Ten years ago she walked out of his chapel. Now she has one week in his house, and she's there to buy it.
A hotel negotiator must buy the Scottish castle where she walked out on her wedding, and its owner wants her to stay the week first.
Completed · 18 chapters · 2h 54m
WarmSensual tension; intimacy fades to black.Yearning · Tender · Witty
Grief, Emotional manipulation by a parent
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Dear Maeve,
Wren Halloway is the calmest person in any room she walks into, and she has built a career on it. Ten years ago she put on her wedding dress at Kerrow Castle, on the East Lothian coast, left a note on the dressing table and walked out through the garden gate with three hundred guests waiting in the chapel. She has told the story at dinners ever since, neatly, with a small joke at her own expense at the end. Now her father's hotel group needs a heritage Scottish venue by Friday to save a merger, and the name on the paperwork is Kerrow. Duncan Kerr rebuilt the estate from a ruin, much of it with his own hands, and he has one condition. She stays the week, Sunday to Sunday, and watches a wedding go through the house before she tells him what it's worth. Her room is next door to the one she dressed in. His sister still remembers exactly how many orders of service came back. His mother walks up the drive in the rain to bring her a hot water bottle. And in the stable loft there are eleven taped boxes holding everything she left behind, labelled in his handwriting. Wren has spent ten years telling the neat version. Duncan has spent them keeping things he says aren't his to throw out. With a deadline, a storm and a man who has never once bluffed, she has one week to decide whether to tell him the truth, and to say one thing she can't take back.
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I also have a version. Everyone who knows me has heard it: short, even, with a small turn against myself at the end so the other person can laugh and change the subject. I have told it at dinners for a decade and nobody has ever asked a second question.
On Sunday I flew in to buy that house for my father’s company, and learned its name somewhere over the Atlantic. He was waiting on the steps. He called me Ms Halloway. His condition is that I stay the week, in the room next door to the one I dressed in, before I tell him what I think the place is worth. In the stable loft there are eleven boxes in his handwriting, holding everything I left in our flat in Leith. He says they weren’t his to throw out.
He has never bluffed in his life. I would like to know whether I can get through seven days in his house without giving him the version.
From Everything We Left in Edinburgh
Read this if you want to be inside the one who left.
Read this if you want the wait to be a week in his house.
Read this if you want to be inside the one who left.
Read this if you want the one who walked away to be the one telling it.
Slow burns where the waiting is the point
Second chances
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