Christmas at the Island Hotel - Jenny Colgan Page 0,71

COULDN’T HELP it, he was excited. For the first time he missed his phone. He’d have liked to look up some pictures of her. Remind himself. But what should he do? The problem was it was near impossible to ask her to something, given they had to stand next to each other at the sink all day long. What if she said no? Why had she run away?

He was so used to just having women show up, like taxis. Whereas with Isla . . . she was so quiet and shy, he was going to have to tempt her out. He wasn’t even sure she liked him.

Although, that smile . . .

FINTAN LAY AWAKE, still worried about his betrayal of Colton, which had happened again—even if Colton wouldn’t have minded, not in the slightest, had told him a million times that he was still young, that he had to get back out there.

Even so, it felt wrong. It felt like cheating, even if it was cheating on a dead person.

Fintan glanced downward. Under his arm, Gaspard slept the sleep of the dead, a heavily tattooed arm pulled over his eyes, his legs kicked out in front of him; fast asleep and utterly content in his own inked skin.

This was comforting in itself. Fintan thought back to their conversation earlier. He had tentatively asked Gaspard what he was getting out of this, and Gaspard had looked at him, incredulous at the question, then launched into a very complicated discussion about salmon heading upstream, which Fintan hadn’t entirely understood.

“Ze feesh, he ees home, yes? But the water, eet ees always moving.”

“So, is this a good thing?” Fintan had ventured.

“Bien sur, of course! Day by day this is good, this is fresh, this has clear eyes.”

“Do you mean me or the fish?”

“Today, you.”

And just watching him, feeling his warm body, Fintan gradually drifted off.

Chapter 49

The Seaside Kitchen was insanely busy from the second it opened, with the Mure Angel still lighting the dark up the hill ahead.

“It’s a scandal,” said Mrs. Brodie.

“It’s grand, aye,” said Cuthbert McSquib, whose farm had gotten electricity only in 2002 and thought seeing the Mure Angel was a bit like what going to New York City must be like.

Already lots of people had taken pictures of it, and Iona could only assume that when it got light there’d be even more of them. She sold endless coffees and made a happy note to get out the angel cake cutters again to make gingerbread angels. She had a hunch they’d go down well.

The Mure Angel already had a crowd of spectators around it by dawn, and as Iona watched it did the most amazing thing. If you went to the southwest side of the structure, you could watch the very first of the sun’s rays hit it. And as they did so, they bent and refracted in the glass—and a huge rainbow spilled out the other side.

There was an audible gasp from the children watching and even some of the adults. Iona had to yell at them to get out of the way so she could get a good shot, which she did, proclaiming herself the “official photographer.” When you moved someone into the right position, it looked as if a rainbow were dancing off their head. The rest of the front of the statue glowed shining gold. It was undeniably magnificent.

Malcy arrived with the rest of the council—barring Marsali—to close it down at 9:05 A.M.

IT WAS ABSURD, thought Flora, that it was actually easier, in the middle of everything she had going on, to throw Agot a nativity party than usual. They had had one every year since forever; her mother had held them for them all, and gradually the entire village had very much co-opted it as an annual celebration, and Flora would have felt remiss for the MacKenzies not to carry on the tradition, but she outsourced it to the Rock to cater, figuring she might as well get a little recompense for her time and effort given she was doing Fintan’s entire job. He had been less tearful recently, she noticed, and perhaps more thoughtful. As usual, any attempts on her part to get him to open up or talk about things or plan for the future were met with furious disdain.

Anyway. She popped in to find the kitchen at the Rock, for once, in perfect harmony; they were churning out scones and chopping sandwiches, and terrible French pop music was playing but the atmosphere