“How did your meeting go?” Holland’s question brings me back to the moment again.
“It went,” I sort of warble, fighting the inevitable flow of tears. It went badly. Tits up. It went… fucking awful.
“Well, don’t worry. I’ll hold down the fort. In fact, I promised the boys ice cream after school.”
“Is it sunny up there?” I can’t even remember what the weather was like this morning. It all seems so long ago.
“If it had to be sunny to eat ice cream in Scotland, the dairy industry would go bust.”
“Point taken. Is Sandy there, by any chance?” The newly grown fist around my heart squeezes as I say his name.
Oh, Sandy. What have you done?
I could go to him. Ask him to tell me the truth—hear it from his own mouth. And maybe he’d admit it. Maybe he’d tell me it’s true. Because I wouldn’t need him to tell me why. We’ve always done what we could to help the other, to protect each other. But never in a million years would I have thought him capable of this. So I could ask him, but then what? It wouldn’t help this situation. It would only make it worse because he’d do something rash again, all in the name of protecting those he loves.
Holland. Me. Archie and Hugh. And the Dalforth name, of course.
I won’t let that happen. This is my turn to defend him.
“Isla? You still there? Man, the signal in this place is the pits!”
“Sorry.” I snap back to myself. “I think it’s the signal here. But what did you just say?”
“You just missed Sandy. He’s gone off to do something lord of the manor-ish. I forget what, but he has his phone if you want to talk to him.”
“Actually, I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”
“Sure,” she replies as I knew she would. “Shoot.”
“Is there any chance you could get Van’s phone number for me?”
“Don’t you have it already?” She doesn’t bother to hide her surprise.
“No.” I shake my head, not for her benefit but possibly because I know I shouldn’t involve him. Not after my declaration this morning. Not after everything I’d promised myself. But also, as Chrissy’s mother was fond of saying, he who sups with the devil should be sure take a long spoon. Not that Van is the devil. Not exactly. He’s not my favorite person in the world. My favorite fuck, yes. He’s secretive. Dangerous, probably. And I don’t just mean to my heart. And I think that’s why I need his help. I can’t see another way out of this and I have nowhere to turn, so what’s one more U-turn for the tally? One more moment I can’t help myself?
“Isla? Hell, the signal has gone again,” Holland mutters.
“Hey. Hello. I’m still here. And no, I don’t have his number, sort of intentionally.” I exhale another wobbling breath.
“Right.” She draws out the word, her amusement ringing clear. “I get it. But it’s not like removing that temptation has helped, if you know what I’m sayin’.”
“No,” I agree quietly. Number or not, the temptation rarely abates.
“For what it’s worth, you can’t fight fate. Not that you need my permission or anything.”
“But I do sort of need his number.”
“Mission accepted. I’ll go find m’lord,” she adds, sounding a little like the butler from Downton Abbey.
“Holly?” I say as her footsteps begin to echo against the stone floor. “Do you think you might be able to get Van’s number without telling him? Sandy, I mean.”
“Oh, right!” Her answer sounds like a slap to her own head. “Your brother doesn’t need to hear about your quest for a little afternoon de-light.”
“Exactly.” Better that’s what she thinks this is for. And why wouldn’t she think that?
“The only question is, how do I get my darling husband to hand over his phone?”
“The butler will have it. But if you could somehow ask him not to mention it to his boss?”
“Leave it to me. That man doesn’t know how to take me at the best of times. I’ll just embarrass it out of him.”
“Fab. Excellent. But if you could, please hurry.”
“Okay,” she says, laughing, not doubt surmising I want to maximize my afternoon hours of de-light. She promises she won’t be long, and we hang up. When my phone buzzes a moment later, I wonder how she’s managed so quickly. The screen lights as I touch it and the fist around my heart squeezes so tight, the muscle ends up in my throat as a video of Archie and Hugh fills the screen. They’re in the castle’s courtyard, dressed in their school uniforms, school ties straight and shirttails tucked away. Holland is hustling them into Sandy’s pristine Range Rover as though they’re late. I almost smile—Archie would make a saint late for his own canonization—before I realize Holland didn’t shoot this. Not when she’s in it. Maybe Sandy did? Yes, that could be—