Page 2 of Midnight Mooring

What had I done in the same amount of time?

I was still here in this fucking wee house by myself.

Be careful what you wish for and all that.

My gaze landed on the photos on my fridge, under my collection of car magnets. Held up by a miniature green Porsche was an image of me and Cameron McQuarrie, Quinn’s younger sister. It was a Polaroid from the surprise birthday party Cameron had thrown me for my twenty-first. She’d invited nearly the whole town, and it was such a good night. She’d handed out Polaroids to everyone. In the photo, we’re standing in my then living room, my arm wrapped tightly around her waist as we grinned at the camera. She was a stunning eighteen-year-old, tall and leggy in a purple minidress. Way too sexy and confident for her own good.

I fucked up that night. I didn’t know it then, or even until recently. Now I understood that I held on to that photo because somewhere buried in my subconscious, I knew that was the night I changed the course of my life, and not for the better.

Leaning back against the sink, I tried to shake off the weight that sat on my chest and just … I couldn’t. I wondered if Quinn’s news would finally bring Cameron home. And if it did?

The truth was, I didn’t know.

We hadn’t spoken in months. I’d texted her after she left for a three-month travel sabbatical across Europe. I apologized for missing her farewell at the ferry terminal. She’d sent a quick, blunt text in reply. A week later I tried to check in, but my text went ignored. I tried again a few days after that and realized my texts weren’t sending. Seemed that she’d blocked me.

That was a big wake-up call.

I grabbed a glass of water to take upstairs, too tired to contemplate what I’d do when Cameron came home. As I wandered back down the hall toward the stairs, the postie chose that moment to push mail through my letterbox. Bending to pick up the post, I put my glass on the wee sideboard next to the door and wearily shuffled through the mail in case there was anything important. Mostly bills. The last envelope caught my attention because my name and address were handwritten and there was no return addy on it.

Dumping the other letters beside my glass, I ripped it open and pulled out a piece of paper. A handwritten letter.

Deer Forde

Ah’ve waited a long time to send this but I cooldn’t keep waitin to tell u how much ah luv u. Ah think about u every day. Sumtimes thinkin aboot u hurts realy bad and ah have to cut at maself to let the pain oot. But ur wurth it. And ah don’t think ah can go on wifout been a part of ur life and u of mine. One day ah no weel be togither. Even if that has to hurt to. That’s ma promus to u. Ah luv u to death. Pleese rimembur that. Or u might be sory u furgot.

luv u more each day,

urs 4ever

Heart pounding, I turned the note over, searching for a name, but there was nothing. Creeped way the fuck out, I took the paper at the corner and tried to slip it back into the envelope without touching any more of it. Who the fuck would send me this sick love note/death threat?

Was this someone’s idea of a joke?

I put the envelope in the drawer in my sideboard and stared at it, weary and a bit numb. This could be someone’s idea of a stupid prank. I volunteered alongside a lot of different people, and some of them had a weird sense of humor. Plus, my commitment phobia had become a bit of a running joke in Leth Sholas. I’d slept with plenty of tourists over the course of my life here, never settling down, jumping from one woman to the next. And even though I hadn’t had sex in a year, I still carried that reputation. Couldn’t fucking shake it.

I pulled out my phone to shoot off a text to the LSLS volunteer group chat when my gaze landed on today’s date.

April 1. It was April Fool’s Day.

I rolled my eyes at whoever came up with that elaborate joke, deciding to find out later. I headed upstairs to bed and instead of creepy love notes, my mind filled with Cameron as I lay my head on the pillow and wished her home in the seconds before sleep dragged my body into rest.

2. Cameron

The colorful row of buildings beckoned from across the water as the ferry undulated a wee bit roughly across the sea from Oban to Leth Sholas Harbor. Or Half-Light Harbor, as we locals had nicknamed it. The sight of my home filled me with pure longing and this strange, contradictory trepidation. There was no more running away. It was time to live the life I wanted to live, no matter what, and it probably wouldn’t be easy, and there would be bumps in the road … but at least I’d be surrounded by the people who love me.

For the longest time, I never truly had friends on Leth Sholas outside of my brother and Forde Dallas (and Taran Macbeth for a while before she left for Glasgow). I always felt a bit “other” because I never really clicked with any of the women around my age. It wasn’t until American Tierney Silver arrived on the island that I gained my first real female friend at the age of thirty-three. When her best friend London joined her, I had another friend who accepted me. And of course, Taran eventually returned home to join our wee band of besties.

However, before that, outside of Quinn, my best friend was Forde Dallas. He was everything to me. That was the problem. For me, Forde had always been more than just a friend. It was probably callous of me to block him during my travels, but I needed time away to think without him cluttering up my headspace.

From the ferry, I could see Tierney’s bed-and-breakfast perched on the hill above the harbor. Below was Main Street, with its colorfully painted buildings that lined the coastal front of Leth Sholas, a tiny harbor town on the Isle of Glenvulin in the Scottish Inner Hebrides. I was born and raised here.

The rainbow hue of Main Street overflowed with businesses. We had everything from the volunteer lifeboat service and ferry terminal to holiday apartments, the Fisherman’s Lantern hotel, restaurant, and pub, the Half-Light Harbor Hotel, Glenvulin Hostel, Sheena’s beauty salon, an express supermarket, Macbeth’s Pages & Perks bookstore and coffee shop, Bryan and Harry Weaver’s bakery and tearoom, two gift shops, a museum, a hardware store, a chocolate shop, a whisky distillery, pharmacy, Italian restaurant, and a fish and chips shop. And that was just on Main Street.

In the village beyond were more stores: Shona McIver’s fishmonger and smokery, a butcher, a doctor’s surgery, a fire and police station, and another small supermarket. Farther out on Glenvulin there was Half-Light Harbor Fishing Company, a couple more cafés and restaurants, a cheese farm, my mum and stepdad’s farm and their farm shop with fresh produce, as well as a few more hotels and B and Bs.

The ferry slowed as we drew nearer to the harbor, and movement caught in my periphery. I turned my head slightly to check out the very tall drink of water who had wandered out onto the freezing cold deck to lean against the railings too. He was as tall as Ramsay McRae, Tierney’s husband. Broad of shoulder, his profile rugged. Attractive. As if he felt me looking, he turned his head and our eyes locked. I gave him a half smile before looking back toward the harbor, searching for my brother.

Quinn had demanded to know which ferry I would arrive on so he could be there to greet me.