The Hatching (The Hatching #1)(46)
He met Thuy when she came to Stornoway for vacation. She’d walked into the Kenneth Street coffee shop he liked to write in. Three mornings in a row she’d come through the door with a backpack and hiking gear, and three mornings in a row he’d been sitting at a table in the back, hacking away at the newest Harry Thorton mystery, each word he wrote enriching his bank account ever so slightly. Finally, on the fourth morning, Aonghas worked up the courage to talk to her. It was the wrong time of year for tourists, and she would have stood out even if she hadn’t been Vietnamese and ridiculously good-looking. Aonghas didn’t admit it to her until they’d been dating for nearly six months, but he’d been surprised when she’d spoken to him and didn’t have an accent. She was as Scottish as he was. They’d talked for a while about what she was doing there—she was in medical school and had a vacation and wanted to do some hiking—and he’d suggested a nice walk and a couple of places she might like to eat, and then he’d given her his phone number. They’d gone hiking together the next day and had hit it off.
They had five more days together before she headed back, but he’d already had a trip to Edinburgh planned for three weeks later, and ended up staying at her place. Somehow, it worked out. Even with writing the Harry Thorton books and motoring over to Càidh Island to check in on his grandfather every couple of days, Aonghas had enough free time that it was easy to take the one-hour flight to Edinburgh every other weekend. And here and there, when she could, she’d sneak away to the Isle of Lewis for a few days: she preferred coming to him, she said, and he believed her. She seemed to love the island as much as he did, and arranged to do her residency in Stornoway when she graduated. Two months, Aonghas thought. Two months and he’d get to see her every day, wake up with her every morning.
And with any luck, he thought, as he saw Thuy’s plane come bursting through the clouds that hung over the ocean, two months from now would be the beginning of always.
He fingered the box in his pocket. He’d brought the ring with him the last time he’d gone to Edinburgh, two weeks ago, but it hadn’t felt right, and he’d finally realized why he was hesitating: she’d never met his grandfather. Even though they’d been together for a year, Aonghas had never taken Thuy out to Càidh Island. At first, he’d hesitated because he wasn’t sure it was serious, and then he’d hesitated precisely because it was serious. Padruig could be intimidating, and while Aonghas didn’t want it to be true, he knew that if Padruig disapproved of Thuy, it would signal the death knell of the relationship. So there was a lot riding on this weekend. And he had to admit, he was scared shitless at what would happen when Padruig and Thuy came together.
The drive to the coast on the other side of the isle took only an hour, and he’d never seen Thuy so excited.
“You think he’ll like me?”
He pulled her bag out from the backseat and then picked up his own bag, shutting the door of the Range Rover with his hip. “He doesn’t really like anybody, Thuy. God, I’ve told you enough stories about how cranky he is. He can be a bit of a cunt at times.”
She smacked him on the head. Not hard. But still. “Don’t talk about him like that. He raised you.”
Aonghas stepped over the rail of the boat and tucked their bags in the cabin. He’d loaded his grandfather’s boxes already: three coolers full of milk, dairy, and fresh produce—more than usual, because he and Thuy were staying—plus mail and two boxes of books and magazines. He held Thuy’s hand to help her on board, and then pulled her tight against him. He could feel her pressing against the ring box in his front pocket.
“He didn’t have much of a choice about raising me, Thuy. He wasn’t going to let his grandson go to the orphanage, and after my parents died . . .” He shrugged. “But you’re right. He’s a good man. He’s a tough bastard, and he has his ways, but I love him, and he’ll love you, Thuy. I promise. I love you, and I love him, and love’s the sort of bridge we can all cross over.”
“You say pretty things sometimes,” Thuy said, and then she kissed him and went forward while he started the boat.
That was one of the other things he liked about her. He could say stuff like that—that love was a sort of bridge. He could read poetry and good books, and she never, ever, tried to tell him that he should write a “real” book, that he was wasting his time on the Harry Thorton novels. He’d had girlfriends before who pushed him, and in the end, he had to admit he loved those damned mysteries more than he’d loved any of those old girlfriends. He’d grown up with the books, helped his grandfather come up with new plots for them—two books a year, every year, for as long as Aonghas could remember—and taking over the writing of them was all he’d ever wanted to do.
He looked at the way Thuy sat near the bow and marveled again at his luck. She should have been a painting, the way she looked against the water. The weather never seemed to bother her, and even though it wasn’t that cold, there was a bit of spray coming off the water. He liked watching the way she leaned into the wind, how she zipped her jacket but let the hood stay down, catching the mist on her face. Two more months. Two more months. He said it over and over in his head like a mantra. Two more months and she’d be doing her residency in Stornoway. The idea of living with Thuy, of having her on the Isle of Lewis all the time, not just for a long weekend every couple of months, was enough to make Aonghas almost burst with happiness. He patted the ring again.