Page 34 of Of Heather and Thistle
It wasn’t just a way to end the conversation with Mark. It was a promise to at least let the thought exist instead of shoving it down. To admit—even just to herself—that she might need to tell Ivy she was leaving—for her own benefit.
Mark reached out, giving her shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze. “That’s all I’m saying. Just think about it.”
Heather nodded again. The heaviness in her chest hadn’t disappeared, but it shifted. She finally took a deep breath, then stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Mark’sneck and holding on tightly. “Thanks,Marky. For everything.”
Her voice was quiet, but full of meaning. He hugged her back, warm and solid. “You don’t have to thank me. This is what friends do.”
But she did thank him, because for the first time in a long time, she felt like someone was actually standing in her corner.
Mark pulled back, and his grin returned, lighter this time, teasing, “Now get out of here before Irene starts knitting you a goodbye scarf…” He paused. “…Or worse—a full sweater!”
Heather laughed, the sound breaking through the tension. For once, it didn’t feel forced. It felt real. She shook her head, smiling as she half-turned toward the door. “I’ll send you pictures,” she said. “But don’t get too sentimental—I’m just going to check things out. Figure out what’s what. Then I’ll be back.”
“You’d better.” Mark leaned against the counter again, forcing a smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. They were glassy, like he was blinking back something he wasn’t ready to let spill over.
Heather’s throat tightened, and something in her chest twisted again—not with pain, but with gratitude so sharp it almost hurt. She let out a breath, a quiet exhale that felt heavier than it should. She hesitated. “I’m not gone for good, you know! Just until I figure out what to do with the house.”
Mark gave her a look, one eyebrow raised like he didn’t quite believe her. “Sure. That’s what they all say.” He sniffed, exhaled sharply, and then—because he was Mark—shook his head and muttered, “Geez, Heather. Look what you’re doing to me. I don’t do feelings before noon.”
But his voice cracked just a little, betraying him.
Heather pulled back, smiling. “Thanks,Marky.”
Mark huffed a small laugh, shaking his head, but there was nothing teasing in it this time—just warmth. Just looking at her like he meant it.
Then, as she turned to go, he added, “Anytime, Heth.”
Soft. Certain. Sincere. He was a true friend.
And then, with purpose, Heather stepped out of the bookstore and into the crisp winter air.
* * *
As she made her way down the street, her boots clicking against the pavement, her mind wandered to what lay ahead. Scotland still didn’t feel real. Her inheritance felt like something from one of the novels she loved—impossible, magical, undeserved. She pulled out her phone and tapped the notes app where she’d started making a list: …rain boots, sweaters —not the old ones with holes in the sleeves, and a decent coat…
As she neared a row of boutiques she’d always passed by but never entered, she paused. She could afford it now. She could actually buy what she needed—and maybe a little of what she wanted.
She thought back to her meeting at the bank that morning. The financial advisor had been kind and patient, walking her through the account details:
“Your mother must’ve set this up with you in mind,” he’d said warmly. “She wanted you to feel secure, to have something for moments just like this. It was alarge sum to begin with but has collected substantial interest in the sixteen years that it has sat untouched.”
Heather had nodded, blinking too quickly, her throat thick. She hadn’t even known her mother was planning for her this far ahead. But of course she had. Elidh had always done the hard things quietly, without fanfare. His words lingered with her now, stirring a bittersweet mix of gratitude and longing.
As she approached the boutiques, she let herself believe the truth that it was okay to use this money—not out of guilt or hesitation, but because it was time to step into her own life. This wasn’t just about clothes; it was about claiming a future her mother had always wanted for her.
Heather felt strange to be shopping without Ivy by her side. But maybe strange wasn’t the right word. It was quieter. Freer. There was no one to critique her choices or gently steer her toward something bolder “because it flattered her figure.” No careful calculation to make sure she didn’t outshine Ivy in a photo. No second-guessing. Just… her.
There was no Ivy here today. Heather embraced her choices and the quiet thrill of stepping into something new. Without anyone else’s presence overshadowing her, she felt a flicker of possibility—a chance to see herself differently.
The first shop was cozy, with racks of wool coats and scarves in muted gray, forest green, and deep burgundy. Heather ran her fingers over the soft fabrics, imagining herself walking through the Scottish countryside with the wind whipping through her hair. She stopped before a full-length mirror, holding a Barbour jacket with classic plaid lining against herself. “This,” she murmured to no one in particular. “This feels right.”
After a quick chat with the shopkeeper—who promised her that the coat would hold up against even the worst Scottish weather—Heather left the boutique with her first purchase tucked under her arm.
The second store was a little trendier, with a window display full of chunky knits and ankle boots. Heather lingered over the sweaters, picking out a few in earthy tones. She caught herself smiling as she held up a soft cream-colored one with intricate cable knitting. It wasn’t her usual style—far more polished than the thrifted hoodies she typically wore—but something about the Celtic pattern felt hopeful, like a slight nod to the new start she was chasing.
By the time she stepped out of the third shop, her arms were full of bags—jeans that actually fit, sturdy boots, and a couple of thick scarves. She was about to head home when she turned a corner and found herself standing in front of a lingerie shop she’d walked past countless times but never dared to enter.
Heather stood outside the boutique, fingers curled around the straps of her shopping bags, hesitating. For years, she believed places like this weren’t meant for girls like her.
