Page 7 of Blindsided By You

I can’t turn her down, not in the face of that earnestness and sheer guts. I’m not swayed by the fact she got an entire room full of people to applaud me like I’m the bloody Queen. It’s the realisation that up till now I’ve only taken from others—learned from their knowledge and experience—and maybe this is my chance to give something back.

“Skylar, that would be great.” I offer her my most encouraging smile. “How about you pop in here and see me on Monday? Do you see that little summerhouse just past the pool?” She follows the direction of my gaze past the enormous pool lit up like some resort on the Riviera, towards the place I spend my days. It has a cosiness about it that is lacking in the rest of this mansion Dad has bought. “That’s my office. Follow the path around from the front entrance, and you’ll find me there.”

Still overwhelmed by her blind adoration, I pull away, muttering excuses about other people I need to catch up with.

As I cross the room, trying to look purposeful, though unsure of exactly where I’m headed, I’m sure I hear Kyle Stewart say the words ‘nice rack’. His knowing grin meets mine, and I’m convinced he’s talking about me. If it were anyone but Kyle, I might take it as a compliment.

Instead, I feel an urge to go over there and slap him, but Dad would never forgive me for wrecking his party and I’m not about to give Kyle any opportunity to get any closer to that nice rack. He got those big hands on my tits—and fuck it the rest of me—when I was an easily impressed teenager. I’m not going to offer him the opportunity to ogle them at close range now.

I take an angry swipe at a glass of bubbles and head for the kitchen. In our old house, the kitchen was always a sanctuary. In its homelyspace, Mum bustled around, sometimes elbows deep in flour at the wooden bench top, or wrestling a roasting pan into the old Aga. The kitchen was her happy place, as well as the home to plasters for grazed knees, hot chocolate to soothe a sleepless child and an endless supply of love.

This kitchen bristles with the clatter of dishes on granite bench tops. Catering staff from Buchanan House move in an elegant dance balancing trays of fancy canapes—the kind of finger food my dad would have once scoffed at. How far we’ve come, and there’s an uneasy sense that the change isn’t for the better.

I gulp the champagne, and the rush of bubbles fills my stomach with a pleasantly soothing fizziness. The effect doesn’t last.

While this kitchen is alien to that past version of myself, foreign to the nostalgic memories of my childhood, it still hurts that Mum isn’t in it. Even if she had buckled to caterers invading her space, she’d have been here in the thick of it, ordering them around. The stab of pain at her absence is too great and I snatch another champagne glass from a tray, beating the surprised young man carrying it to the door.

I flee onto the terrace. Late summer in Cluanie carries a strong breath of winter. Out here, the chilly air soothes the flickering threat of migraine. Alone. Peaceful.

No, not alone. The man at the end of the pavers staring off into the manicured garden swigs from a beer bottle. There’s something familiar in that mess of golden curls. Not so much the plaid shirt, or the chunky heels of a pair of boots visible below his jeans—no one in Cluanie dresses like that. Looks like the star of one of Dad’s favourite old spaghetti westerns has ridden into town.

I stop, thinking to seek solitude elsewhere, but he’s heard me. As he turns, a soft smile slides across his face—Geordie MacDonald, looking none the worse for Arsehole Andy’s attack. He strolls towards me, the smile morphing into a genuinely delighted grin, white teeth glowing in the dim twilight.

“Jenna.” His deep mellow voice is at odds with the high-pitched child’s cheeky teasing of my memories; a voice that triggers something liquid inside me, like the delicious warmth of a hot mocha. “Good to see you.”

He closes the gap between us, abandoning his beer on the table, and two strong arms fold around me. I relax into his broad chest, all my sharp corners falling away with a hug that feels like home. I don’t fight it, my instinct to draw back unexpectedly subdued. When he gently releases me, the coolness of the evening air is suddenly unwelcome, like it’s fought its way between me and the very thing I need. I tip my head up to meet a pair of kind eyes, a greyish blue. I’m acutely aware of his broad hands still resting on my forearms, warm and steadying.

“I’m so sorry about your mum.” His eyes hold so much genuine empathy. This isn’t just platitudes, someone saying the scripted lines. “She was such a lovely lady. I would have come to the funeral but…”

“Thanks, Geordie.” He’s the first person brave enough to mention her tonight. The instant sharp slash of grief is soothed by the warm knowledge that here’s someone else who knew her, too; really knew her; and therefore someone who understands my loss.

After all, he spent many hours with her in the little music room out back of our old house, the sunny space I always picture Mum in when she comes to mind.

Geordie wasn’t one of the kids who begged for piano lessons. He, and Rachel before him, were the kind who suffered it, victims of a parent who projected his need to be a cut above the rest onto his offspring. Unlike Rachel, I believe Geordie had some talent. That didn’t stop him zooming out of there the moment the weekly lesson was over. I’d see his blonde curls disappearing out our front gate, bobbing along as he literally danced in celebration of his freedom.

But even with Geordie, mention of her still hurts; I move on quickly.

“Yeah, Rachel said you were down in the Pacific somewhere?”

“The Timor Sea. Sounds exotic, but hot as hell. Shore leave in Darwin—Australia—where every bloody animal wants to kill you, and some of the locals are pretty feral too.”

He laughs, a light, unfettered sound, like he’s broken free of all the world’s worries. How wonderful to just walk away from a job that no longer brings you joy. I’ve walked away from mine, too, even if it’s only temporarily . While I had no choice but to take leave from the Highlanders—with Mum sick, I did it without question—the fact I’ve barely given it a backward glance makes me wonder. Have I also broken free from something that no longer brought me joy? If so, maybe I shouldn’t go back.

“More feral than Cluanie?” I toss back with a smile.

“Way more,” he grins. “I’m not sorry to have left it behind. The day came when here just seemed the better option.”

“And how’s your mum doing?” I have fond memories of Aileen MacDonald. Just as my mother always gave her kids’ friends a warm welcome, Aileen was completely unfazed by Rachel and me living between our two houses. “I hear she’s improving.”

“Yeah, she’s good,” he says. “Still struggling a bit with being on the receiving end of the nursing rather than the one doing it, but yeah, she’s getting there.”

It’s as if some maleficent being has turned its evil gaze on the good mothers of Cluanie this year. First my mother’s cancer, followed by Aileen’s heart attack; the shock has left our little town reeling. Selfishly, I hope the beast has moved on to other hunting grounds.

“She’ll be up to having visitors soon. You should pop in and see her. She’d like that.”

“I will,” I say, echoing the promise I’ve already made to Rachel.

“She still tires so easily. Maybe give it a week or so.”

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