‘Julie’s husband is a sergeant with Mull Police. He works out of the station in Tobermory.’
I didn’t expect to get the police involved. I’m about to stop Niven but Julie has already reached us.
‘Hey. What’s up?’
‘Bit of a random question, Ju: how easy would it be for your Doug to find a missing person?’
Julie laughs. ‘You been a bit careless with your pals again, Niven?’
‘Not for me. For Sam.’
She grins up at me. ‘Depends. Who’ve you lost?’
‘My father.’
Instantly, her smile fades.
Of course she knows about Frank. Everyone knows. Even people who weren’t born when my father left the Island. It’s become as familiar a whispered tale here as the ancient legends that seem to be attached to every stone of Mull.
In that moment, I think twice about asking for her husband’s help. It won’t be a casual enquiry if the police take it on. It will be official – a missing person’s report, a public search. I’m not ready for that. But my friend thinks he’s helping and it’s too late to take back the suggestion.
‘Sure he could help. I’ll ask him.’
‘I don’t want to put him to any trouble…’ I begin, hating the weakness of my protest.
‘Ach, it’s nae bother. He’ll be glad of the work. Mull’s hardly the crime capital of the Hebrides right now.’ She pats my arm, which just makes me feel worse. ‘Don’t you worry, Sam. We’ll find your da.’
* * *
We’re at Niven’s place, later that evening, eating frozen pizza and drinking beer. He’s been casting glances in my direction when he thinks I’m not looking for the best part of an hour now and he blushes when I turn to catch him.
‘What? Do I have pizza cheese on my chin?’
‘Nah, but you have a big loony face.’
‘Be serious.’
‘It’s nothing. Go back to your beer.’
‘Don’t give me that. What’s with the staring?’
He groans. ‘Okay. I have a question. If Doug can find Frank, will you go to see him?’
‘I don’t know.’ It’s the truth. ‘He’s probably dead, for all I know.’
‘But if he isn’t?’
‘I guess I’ll find out. They might not locate him, anyway. From what I’ve heard, Frank was always good at evading people.’
His question begs another one: do I want to know what happened to my father? What he did with his life once he’d cut us out of it? I’m not sure. But what if the police don’t find him? Will it hurt more than the unobtainable tone I heard this morning when I called the number on the photo? These questions won’t be answered unless Doug and his colleagues look for Frank. Wheels are in motion. Now I have to wait.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Phoebe
The days become colder; the light more reluctant to arrive in the morning and stay in the late afternoons.
By November the library is repainted, the bookcases varnished and the floor brought back to life. Lisabeta has the glass doors replaced and crates of books begin to arrive from the storage unit. Amanda and I set up a table and carefully clean each book, checking the pages for signs of damp or water damage before stacking them in alphabetical piles around the edges of the room.
I send Sam a few postcards. He responds with emails and the occasional call. He laughs when I accuse him of getting off lightly. I’m only half-joking, but if he realises this he doesn’t let on. I’ve felt him pulling away lately and I’ve battled fear that he’s having second thoughts.
‘I told you, my handwriting is shocking,’ he says and I can hear the winter wind buffeting the island around him. Here it’s colder than when I arrived but still warm enough at midday to work in T-shirts and jeans. When Sam video calls me from the arts centre where the music club is taking place, I’m surprised to see he’s grown a beard. It suits him, but I’m still taken aback by how the seasons are changing us. My skin is the most tanned it has ever been. Streaks of gold run through my hair. And I am content.
And then, before I know it, Christmas arrives.
It’s funny, but I hadn’t thought much about where I would spend Christmas this year, or how it might feel to be away from my friends and family for the first time in years.
Fog cloaks the garden and all our talk around the knotted wooden table is of plans and dates, hopes for the coming year and dreams yet to happen. We are lying in wait like the dormant terrace flowerbeds and the half-finished library, all our bright hope and potential hidden for now.
‘Next year, I want to have our first weddings in the diary,’ Lisabeta says, passing a plate of amaretti biscuits around. We’re drinking hot milk spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg, sharing our dreams for the year to come.
‘That’s totally possible,’ Amanda says, dunking her biscuit in the warm white froth. ‘I want to be doing a new project at work. Something that celebrates the great literary heritage we have in Devon and Cornwall. No idea how yet, but I’ll work it out.’
They turn expectantly to me. What do I tell them? ‘I hope I’ll be doing something my heart loves,’ I say. It’s hopelessly vague but true. I don’t know what I want to do this time next year. Part of my year away is to give myself the chance to think about stuff like that. I do know I don’t want to settle for any old job like I did before. Maybe that’s enough of a step forward for now.
And Sam. I want to be with Sam.
Where will we be this time next year?
Together, I hope.
Just before Christmas, a rare gift arrives at the villa, addressed to me – a handwritten Christmas card from Sam. Inside the appropriately Scottish-shortbread-tin design is a message. I can almost hear his voice speaking:
* * *
To
Phoebe,
Just think,
this time next year we’ll be
arguing where to put the Christmas tree.
Or we’ll be
hogging the mistletoe. Just us.
In a log cabin. Miles away from anywhere. For
weeks…
Okay, I’ll stop now.
Seriously, with all my heart,
all I want for Christmas is 14th June. And you.
Me and you.
Sam xx
P.S. Can you see the Christmas tree? ☺
* * *
A message written in the shape of a fir tree. It must have taken him hours to work that out – but I love that he did. This little message means the world. He wants to be with me. He still believes it’s possible.
It isn’t I love you yet. But I want to be with you is pretty close.
If you were the love of my life and I knew it…
Gabe’s words from the night in the vineyard return without invitation. No, I tell myself, forcing my focus back to the precious Christmas note from Sam. This is enough for now. Sam wrote this message to let me know he’s still mine. He took the time to say it. If he wanted to push me away he wouldn’t have bothered.
I couldn’t walk away. I’d do anything to be with you.
Would Gabe really? It’s very easy to say the right thing when you’re not the one in the situation. It could have been a line from one of his acting jobs for all I know. But I don’t like that I’m still thinking about what Gabe said. My lovely Sam wanting to be with me, and the promise of celebrating Christmas soon in my Puglian home with Amanda and Lisabeta are all I want to think about.