“But they still will, Dad, that’s the point! If you don’t change, that’s what will end it. This way your name will reach out, will carry on . . . way beyond the island. Way beyond you even having to work! I mean . . . It’s the best thing. You see that, don’t you?”
The old man stared out to sea.
“And think of the money. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a little bit of money?”
“What would I do with money?”
“You could travel! Go places. Buy . . .”
Flora realized he was absolutely right. Her father had never seemed to want for a thing. Changed his Land Rover once every twenty years; wore the same clothes, then stitched them up himself when they grew threadbare. The idea of him going to a fancy restaurant or staying in a hotel, sitting by a pool . . . Her mother had once insisted on taking him away to Spain on a package tour when the children were all grown up, and he had hated every single second of it.
“Oh, it wasn’t so much that he hated it,” her mother had said later. “It was that he simply didn’t comprehend what he was doing there. It just made absolutely no sense to him at all.”
“It will still be our farm,” Flora said. “People will call it the MacKenzie Farm long, long after all of us have gone.”
Her father patted her mother’s grave.
“Och, and does that even matter?” he said.
“Of course it does!” said Flora, horrified.
He nodded, and gave one great sigh. Then he turned to her.
“She loved you so much, you know.”
“I know,” said Flora. “I miss her too. Every day.”
“She missed you. She missed you.”
“She told me to go.”
“Of course she did. She thought it was the right thing to do. She thought there was a grand life out there waiting for you.”
Flora blinked back tears.
“She couldn’t bear to make you stay. She didn’t mind so much for the boys. And I think yon Fintan felt the thin edge of that.”
Flora nodded, the lump in her throat making it impossible for her to speak.
“But she always hoped . . .”
“Please, Dad,” Flora managed, with some trouble, staring hard at the ground. “Please don’t say she always hoped I’d come back. I couldn’t bear it.”
He looked up, startled.
“Oh no, love. Oh no. Not at all. She always hoped you’d make a life for yourself that you loved, wherever you were.”
He hung his head.
“After the funeral . . .”
“I didn’t mean it, Dad. I was so upset. I was out of my mind. I’m so sorry. I wish I hadn’t . . .”
“No. No. I thought on it. These last years, I’ve thought about it a lot. And I think maybe you were right. That I should have let her spread her wings. Not that I actually thought she had wings, before you go accusing me of anything else.”
This was a long speech for her father, and Flora listened intently.
“That’s why I never chased you down. Never fussed you. I didn’t . . . I hated the thought that she felt chained here. Chained to us, to the farm.”
Flora shook her head. A thought struck her, and she rummaged in her bag.
“I thought that for years, Dad. I did. But now that I’ve come back, I realize I was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
She pulled out the tattered old recipe book, spattered and worn.
“Look,” she said.
“Your mother’s recipes.” Eck, confused, put on his glasses. “Aye, right enough.”
“No,” said Flora. “Look inside.”
She turned to a chocolate cake entitled Best Birthday Cake in the World Ever for My Best Big Boys. Another, for soup, had an asterisk with Good for Hamish when he’s crushed the other kids again and feels bad. There was a recipe for fudge with a picture of all their happy faces, crudely drawn, and WILL FIX MONOPOLY FIGHTS!!!! written next to it. All the little phrases she’d used, ingredients she’d liked—More white pepper than Eck can stand was scribbled on one page—tumbled down the years and out from the pages; the Christmas section was particularly delirious, with excited drawings of Santa, including some clearly done by the children, next to the Christmas cake.
Eck held the book like it was a sacred thing.
“That is not,” Flora said, never more sure of anything, pointing out Campers’ Stew, and Happy Pie, and Goodnight Possets, illustrated by a crib in the light of the moon, “that is not the work of a woman who was unhappy with her choices.”
Eck could barely speak. He looked up at her.
“Why are you carrying it around with you? It could get lost or stolen or anything.”
“Because I’m copying it,” said Flora. “For the Café by the Sea. For posterity. For Agot. There will be lots of copies, I promise.”
“Good,” said Eck. “Because I want this one.”
And he tucked it tenderly inside his old coat.
They sat there for a while, the two of them, Flora in her dad’s arms, rocking gently in time with the waves behind the churchyard wall.
And when she was all cried out, he said, “Give me a hand up, dearie,” and she did, of course, and as they stood up, arm in arm, they saw the first of the searchers entering the churchyard, shouting, “Eck! Eck!” and then yelling with happiness and relief to one another. The old man blinked, entirely surprised, leaning his hand on Bracken’s broad back to steady himself.
“Och no,” he said. “You didn’t send out a search party.”
“They sent themselves out,” said Flora. “They were worried about you.”
He shook his head one last time. Then he looked at her.
“Oh, I will miss you when you go, Flora MacKenzie.”
“I’ll be here till the Lughnasa,” murmured Flora. But her heart wasn’t in it.
Chapter Forty-seven
So, we’re ready for the meeting,” Colton was saying. He was leaning back on one of the ramshackle chairs they’d pulled outside the farmhouse on a mild, clear night. Given the extraordinary luxury he lived in, Flora couldn’t understand why he was always over here. Well, she could: he was in love with her brother; but if she lived somewhere as nice as the Rock, she’d never leave. Fintan was sitting on the arm of his chair, leaning against him from time to time, looking the picture of happiness. Everyone had a beer, and Flora, who had had a very long working day sorting out both dairy and shop issues, was perfectly happy for the evening, which stretched until the dawn, to meander on its own way.
Agot was sitting playing with Colton’s incredibly expensive Gucci loafers. How on earth anyone could wear loafers to a farm and not get them filthy was beyond Flora. Maybe he just put on a brand-new pair every day. Agot had planted several twigs in one of the shoes and was attempting to make it sail down the sluice like a boat. Flora was going to draw his attention to it, but it was such a lovely evening, they all deserved to relax, and anyway, stopping Colton in full flow was harder than stopping Agot.
“Can you send all the council members a pie before the meeting? The blackberries are coming out, and they’re sensational,” he said. “And some of the cream.”
“You mean absolute and outright bribery,” said Flora.
“Not at all. A gift for the important dignitaries and respected elders of this island. Who sure hate wind farms. And love you and me.”