The Winter Sea

My own coffee had long since grown cold in the cup, but I lifted it anyway and drank so I’d have an excuse not to look at Jane directly. ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I’ve been thinking I might stay in Scotland awhile.’

‘Oh, yes?’ All her antennae were up, I could feel it.

‘I have this new idea for a novel about one of the earlier kings of Scotland, James I. He ruled in the early fifteenth century and had a fascinating life, full of adventures, and he was murdered in this wonderfully treacherous way—there’s a long Victorian poem about it, called “The King’s Tragedy”. Anyhow, I thought I might tell the whole tale through the eyes of his wife—’

‘Was she murdered, as well?’ Jane asked drily.

‘No.’

‘Glad to hear it. I thought this might be a new trend in your books, killing off all the likeable characters.’ Over the rim of her own cup she gave me a moment’s appraisal. ‘It sounds like a good story, though. The publishers will like it.’

‘Yes, so you said.’

‘And I’d be thrilled, of course, to have you living here. Assuming you’d be staying on in Cruden Bay.’ She slipped that in as casually as some old angler stringing bait onto a hook.

‘I like my cottage.’

‘Yes, I know you do. I only thought your research might be easier if you were living near a university that had a decent library.’ The hook danced closer still. ‘Like Aberdeen.’

I didn’t bite. I was, in fact, about to make some noncommittal comment when a knock against the window at my shoulder interrupted. On the sidewalk Stuart grinned and winked and motioned he was coming round.

Jane raised an eyebrow. ‘Friend of yours?’

‘My landlord’s son.’

‘Oh, really?’ It was clear from her expression what conclusion she had leapt to, and the devil in me didn’t rush to set her straight. Especially since Stuart, when he came into the Lounge Bar, wasn’t on his own. Behind him, Graham shrugged his jacket off and met my gaze with warm indulgence, keeping to his brother’s shadow while I made the introductions.

Everybody shifted round the circle of the booth as Stuart slid himself in next to me and slung an arm possessively along the window ledge behind. ‘I think we talked once on the phone,’ he said to Jane, and looking down at me explained, ‘the night you hurt your ankle, you remember?’

‘That was you?’ Jane thought she had him pegged securely now, and barely glanced at Graham as he settled himself quietly across from her.

He knew what I was doing. I could read the faint amusement in his eyes as he took in the situation—Stuart leaning close against me, Jane positioning herself to cross-examine from my other side. He stretched one leg until his foot touched mine and left it there, a minor contact, yet for me the only one that mattered.

‘So,’ said Stuart, ‘what are you two up to?’

Meaning Jane and me. I said, ‘Jane was just telling me she hates the ending of my book.’

Jane looked at Stuart. ‘Have you read it?’

‘No, not yet. Is this it, here?’ He turned the pages on the table round. ‘I didn’t know you’d finished it.’

‘She hasn’t,’ Jane put in, and I knew better than to argue. ‘It’s too sad. You’ll have to help me to convince her that the ending should be happy.’

‘I can try.’ He grinned, and shifted even closer to me as the waitress, seeing there were more of us, came by to clear our plates and see if anybody wanted drinks.

The two men ordered pints, I took a refill on my coffee, but Jane raised a hand. ‘Oh no, I can’t. I must get back. I promised Alan I’d be home by three. My husband,’ she explained to Stuart, gathering her things before she rose and told him, ‘Good to finally meet you.’

‘Likewise.’

‘And your brother. Graham, was it?’ Reaching over to shake hands across the table, she asked, ‘Did you like your cake?’

I hadn’t seen that coming, and I held my breath, but Graham neatly caught the pitch and tossed it back again, his grey eyes laughing in his otherwise unaltered face. ‘Aye, very much.’

‘I’m glad.’ She turned to hit me full force with the triumph of her smile. ‘I’ll ring you later, Carrie.’

I had no doubt that she would.

‘Nice woman,’ Stuart commented, when she had gone. Her reference to the cake had sailed right past him, it appeared, or he’d dismissed it as an unimportant detail since it wasn’t about him. He drummed his fingers absently on top of my stacked pages. ‘Why did she want me to convince you that the ending should be happier? How sad can it be?’

‘I killed the hero.’

‘Ah.’

‘And I made the heroine give up her only child and go away.’

‘Aye, well,’ said Stuart, ‘that’ll do it.’ Swigging back a mouthful of his pint, he said, ‘So let the hero live.’

‘I can’t. He’s an actual person from history, he dies when he dies, I can’t change that.’

‘So end the book before he dies.’

A simple answer. And it would have solved a lot of problems, I admitted. Only life was rarely simple.

I was vividly reminded of that fact an hour later when we three left the Kilmarnock Arms and started walking down toward the harbor. Stuart wasn’t drunk, exactly, but the pints had left him happy and relaxed, and as we walked he put his arm around my shoulders and there wasn’t any nice way to get rid of it. Graham, walking half a step behind us, didn’t seem to mind.