the dining room, where she and Tab had eaten toast together earlier that morning.
Now a fire blazed, and silver gleamed against dark green linen. It took her right back to that first morning of her honeymoon. Ray had been awake before her and had been sitting by the fire with a coffee and a newspaper. For a brief, disturbing moment Gayle could see his face. The confidence of his smile. The flash of perfect teeth. The crinkling at the corners of his eyes.
Usually her memories were fuzzy and indistinct, but this one was sharp and so real it unsteadied her.
A wave of dizziness barreled into her, and she swayed. She reached out to steady herself and found herself clasping someone’s hand.
“There. Come and sit down.” It was the woman from the night before. Brodie McIntyre’s mother. What was her name? She never forgot a name, but this morning her mind wasn’t behaving the way it usually did. She was trying to focus on the moment, but her mind kept dragging her back to the past.
Gayle wanted to reject her help, but she didn’t dare. Without someone to hold on to her, she had a feeling she’d end up on the floor and that would be even more embarrassing. “Thank you. I’m feeling just a little—”
“Wobbly? Jet lag does that for you.”
“Yes.” Jet lag and visions of dead people. And unsettling exchanges with her daughter.
“And you were up early and playing with your little granddaughter. That burns energy. She’s a lively one. You need food and a hot drink, and then you’ll feel more yourself.”
“Thank you.” Gayle accepted the help gratefully, something she hadn’t done for several decades.
She could hear Ella’s voice outside in the hallway, presumably talking to Kirstie, and she was grateful that her sharp-eyed daughter hadn’t witnessed this particular episode or the questions would never end.
“Drink some coffee, warm yourself in front of the fire, and I’ll be right back. I’m Mary, by the way. I don’t think we were properly introduced last night.”
Mary. That was it.
“I’m Gayle.”
With the minimum of fuss, Mary poured a cup of hot coffee for her and then disappeared toward the kitchen. She was back moments later, this time carrying a bowl.
“Eat a few mouthfuls of this. You’ll soon get your strength back.”
“What is it?”
“Porridge, made to my special recipe. My mother always said to me ‘porridge should be nothing but oats, water and a little salt,’ but I couldn’t persuade mine to eat it that way so I made a few adaptations. I’ve always enjoyed experimenting with food.”
“I don’t usually—”
“Try a mouthful.” Mary put the spoon in her hand, as if Gayle were a child. “I think it’s what you need.”
Gayle felt too weak to put up a fight, something else that probably should have worried her.
Breakfast was always black coffee. She ate all her food within an eight-hour window and was ruthless about managing her calorie intake. It was a regime she’d started when her babies were young, and she couldn’t afford to grow out of her clothes. She could afford all the clothes she wanted now, but the ruthless self-discipline had become a habit. Still, flexing on this one occasion was hardly going to kill her.
She took a small spoonful to be polite and paused, savoring the texture—smooth creaminess and the crunch of sugar. “Oh my—”
“Good, isn’t it?” Mary seemed not at all surprised by Gayle’s reaction.
“It’s better than good.” She took a larger spoonful, tasting other flavors that she couldn’t immediately identify. “What’s in this?”
“Oats, together with a little McIntyre secret.”
Gayle cleared the bowl, and not because she was being polite. “It’s the most delicious thing I’ve tasted. And that’s coming from someone who never eats breakfast.”
“While you’re staying here you’ll eat breakfast. It’s freezing out there with more snow forecast. You’ll need the fuel. Is the bairn still outside?”
“Yes. She’s with her father.”
Mary nodded. “She’s a happy, inquisitive little thing. A credit to you. And she looks so like her mother.”
Gayle put the spoon down.
Why hadn’t she seen that? “They’re similar in many ways. My daughter had the same happy, bubbly, inquisitive personality.” It had terrified her. Ella had always been so trusting. She had no fear of strangers. She’d happily chat with anyone. Tab seemed to be the same. “Have you worked here long?”
Mary straightened cutlery and gathered up a used napkin. “I married Cameron McIntyre when I was nineteen and I’ve lived here ever since. Sometimes I feel as if I know every tree and rock