Once Upon an Island

18

The coast is beautiful.It’s so vastly different from my island home that I can barely take in the fact that I’m still on an island (albeit bigger) and still on a beach (albeit rockier).

Harriet pulls into the car park and turns off her little hatchback. The rain stopped earlier this morning, and while it’s still wet and cold, it’s no longer raining and wet and cold. In fact, the sun is almost peeking out from behind the now silvery clouds.

“Here we are,” Harriet says happily.

I step out of the car onto the crushed gravel of the car park. The smell of sea air hits me. It’s brinier than I’m used to, and also smells of wet rock and moss.

Arya tugs the large wicker picnic hamper out of the backseat. There’s sausage rolls, coronation chicken, fairy cakes and cold drinks. Harriet said we need a full picnic lunch to keep up our energy for the long walk.

“This path leads to the nesting grounds.” Harriet points to a small path meandering over lush green hills. She starts ahead of us at a brisk pace.

“Don’t pet the sheep,” she calls over her shoulder.

Arya snorts and hefts the basket in her arms. “We’re wearing the sheep. Why would we pet them?”

I laugh.

“Come along,” Harriet calls again.

Arya and I start down the path. It really is beautiful. The grass is fuzzy and emerald colored and sparkles from raindrops reflecting the slowly appearing sun. There are dozens of sheep milling around, white puffs dotting the landscape. And then there’s the sea. It’s dark gray, nearly black, and it rolls and rollicks right up to the shore.

“Are you nervous?” I ask.

Arya looks out over the water. “Very.”

“You know, you don’t have to try if you don’t want to.”

“I know. Don’t worry about me. If nothing else, I’m going to see some amazing birds. See, it’s a kittiwake.” She points to a gull in the distance.

I don’t think she wants to talk about how nervous she is, so instead, we talk about all the birds that she spots. When we finally catch up to Harriet, we try to find a somewhat dry patch of grass and set up our picnic lunch.

The sausage rolls are delicious, although I’m not too sure about the chicken. Arya quickly moves past the sausage and starts in on the fairy cake.

Harriet ignores the food and instead tells a story about finding a cache of Roman coins in a farmer’s field.

“That should be chapter three,” she tells me.

I get the feeling that Harriet doesn’t care about the finished biography, she just wants to chat with someone about her life. She’s nearing seventy and she’s been married to her work her whole life. She has no husband, no children, no siblings, and her parents are gone. She’s alone and she has no one to talk to.

The thought sends a queasy feeling through my stomach. That could be me someday. I could be the chatty older woman with no family, aching for someone to care.

“Isla.” Arya pokes my thigh.

“Hmmm?”

“Isn’t that Declan?” She points across the grass, down the shoreline.

I quickly turn to look. I’ve been complaining about the cold, but all of a sudden, I feel hot. As hot as if I were back in the bright sun on Mariposa. I can’t see his face from this distance, but I know it’s him.

His hands are in his pockets. He’s wearing comfortable-looking jeans, leather boots, and an olive-green sweater. He walks with a casual stride and his head is turned toward the water. His black hair stands out against the silver gray of the sky. Somehow, he looks even better than he did on Mariposa, like he was born to tromp over open fields dotted with sheep, along rocky seaside beaches, and down worn walking paths lined with heather.

My heart thumps, and I set down the uneaten portion of my sausage roll. I don’t think I’ll be able to finish.

“Who’s Declan?” Harriet asks. She perks up and looks across the field. “Do you know a gentleman in the area?”

“Declan Fox. He recently visited Mariposa.” Arya says. Her voice is hopeful. Declan being here means that Percy is likely here too.

“Declan Fox, the shipping magnate?”

Arya nods. “That’s right.”

He’s only about a hundred feet away. I can see his face more clearly. He looks different than he did on the island. More relaxed maybe. But lonelier too. Or maybe that’s just me projecting.

He’s walking closer. As he does, Arya says, “It’s definitely him.”

“Oh wonderful,” Harriet says. Then she stands, waves her arms like a pheasant flapping in the brush, and calls in a high-pitched voice, “Hellooooo, Mr. Fox. Hellooooo.”

He turns at her call and right away I see his shoulders stiffen. He pauses for a moment, stares at us, then turns to start walking again.

Arya snorts. “Definitely him.”

I take in his stiff shoulders. “I don’t think he recognizes us,” I say quietly.

Arya and I both have rain hats on, even though it’s not raining, long drab pants, and a double layer of wool sweaters. We’re a thousand miles from where we were the last time he saw us. Literally and figuratively.

Harriet is not one to be dissuaded. “Mr. Fox, oh helloooo,” she calls even more loudly. “Mr. Fox, your friends are here.”

I look up at the wispy clouds in the sky and shake my head. When I look again, Declan’s stopped and is sending a black look across the field at Harriet. His scowl is so ferocious that I can see it fifty feet away.

Apparently, though, Declan has better manners in England than he did in Mariposa, because he makes his way across the grass toward our picnic blanket. When he arrives at the edge of the plaid blanket he gives a short nod to Harriet and swiftly and disinterestedly runs his eyes over me and Arya.

“Ma’am. I’m sorry. I haven’t had the honor,” he says.

Sadly, even though his voice is stiff and brisk, it sends another rush of heat through me. And that’s really, really unacceptable. I’d forgotten him. Hadn’t I? I never liked him, right? So why, why am I getting all hot and bothered for him?

“Mr. Fox.” Harriet straightens her back and pulls on the cuffs of her tweed coat. I think she’s about to give him a lecture.

He raises his eyebrows. His eyes gloss over me again, probably only taking in the rubber hat and the shapeless sweater.

“I was just told the most fascinating thing. You recently stayed on Mariposa Island.”

Declan looks back at the path, and I can tell he’d like to continue with his walk, away from the orange-haired, tweed-wearing, meddlesome woman.

“Yes,” he says tersely. End of conversation.

Harriet smiles and then gestures at the picnic blanket. “I’m certain then, you’ll want to join your friends from that same little island.”

At her words Declan swings his gaze back to me. I tilt my chin up and let him get a good look at me in all my damp, drab glory.

“Hello,” I say.

I see the exact moment that Declan realizes it’s me. If I wasn’t watching closely I wouldn’t have noticed any difference, but I am and I do. His eyes widen a fraction of an inch and darken from light green to a deep, dark, wild forest green, his lips fall open a tiny amount and he lets out a short, surprised puff of air. That’s all. Those are the only indicators of any emotion at all. But on Declan they’re the equivalent of someone else shouting, “What? Are you serious?! You’re here?!”

He stares at me for a good five seconds. And I just lean back on the blanket and let him look his fill until the same old itch starts to travel over my skin. And now I realize what it feels like, it’s not the itch of a new sunburn, it’s the itch of a wool sweater rubbing over you. Declan itches like a wool sweater.

“You didn’t say goodbye,” I say.

Then I flush, because why did I say that?

Declan shakes his head, like a man shaking off after coming out of the water, and his eyes snap back to their normal shade.

“Apologies,” he says.

“Join us,” Harriet demands, and I realize that in thirty seconds flat she’s decided that she’s my matchmaker. “We’re having a picnic and birdwatching.”

She pats the blanket. Poor Harriet, she has no idea who she’s up against.

“I apologize. I haven’t the time—”