500 Miles from You (Scottish Bookshop #3)(94)

Lissa shrugged. “Not really.”

Cormac looked thoughtful. “Well,” he said, “there’s something I wanted to talk to you about. There’s an outreach project in London . . . helping people on the street. They’re looking for part-time. It would mean I’d be looking for a job share.”

“You’re kidding,” said Lissa. “Oh my God, I could kiss you.”

Cormac blushed. “Would it be a wee bit forward to invite you into my hoose?”

“I’ll have to go with you anyway,” said Lissa. “I don’t know how to unblock your number from my phone.”

“Good,” said Cormac. “You’ll just have to stay very, very close by.”

BOTH OF THEM were trembling as they stood in the little cottage in front of the fire, which Cormac admired, which made Lissa feel rather proud. It was so exciting, frightening, and strange all at once. He put some music on and moved a little closer to where she was standing at the sink, filling the kettle for tea. Lissa didn’t want any tea; she just didn’t know what to do with herself.

He moved even closer behind her. “Is this okay?” he said in a very soft voice, and she nodded, without quite being able to turn around.

“Normally this should be late at night and we should be very drunk,” complained Lissa. “That’s the English way. And the Scottish way, I have observed.”

Cormac smiled. She could feel him towering over her, smell the almond shampoo. He took his left hand, put it around her waist. She stood stock-still, and, very gently, he bent his shaggy head and kissed her on the nape of her neck.

“See, this way,” he said gruffly, “you still don’t need to see me.”

Lissa grinned then and turned around. “Maybe I want to do that,” she said, reaching up on tiptoes.

“Braw,” he said, and the fresh clear Scottish water ran up and over the top of the kettle, and neither of them noticed at all, and soon the Proclaimers were singing to an empty room.





Chapter 84


Three months later

There had been a short, violent rainstorm the night before, but by the time the train got in the next morning, the world was bright again, shining. Lissa had warned Mrs. Mitchell to wear a coat, and the woman stepped off the train into the September glow in a brand-new Artic-level North Face jacket. They were both there to meet her, holding their hands out to her, their faces grave.

They pulled up by the little quiet row of houses just beside the town square.

“Are you ready?” Lissa said, Cormac helping her down.

Word had gotten around in Kirrinfief, as it so often did, and there was quite the crowd who happened to be passing.

Lissa rang the bell, and Mr. Coudrie opened the door, more people spilling out on either side.

The house’s inhabitants and Mrs. Mitchell stood, staring at each other curiously, respectfully.

“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” said Gregor finally.

“I understand,” said Mrs. Mitchell without smiling.

He was about to invite her in when, suddenly, there was a whirl of noise and movement, and Islay burst out of the house onto the pavement. She was wearing a new dress, bought in honor of the occasion, and had a ribbon in her hair and was delighted there were so many people about, and in the mood to show off. Her parents still couldn’t get used to the fact that she could work off her natural energy without them being terrified.

She stopped when she saw Mrs. Mitchell, though, who had made a small sound.

“Do you want to come inside?” said Gregor.

More people were crowding around. Mrs. Mitchell didn’t even hear him. Lissa steadied her with her arm.

“This is . . . ?” she asked, in just above a whisper.

Lissa nodded.

“I’m Islay!” said Islay cheerfully.

Mrs. Mitchell looked at her for a long moment, tears rolling down her face. “Can I . . . ?” she said suddenly, looking at Islay’s parents.

“Do you mind, Islay?” said Gregor, realizing instantly what she was asking.

Islay, who had been well briefed by Cormac, opened her arms wide.

Mrs. Mitchell took one tottering step forward, then another. Then she quietly pressed her head against the little girl’s chest and held it there, Islay for once standing still, so she could hear her son’s heart beating, beating, beating.

The street turned silent, and when she straightened up again, tears in her eyes, Islay grinning her usual toothy grin, Islay’s mother walked up to her.

“I am your child’s mother now,” she said calmly. “And you are Islay’s. Your child is my child. And my child is yours.”

Mrs. Mitchell nodded. And together they disappeared into the house. And Cormac and Lissa squeezed their hands together, hard.





Acknowledgments


It is incredibly useful for a writer to have her two best friends from school be a doctor and a lawyer, and I unabashedly hit them up for free help on this book (although all errors or simple fiction smoothing—few cases come to court as quickly as they do here, alas—are of course mine). So huge thanks—and love, as always—to Karen Murphy, FRCS, and Alison Woodall, BA (Hons) Law.

Also thanks to Muriel Gray for plant help, Claire and Fredi Melo for helping me out with Albanian (faleminderit!), and Rona Monroe, my secret Plot Fairy Godmother.