinner. You can bring someone local if you like,” he said to Flora. “We might as well get started.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Flora backed the Land Rover out carefully, anxio
us not to touch any of Colton’s priceless cars. Joel sat beside her, making notes.

  “Well done,” he said, and she glanced at him, surprised. “He took to you. Now you have to get the rest of the place on your side. God knows why I have to be here.”

  “So he’s got a real lawyer?”

  “A real lawyer with a lot of work to get on with.” He turned to her. “But if this works out . . . he could bring the most tremendous amount of business our way. So.”

  “So don’t mess it up!”

  He looked at her, his lips twitching slightly.

  “Is that what I sound like?”

  “What? No!” said Flora, panicked.

  “You sounded like you were finishing my sentence for me.”

  “So I remember not to mess it up,” said Flora quickly.

  “Hmm,” said Joel, looking at her. “Uh, good, I guess.”

  Flora tackled Maggie Buchanan first. She lived alone in one of the big houses along by the vicarage, and had always seemed rather grand to Flora.

  “Ah, the wanderer returns,” she said as she answered the door, dressed neatly in a sweater, scarf, and waxed jacket. Two or three dogs pottered around her heels.

  “Hello, Mrs. Buchanan.”

  Flora felt as if she was about to ask the woman to sponsor her for a charity fun run, and didn’t feel massively better when Maggie didn’t invite her in.

  “So. You’re a city girl now.” There was disapproval in every word.

  “Hmm.”

  Awkwardly, Flora explained the situation.

  “Oh, right, you’re working for the American.” She said “the American” as if referring to Donald Trump.

  “He wants to do things right up here,” said Flora. “Make things nice.”

  “Well, he can start by filling in that awful gap along the harbor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The pink shop. The empty one. He bought it and hasn’t done anything with it. He’s just going to buy up everything on this island and turn it into his personal theme park, and I’m not having it.”

  “Okay,” said Flora, making a note. “I’m sure I can talk to him about that.”

  “Are you?” Maggie regarded her over her spectacles. “Well, good luck with that. But that wind farm could bring a lot of money to Mure. And we don’t see much of his.”