Page 7 of A Summer Wedding on Arran

Surely once she saw herself in that it would all start to feel more real? She’d begin to feel flutters of excitement to replace the anxiety that seemed to greet her when she woke up every morning. If only she could get to the bottom of what was causing her to feel like this.

Chapter Four

Kirsty sat at the kitchen table, flicking through the recipe book, wondering whether to make risotto for dinner or not. A piece of paper floated from between the pages. Kirsty opened it up, her eyes welling with tears when she realized it was a handwritten note from her mum with her flapjack recipe.

Mum had been the parent who taught her how to bake and Dad had shown her how to cook. Out of the three sisters, she was always the one who took most interest in what her parents were doing in the kitchen and would always watch as they chopped and whisked and stirred things. Mum shared all the recipes she’d been taught by her own mum and which had passed down through the generations: scones, pancakes, shortbread, rhubarb crumbles, coconut cakes, apple pies and rich, berry jams. Meanwhile her dad taught her how to make pots of soup, pasta sauces, casseroles and curries while cheerfully telling her tales from his past. He’d spent time in the Royal Navy as a young man and had plenty of anecdotes to share — some funny and some gripping — and had become very efficient at looking after himself. That was just as well as when he met Jean her signature dish was beans on toast. The girls never tired of hearing the stories about how he wooed their mother with his culinary skills.

Kirsty’s official rule was to offer only breakfasts for guests and she kept her other dishes for family and friends. Although on the odd occasion guests had joined them around the large wooden kitchen table in their warm and welcoming kitchen. Its log fire made it especially cosy in the winter months when fewer restaurants were open and there were fewer tourists on the island anyway.

She thought about her dad and the pride he took in cooking for them all. Since Jean’s death he hadn’t bothered as much as he said there was little point in cooking meals for one. Kirsty tried her best to invite him to join them or would take Tupperware containers to his cottage. She had been dismayed though when she went to the fridge that morning and realized that several were still there untouched.

Always loyal and discreet about her dad and his grief, she’d resisted the urge to offload to anyone about her worries for him. Especially when he’d assured her that he was fine, and had simply forgotten they were there.

‘Why don’t you come and have dinner with us tonight?’ she suggested. ‘The kids would love to see you . . . and I’m trialling a new risotto that I can get you to taste.’

‘Risotto?’ he’d said in surprise. ‘What’s that?’

Kirsty fought back a wave of frustration. ‘The rice dish, you know. The one that you taught me to make.’

Her dad didn’t seem to register what she said.

‘Dad, how about it then?’

He glanced out the window. ‘Sure, dear. That sounds fine.’

‘I’ll send Steve down to get you. In the meantime, let’s have a cup of tea and a sandwich?’ She reached over to fill the kettle and flicked it on, then quickly emptied the fridge of things that had gone well past their sell-by date. She was all against wasting food, but these items were way beyond using.

Fortunately, she had brought some fresh milk in and a couple of rolls from the bakery. Her father had a lump of cheese in the fridge which looked okay, so she set about cutting slices from it and popped them inside the rolls. She could really have done without the cheese today, especially as she needed to get into a dress for Emma’s wedding. She placed a mug on the coffee table in front of her dad and handed him a plate. Then she sat down and took a bite from her own roll to encourage her dad to do the same.

‘What have you been up to this morning then? Did you play golf?’ Tuesday was always his morning to play a few holes with a group of friends.

He shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t.’

‘That’s not like you. Are you feeling all right?’ she said, concerned. ‘You don’t seem yourself . . .’

A frown flitted across his face. ‘I just miss your mum.’

Kirsty had returned home with a heavy heart and began preparing dinner, messaging Steve to ask him if he would collect her dad on his way back. She didn’t know what to do. There seemed little point in worrying her sisters and she didn’t want to offload to Steve, especially when he already did so much for her dad.

That evening, Dad sat at her table and seemed his usual self, chatting to the kids and Steve quite animatedly to the point that Kirsty wondered if she’d been imagining things. Perhaps he was just a bit lonely. She knew how overwhelming grief could be. Maybe there wasn’t any need to panic quite yet. She was probably being too sensitive. However, she made a mental note to keep more of an eye on him.

‘Have you got your father-of-the-bride speech written yet, Alex?’ Steve asked Dad.

His eyes widened in panic. ‘No. Not yet. Why? Do I have to?’

Steve looked helplessly at Kirsty.

‘No, Dad, you don’t have to,’ she said. ‘But I’m sure Emma would appreciate it. I can do it though, if that would make you feel less worried?’

‘Yuck,’ said Tom. ‘I’m never getting married.’

‘Nobody will want to marry you, so you don’t have to worry,’ Becky said curtly. ‘Though Lucy at the pool seems to have the hots for you. I keep catching her staring at you when you’re blowing your whistle.’

‘Shut up,’ he said, scowling at his sister.

‘There’s still time, though, right?’ Kirsty’s dad rested his fork on his plate, oblivious to the kids’ bickering.

Kirsty looked across the table at him. ‘Yes, Dad there’s still time. You’ve got a couple weeks to go.’

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