Coming Home to Brightwater Bay

by Holly Hepburn

  She couldn’t help smiling in return. ‘It is. How are you?’

  Andrew turned back to see what was happening and gazed back and forth between them. ‘Ah, I see you two have already met. Magnús is the consultant boatbuilder Jamie mentioned earlier.’

  ‘I wondered if it might be,’ Merry admitted. ‘You did say most of your staff were Vikings.’

  Andrew grunted. ‘Although none of us look the part quite so heroically as Magnús here.’

  It was true, Merry had to concede; even in jeans and a white t-shirt, Magnús somehow managed to look as though he’d stepped straight from the ninth century. It was the long hair and impeccable beard, she thought, not to mention the chiselled features and unavoidable muscles and towering height. Magnús made every other man in the room look ordinary, including Niall and he was practically Superman.

  ‘How are you enjoying the tour?’ Magnús asked. ‘Is this book research or purely for fun?’

  ‘Both, probably,’ Merry said honestly. ‘There’s definitely a story or two here and I’m sure a bottle or two of whisky will be coming home with me later.’

  ‘I recommend the Valkyrie,’ Magnús said. ‘And not just because I can totally imagine you swooping into Valhalla on a winged steed, sword in hand like a glorious avenging angel.’

  The flattery was so outrageous, and the overall image so unlike her, that Merry almost blushed. ‘I don’t know about that – the last time I met a horse it tried to eat my dress.’

  Andrew shook his head and sent a dry glance Jamie’s way. ‘Forget your bald head, I think we should aspire to making our whisky as smooth as Magnús’s chat-up lines.’

  Everyone laughed as Magnús accepted the obviously familiar teasing with good grace, although Merry had the fleeting impression that Niall’s laughter was less enthusiastic than the others. His gaze met hers for a moment, as though gauging her reaction and she wondered at the slight coolness she saw there. But then he looked away and she decided she must have imagined it; there was no reason for him to be anything other than amused by the banter between Andrew and Magnús.

  ‘And I agree that the Valkyrie would suit Merry very much,’ Andrew went on. ‘But we’ve several vintage whiskies to try, and I’m under strict instructions from Niall not to get anyone drunk, so perhaps we’ll save it for another time.’

  ‘Of course,’ Magnús said, firing an easy smile Merry’s way. ‘You’re here for six months – plenty of time to work your way through everything on offer.’

  He only meant the whisky, Merry told herself, but she couldn’t prevent a tiny fizzle of excitement at the thought of trying some of Orkney’s other Viking temptations. And then she gave herself a stern mental shake. This was Jess’s doing, she decided – Jess and Sheila’s. All their talk of being snowed in and grand romantic gestures had turned her head, encouraging her to see more than was actually there. She cleared her throat and sought a reply that covered all the conversational bases. ‘I’m looking forward to trying everything.’

  There was a momentary silence, during which Merry had the horrible suspicion she’d somehow managed to say the wrong thing, then Niall stepped forward with a brisk smile. ‘In which case, we really should get on.’

  ‘Of course,’ Andrew replied. ‘Follow me.’

  Merry only had a few seconds to say a hurried goodbye to Jamie and Magnús before Andrew ushered them back the way they’d come. He kept up his stream of fascinating information about the distillery as they walked and Merry asked the occasional question, but Niall was quiet, listening without comment. She glanced at him once or twice, wondering whether she was imagining the set jaw and tension around his eyes. It must be her writer’s imagination, she decided, as they entered a tastefully lit room with a glorious fire crackling in the hearth. A low table sat in front of four winged armchairs, with a tray of black, silver-stoppered bottles and glasses that sparkled in the firelight. Music played quietly in the background, an acoustic melody that Merry guessed was probably a traditional folksong, and the atmosphere was so inviting that she almost wanted to move in.

  ‘This is the Eunson Room,’ Andrew said. ‘Named after the distillery founder, Magnus Eunson, who was quite a character by all accounts.’

  Another Magnús, Merry noted, and wondered if this one was descended from Vikings too – probably, with a name like that. The cathedral in Kirkwall was called St Magnus, after the Viking Earl who had been martyred in the 12th century, and she was sure that had something to do with the popularity of the name on Orkney, although the Magnús Merry knew had been born in Iceland. She imagined the name was pretty popular there, too.

  Andrew waved Merry and Niall towards the chairs and proceeded to pour the first of what would be several generous measures from the array of bottles. He explained what they could expect from each vintage as they went, but Merry was still surprised by the subtle differences in flavour; her favourite was the oldest vintage they tried, from 1968, but she didn’t dare ask how much a bottle would cost. More than she would be willing to pay, even in the warm and slightly tipsy glow of whisky good enough for Odin himself.

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ Niall said, after draining the last dregs from his tasting glass. ‘It almost makes me want to give up being a librarian and get a job as a taster here instead.’

  Merry gave him a half-smile. ‘Some people say you should never turn your passion into a job. Not if you want to stay passionate, that is.’

  She’d heard it said of writing – that making it into a career killed the love – but it had never been that way for her and she was sure it wasn’t the reason for her writer’s block. She’d just grown tired and each story had become harder to write, and taken longer, until at last she found she had no energy to write at all. That was when her problems had really started. But those dark days seemed to be behind her, thanks to the breath-taking wonder of Orkney.

  Beside her, Niall shook his head. ‘I’ve been a librarian for ten years and I’m as passionate about books as I’ve ever been. I can’t see that changing.’

  ‘No, I know,’ Merry replied. ‘But books are different – there will always be authors who take a well-worn idea and make it fresh again. Whereas whisky…’ She paused to take a breath and ploughed on. ‘Whisky doesn’t have quite the infinite variety that books can offer. It might lose its appeal after a while.’

  She glanced across at Andrew, hoping she hadn’t accidentally insulted him. But he simply smiled, raising his glass in the firelight to swirl the vibrant gold-hued liquid around the glass. ‘It hasn’t yet,’ he said, and tipped his glass in her direction. ‘Skál!’

  Dusk was falling when Andrew finally conceded they had tasted enough and allowed them to leave the distillery, on the understanding that they came back again soon. Merry held up the bag containing her purchased bottle of Valkyrie, plus the souvenir tasting glass and bottle of ten-year-old Viking Scars whisky that Andrew had presented to her as a gift. ‘Just as soon as I’ve worked my way through this!’

  The night was cold as Merry and Niall waited for their taxi. Andrew had wanted them to stay inside, but Merry’s head was woozy with whisky and she found herself craving fresh air. Not that it was helping her to feel any less woozy; if anything, her sense of woolly but warm well-being had increased now that she was outside.

  ‘S’freezing,’ she said to Niall as they leaned against his car, staring up at the first stars of the evening.

  Niall nodded. ‘The taxi won’t be long.’ He gave her a concerned look. ‘But we can wait inside if you like?’

  ‘No,’ she said, and took another deep breath of bracing air. ‘No, it’s nice to be outside. I had a lovely time today, by the way. Thank you for organizing it.’

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ he said, then grinned. ‘It actually was – I love visiting the distillery. Thanks for giving me an excuse.’

  ‘I’m not surprised – your friends seem like a lot of fun,’ she said. ‘And I think I could listen to Andrew talk for hours.’

  Niall raised
his eyebrows. ‘Believe me, he’d let you. But they’re a great bunch.’ He paused and when he spoke again, his tone had a strange stiffness to it. ‘Just be careful around Magnús. I know you’ve become friends but I get the impression he’s… that he…’ He puffed out a long breath that clouded in the cold. ‘That his intentions are not entirely platonic.’

  Merry knew without having to look that he was blushing. This was because of Alex, she thought; because she’d led Niall to believe she had a relationship to go back to in London. It had made sense at the time, but now, with several glasses of whisky running through her veins and dulling her thoughts, she couldn’t really remember why she’d stretched the truth. Something to do with professionalism, she decided, and keeping life simple. And she’d told the same lie to Magnús, so at least she could reassure Niall on that point. Even if she was starting to accept that her own intentions towards Magnús weren’t platonic either.

  ‘No need to worry about that,’ she said, as stoutly as she could. ‘He knows about… that I’m not—’

  She stopped as a sudden urge to come clean washed over her. It was stupid to maintain the lie, especially since it meant giving Alex space in her head – space he no longer deserved or had a right to occupy. It was time she moved on and she couldn’t do that if she was pretending to still be in a relationship with someone who’d made it clear he didn’t want her. Merry gazed blearily up at the stars and willed herself to think clearly. It was also true that Magnús wasn’t a long-term prospect but, as Jess had pointed out, she didn’t have to marry him, just have some fun. But that definitely wasn’t an option if everyone thought she wasn’t single…

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ she said, reluctantly turning her head to look at him.

  By the light from the wrought-iron lanterns, Merry saw he was frowning. Doubt made her hesitate; was this something she ought to admit while not entirely sober? Maybe she should wait for a better opportunity, one when she wasn’t tipsy. But then she might lack the courage to say anything at all.

  Reaching a decision, she opened her mouth to speak again, but a flash of car headlights made them both stare at the car park entrance as a taxi swung in through the gates.

  A second later, Niall turned back. ‘Merry?’ he said. ‘What were you going to say?’

  But the moment had passed and the compulsion to come clean had gone with it. Merry reached for the bag that held her whisky and shook her head. ‘Nothing important. Come on, let’s get out of the cold.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Merry woke up the next morning, head pounding, with no real memory of going to bed. Her mouth was sour with the taste of whisky and she knew the bedroom must reek of it. She lay still, wincing at the throbbing around her temples, and tried to piece together events from the night before. There had obviously been more whisky after she’d left the distillery – she hadn’t been drunk enough to cause a hangover this bad. She remembered getting into the taxi, recalled saying goodbye to Niall as he got out at a very nice cottage on the other side of Kirkwall. Then she’d arrived home, had managed to light a fire in the hearth, and her memories started to become less clear.

  It had seemed like a good idea to open the bottle of Valkyrie, she thought slowly. At some point, there’d been dancing, followed by some terrible singing to old Christina Aguilera songs. She’d been on the phone too – who had she called? And her eyes felt hot and gritty, suggesting there might have been tears. Merry turned cold and sat up fast, groaning at the agonizing burst of pain in her head. She grappled with her phone, not wanting to look at the list of calls made but desperate to know the truth. Please don’t let it be Alex, she thought as she brushed the screen with trembling fingers. Then a worse possibility occurred to her: please don’t let it be Niall…

  It was eleven-thirty and she had three missed calls from Jess, plus six unread messages. The call log supplied the details her memory could not and she slumped against the pillow when she saw the numbers she’d called the night before. Not Alex. Not Niall. Just Jess. She breathed a sigh of relief that caught in her throat as her eyes focused on the final call made.

  And Magnús.

  Merry closed her eyes, trying to dredge up the details of what she’d said. The call had lasted four minutes and fifty-eight seconds – plenty of time for her to embarrass herself to an order of magnitude greater than any she’d previously experienced.

  Magnús, she thought weakly. She’d almost have preferred Alex.

  Her phone vibrated in her hand, causing her eyes to snap open in a way that hurt all the way to the back of her skull. The screen told her it was Jess, and she considered ignoring it, except that she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Sooner or later, she’d have to face her best friend.

  She accepted the call. ‘Don’t raise your voice above a whisper or I’m hanging up.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Jess’s voice was louder than a foghorn. ‘I’m just glad you’re alive. I had visions of you throwing yourself over the cliff.’

  A tsunami of shame washed over Merry. ‘Oh god. Was I really that bad?’

  Jess sighed. ‘Worse. I haven’t known you to be that incoherent since the night we emptied that bottle of tequila at Christmas. You sang the whole of “Fighter”.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Merry said miserably.

  ‘Hey, it’s me you’re talking to.’ Jess’s voice softened. ‘You don’t ever have to apologize to me, Mer. Maybe to Christina Aguilera, but not to me.’

  Merry felt the ghost of a smile tug at her lips. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Especially not when you spent so long ranting about what a dick Alex is,’ her best friend went on. ‘It’s taken a ridiculous amount of time, but I think you might finally be getting over him.’

  And now Merry allowed the smile to take hold. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There’s no maybe about it – you told me in pretty explicit terms what you wanted to do to that hot Viking of yours.’ There was a definite element of glee underlying the words hot Viking. ‘And I wholeheartedly approved of your plan.’

  The smile vanished. For a moment, Merry thought she might actually throw up. ‘Which was?’ she croaked.

  ‘You were a bit hazy on the specifics, but I approved on general principles.’ Jess paused. ‘Why?’

  ‘Guess who I called straight after I got off the phone to you?’

  ‘Oh.’

  Merry sighed and ran a hand over her puffy eyes. ‘Yeah. Oh.’

  There was a brief silence. ‘Do you remember what you said? Any of it?’

  ‘No.’

  Another pause, and then Jess rallied. ‘Well, let’s hope for the best here. Maybe you laid out your wicked plans and he hotfooted it over to your place. Are you sure you’re alone?’

  That was a suggestion that sent Merry spiralling into an even deeper maelstrom of panic. She lowered the phone and listened: nothing. Getting out of bed, she tiptoed to the door, ignoring the sudden shiver caused by cold air hitting her alcohol-frazzled skin. The bathroom was empty, and so were the kitchen and living room.

  ‘I suppose he might have left already,’ Jess mused, when Merry passed on the absence of anyone else in the croft. ‘Any evidence that you weren’t alone?’

  Merry edged closer to the coffee table, with its still-open whisky bottle and single empty glass. There was a plate with a half-eaten cracker and a lump of cheddar. Her laptop was open; she didn’t want to even look at whatever it was she’d written. ‘I don’t think he was here,’ she told Jess. ‘I feel sure I’d remember.’

  ‘But you don’t remember what you talked about?’

  Merry sat heavily on the sofa and wished she was still unconscious. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out,’ Jess said, sounding more cheerful than Merry found helpful. ‘You’re going to have to ask him.’

  ‘I can’t!’ Merry said, aghast.

  ‘You can,’ Jess replied. ‘And besides, what else are you going to do – avoid him for the next five and a half months?’
/>   ‘I could come home,’ Merry said. ‘Say I’ve got a family emergency and just never come back.’

  ‘Or you could send him a message and ask. Grasp the nettle. Lance the boil. Drain the wound.’

  ‘Yeah, I get the idea,’ Merry said, as her stomach churned ominously.

  Jess’s voice was warm with sympathy. ‘Sorry, babes. You know I’m right.’

  The problem was that Merry did know: the only way to deal with something this toe-curlingly bad was head-on. ‘Fine. I’ll message him.’

  ‘Good girl. Ring me as soon as you have details,’ Jess instructed.

  It took Merry ten minutes to compose her two-sentence message to Magnús:

  Hey, how are you? Think I owe you an apology!

  His reply was almost instant:

  Not at all! How’s the head?

  Merry gnawed at a fingernail. How to respond in a way that might encourage him to offer up some glimmer of what they had talked about?

  It’s been better. But I’m sorry for bothering you. I hope I wasn’t too annoying?

  This time, there was a slight pause before Magnús replied and Merry wondered whether he was trying to come up with a tactful response.

  You weren’t annoying at all. Luckily, I am a big Destiny’s Child fan and your singing voice is quite charming.

  She couldn’t type fast enough:

  My singing voice?

  Merry saw the blue ticks that indicated the message had been read and then her phone buzzed. Magnús was calling her.

  Feeling sicker than ever, she answered. ‘Hello.’

  ‘I thought it might be easier to explain over the phone, rather than messages,’ he said, and Merry couldn’t prevent an image of him, hair blowing in the breeze, from popping into her head. It was a shame she couldn’t ever see him again, not after the extreme mortification of today.

  ‘Uh – okay,’ she managed. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I must admit I was surprised to see your number appear on my phone last night,’ Magnús said. ‘But I assumed you were still with Niall and Andrew. And then I answered and realized you were not.’