by Suzanne Snow
Flora laughed ruefully. ‘I know, but I don’t seem to ever have a minute to go into town. And thanks for your loyalty, Mel, but I’ll never be prettier than Chloe Berkeley, no matter how good my nails look.’
Casually mentioning Chloe’s name still didn’t make her relationship with Mac seem any more tangible to Flora, but she was all too aware that she would have to deal with the reality of it sometime during the coming days. It still felt like something that lived in the pages of a magazine and through the whirl of constantly updating social media accounts – not someone she had kissed and whose face was imprinted in her memory. After learning about Chloe, Flora had become even more set in her belief that, as far as she was concerned, romance was overrated.
‘Are you staying in the hotel?’ Sophie looked envious as she scooped the remains of the food into a bag, and Flora nodded. ‘You are! You lucky, lucky girl. Let me come with you; I’ll be your labourer or assistant, or whatever it is that you all do. I can bring my own trowel and gloves. You’re bound to need someone who can take notes or something.’
Flora was still smiling as she opened the fridge and pulled out the remains of a chocolate cake she had scrounged from the restaurant at closing time. ‘Haven’t got much choice, really, other than the hotel. I know, what a shame. At least I should be able to have a manicure. And you’d hate it, Sophie, it’s bound to rain.’
They laughed and Sophie accepted the truth of Flora’s comment with a wry nod. They shuffled up on the sofa to settle down for what remained of the evening with their dessert and Flora was thankful that her rapidly approaching return to Alana wasn’t mentioned again.
Three days later, shortly after a snatched lunch on a sunny Monday afternoon, Flora loaded everything she needed into her trusty car and headed north. Everybody had laughed when she had swapped her nippy little hatchback for the old estate, but Flora was fond of it. It was practical for her job; it didn’t matter how dirty it got and it never let her down. So she took the jokes, mainly from Eddie, in good humour and carried on enjoying driving it.
The decision she had finally reached had seemed reasonably rational at a safe distance from Alana, but as she neared the island, her misgivings grew with every mile. No matter how many times she had told herself that Mac was unavailable, not interested in her and unlikely to be around, she knew she was going to find it very difficult to pretend complete indifference to him if he did turn up.
After the initial conversation with Sophie about his girlfriend, of course Flora had looked up the photos of Mac and Chloe online. There were only three: one showing Chloe as she emerged from the sea in a bikini, looking fabulous and in another Mac was sitting on the side of her lounger, massaging oil across her shoulders. In the third, they were walking down a busy street; Chloe was laughing up at him, as Mac faced the camera, and both of them were holding shopping bags. Flora had been informed by Sophie, who had naturally checked, that the images Chloe had posted of the holiday on Instagram had not included Mac. What did that all mean?
After almost five hours on the road and a ferry crossing from the mainland, Flora did her best to push him from her mind as she caught her first glimpse of the island. Since she had last been here, spring had abandoned its first cautious peek and the landscape had flung itself wholeheartedly into the new season. She noticed so many differences as she drove off the ferry that she had to stop the car as soon as she had let the other vehicles pass by, and jump out to look properly.
Only a few mountaintops in the far distance still clung onto their snow topping; the hills below boasted patchwork patterns of green shoots and clumps of slowly unfurling bracken, interspersed with the tiny white dots of grazing sheep and long-haired ginger Highland cattle. The early evening sunlight was still warm, and Flora shrugged out of her jacket as she turned full circle to absorb the views from every direction. The sea seemed still and smooth; yachts moored off the jetty swayed gently, the light bouncing off the water back to the hills. It was silently, astoundingly beautiful, and a sharp thrill of excitement stole through her as she thought of the days ahead exploring the garden. But this was Mac’s place. Whether he was here or not, she knew she would be unable to escape him. He had been everywhere she would be and no matter how hard she tried, she knew she could not completely push him from her thoughts.
When she arrived at the hotel a short time later, guests were milling about: strolling through the gardens, drinking on the terrace, playing a late round of golf and enjoying their leisure time in a way that Flora knew she would not whilst she was here. The porter came out to meet her and collected her bag, and she dutifully followed him inside, feeling strangely lonely without Mel and Sophie to share this with her. The hotel looked as beautiful as ever – in fact, more so now that it wasn’t smothered in rain and mist disguising its ancient charm.
Flora had no idea in which room she would be staying but was really hoping it wouldn’t be the same as last time. That room, Islay, held memories she didn’t want to have to deal with just now. That whole weekend had been filled with glimpses of Mac and snatched conversations she had tried so hard to forget.
So when Flora was shown into Arran, she was thrilled and surprised. Huge windows on the south and west walls gave her views of both the garden and the coast, and she wondered if Mac had chosen this room for that reason. But then she realised that he almost certainly wouldn’t have been the one to pick it.
Cranberry and chocolate colours were lightened by cream panelled walls and subtle lighting, and a pair of checked armchairs sat either side of an oak writing table in front of the south window. Curtains were full length and heavy, and a queen-size bed was hardly able to dominate the ample space. The room was beautiful, and she loved it.
Aware that she’d be late for dinner if she didn’t get a move on, she hurried towards the bathroom to freshen up but on the way she noticed an envelope on the table beside the bed, addressed to her. She picked up the typed note and opened it.
Flora,
Sorry I can’t be there to welcome you. Please make yourself at home – all the facilities of the hotel and spa are available to you whenever you like. I’ve left a key to the garden for you with reception.
Mac
It couldn’t have sounded more impersonal and business-like, and Flora read it once more, before crumpling the paper and dropping it in the bin. The brief lines he had written confirmed that their relationship really was purely professional and a wave of sadness swept over her. She turned away from the bed and headed into the bathroom.
* * *
She didn’t need an alarm to wake her early the next morning from a restless sleep. She showered quickly, grabbed some breakfast and collected the key that Mac had left for her on her way out of the hotel. It was a warm, bright morning already and she decided to walk to the house; she would come back for the car later, if she needed it. For now she only needed her camera, sketchbook and laptop.
She saw a few early golfers already out, dragging their trolleys and seemingly oblivious to the emerging beauty of the day. She could smell the change of season in the air since her last visit and she breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh spring scents. She found her way back to Róisín House quite easily, and the familiar sense of excitement grew as she approached it. The curved and tree-lined drive had been cleared since she was last here, and that somehow extended the perspective of the house to meet her.
The house was different, too. The outline of the building had disappeared behind layers of scaffolding, and plastic sheeting covered some of the worst of the wooden window frames. Although there were not yet signs of builders on site or work in progress, Flora knew it couldn’t be long until they arrived. The drive widened as it met the house, and she crossed to the scruffy green door, slipped her key in the lock and pushed it open, bashing down the nettles that had only grown bigger since she was here last.
She stood silently for a few minutes, just listening. The sea slithered over the rocks below, and gulls swooped and called, but no footst
eps came to seek her out, no warm voice announced a welcoming smile as she took her camera from its case. Carefully, she made her way down the uneven steps to the bottom of the terrace, glancing back towards the house when the abrupt sound of cars roaring up the drive startled her. Their noisy din and the shouting, as builders slammed doors and set to work, seemed quite wrong in this peaceful place.
Several hours later, she realised it was almost four o’clock already and she was starving. She had made sketches of different areas, following the sun through the day as she thought about what might have been planted and where. She had also taken photographs, beginning at the very top and working her way down. Tomorrow she intended to sketch the walled garden and photograph it, before returning to capture the site of the formal south-facing garden beyond the terrace. She was in the sunken garden, lost in thoughts of roses that might have been planted a hundred years ago, when a sudden voice nearby made her shriek in surprise, and her camera and sketchbook fell to the ground with a clatter.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.’
Hearing Mac’s voice had surprised her very much, and their heads almost bumped together as they both bent down to retrieve her things. Flora was thankful for a hurried moment to take a deep breath, as the thudding in her heart slowed only the merest fraction. The day was lengthening into a warm, late spring evening and there was a glow on her skin that hadn’t come from the sun. She hadn’t really been expecting him to turn up and her sadness had grown throughout the day, with the realisation that she might not see him at all.
‘Thank you.’ Flora wiped a bit of soil from her hands on her rather grubby shirt as she straightened up and reached out to take the camera from him. She was uncomfortably aware of the faded jeans and wild hairstyle that her colleagues had nicknamed ‘Flora’s nest’. Self-consciously, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, as the warmth on her skin began to settle down.
‘How are you getting on?’ Mac was leaning against a low wall, watching her. He was wearing a suit without a tie, and black Oxford shoes set him even further apart from their wild surroundings. Yet she knew that he had never looked sexier and more at home, as he pushed sunglasses onto his head.
‘Really well, thanks.’ Flora’s response was confident; she was at home in such a place as this. ‘I’ve photographed some of the garden now and sketched basic designs; I can let you have a copy of these, along with notes on possible planting schemes, once I’ve done each area and scanned them. Most of the sketches are my impressions based on Lassiter’s style and the setting of the house, as well as climate and any evidence of the little original planting which remains. But if I could see any plans you have, then I should be able to be more specific about what restoration would involve, depending on what you envisage for the future of the garden and how authentic you want it to be.’
‘I’m impressed. You have been busy, thank you.’ He paused, as though he were unsure what should come next, how it should be between them. His hands were restless on the wall and she felt his eyes on her.
Flora, surprised by his hesitation, raised one shoulder in a brief shrug. ‘It’s why I’m here,’ she reminded him, as she switched her camera off, relieved that it was still working. ‘I’m leaving in a few days; it isn’t much time for a garden of this size.’
‘Of course.’
His reply was short, to the point, and she sensed the return of efficiency in his tone. There was a moment of silence while she waited for him to say something else, and when he didn’t elaborate, she stepped past him with a smile she knew was forced. ‘Well, I think I’ll head back. It’s been a busy day.’
She had reached the top of the steps leading from the sunken garden before she heard the quiet sound of his voice behind her. It was gentler, its richness absorbed by the overgrown garden all around them, as though his professionalism had already disappeared to the secret depths of their surroundings.
‘Flora?’
She paused, aware she was only too happy to linger. ‘Yes?’
‘Complete restoration? Or should I just tidy it up a bit, shove in a few conifers and let nature take its course?’
She turned to face him, only partly feigning horror as she threw up a hand in protest and saw his grin. ‘Not conifers,’ she pleaded, feeling a softening of the tension that his arrival had produced. ‘You already know what I think, so you’re probably asking the wrong person if you want a different reply.’
‘I’d like your opinion.’ The smile in his voice faded as they stared at one another. ‘I can ask any number of people for advice, Flora, but I’d like yours.’
‘Of course, restoration,’ she replied quietly. Her gaze finally left his and searched out the neglected remains all around them. The builders had left for the day; they were alone now, and the thought secretly thrilled her. The only sounds she could hear were the breeze drifting through the trees and waves rolling onto the beach below them.
She knew the garden much better now. Her short time here had already taught her what the architect had been trying to achieve when he had designed it to be an extension of the family home. Flora understood the design had become less formal as the garden stretched away from the building behind it, so that the plants gradually blended into the naturalness of the land beyond its boundaries, and walls were built for terracing and to shelter tender plants, not to keep people away.
‘My opinion is that it would be desperately sad to lose a garden such as this. So few of Lassiter’s original properties remain, and I’m sure you know there are organisations who would be prepared to help you with restoration. But of course, it also depends on what you want to do with the house. Are you planning to convert it into another hotel?’
Mac shook his head, suddenly leaping up the unsafe steps towards her and reaching for her hand, as he had on that very first day here.
‘What are you doing?’ Startled by his gesture, her protestations fell silent, unable to snatch her hand from his and break the sudden intimacy of the contact. Mac gently pulled her alongside him onto the terrace, until they were in the centre, and then he let go, placing his hands on her shoulders. He turned her around until she was facing the sea and then his arms fell away.
‘What do you see?’
She stared at the water, already understanding its ebb and flow well enough to know that it was slipping away from the shoreline as the tide turned. She sensed the presence of the house behind them, perched above the sea, the tangled garden somehow joining the two together.
‘What Lassiter saw,’ she replied eventually, understanding exactly what it was that Mac was trying to show her. They shared an ability to design, to take something blank and make it beautiful. ‘How he created the house to be part of the landscape and allowed the garden to belong to both the land and the building.’
‘It won’t be for sale again, Flora, nor is it going to be a hotel. I’m going to make it my home.’
She heard the note of excitement in his voice and whirled around to face him, the enthusiasm in her eyes matching his. ‘That’s brilliant! But what will you do about your job? I thought you were based in Edinburgh?’
‘I’m committed to projects at the practice until the end of the year but by then I hope to be living in the house; I’ll work from here and travel as necessary.’
‘How lovely.’ Flora dropped her gaze. ‘I should be going.’ She began to retrace her steps and collect her belongings. ‘It’ll take me a little while to walk back to the hotel.’
‘Would you like me to drop you off?’
‘No, thanks. I enjoy the exercise and it’s probably out of your way.’
Mac followed her until they were at the green door and he pushed it aside so she could exit first, stepping over the weeds still trying to trap them. He pulled the door shut and they hovered on the drive, both turning in surprise when the sound of an approaching vehicle caught their attention. A little red car rattled to a stop as it neared them, and Flora watched as a middle-aged woman emerged and gra
bbed ineffectively at a terrier that managed to leap out before she could slam the door.
‘Stop him! Quick,’ she shrieked, as the dog shot off towards the house, barking gleefully. ‘Rex! Come here, you little monster.’
Flora made a grab for the dog with her free hand, but Mac was quicker: he lunged and caught him by the collar, bringing the terrier to a halt, even though he continued to wriggle in protest as Mac lifted him easily and tightened his grip. The woman hurried over and Flora read the relief in her face. She clipped a lead onto the dog’s collar and took him from Mac, who was still grinning as he released the terrier to her.
‘Thanks so much! Sorry about that, we’re still working on recall. I didn’t want him getting into the house – heaven knows where he might have gone or what he’d have peed on.’
Mac was laughing now and as the woman swung her jolly gaze to Flora, he began the introductions.
‘Flora, this is Maggie Connors and you’ve already met her delinquent dog; Maggie’s the headteacher at the primary school on the island. You remember, Maggie, I told you about having a professional historian to look over the garden? Well, this is Flora, Flora Stewart.’
‘Hi, Flora,’ Maggie said eagerly, still trying to hang onto the wriggling dog in her arms. ‘How lovely to meet you. Mac did tell me about your coming to the island, but I must confess I was expecting a fifty-something in tweed or dungarees.’
Flora laughed, liking Maggie immediately. She had dark hair, caught in a wayward bun that emphasised an attractive face and brown eyes, and she was smaller than Flora. ‘Left the dungarees at the hotel,’ Flora said. ‘But I don’t have a tweed jacket. Your dog is very lively.’
‘He’s a swine!’ Maggie gave the terrier a loving look which belied her words. ‘But he’s the apple of my eye and very young, so I can still make excuses for him.’ She glanced at her watch and looked at Mac apologetically. ‘I can’t stay, I’ve got a PTA meeting in half an hour. Actually, Mac, Flora’s the reason why I’m here. Look, I hope neither of you will mind, but I was wondering if I might borrow Flora for a couple of hours one afternoon, if it won’t interfere with her work here?’