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ONLY OPTION

A re there any benefits to losing it all? I think about that a lot. Your thoughts can change shape when you have too much time on your hands. Overthinking the things you think you need to worry about, under-thinking the things you should. The only good thing about losing everything is having nothing left to lose. I check out of the world’s worst hotel, then load up the car with two suitcases filled with clothes, supplies, and books. I pack up my laptop and anything else I might need for a three-month stay on a remote Scottish island. Then I grab Columbo, and we set off toward a new chapter in my life. I hope it might be happier than the last.

It takes ten hours to drive from London to Scotland. Besides essential pit stops, I’m in the fast lane for most of the journey. My Mini is old and battered and has seen better days, but it still functions. Most of the time. Like me. Just past Glasgow, the view beyond my windscreen transforms into something spectacular. Trees in every shade of green, giant glistening lochs, and snow-capped mountains stretch out in every direction. My eyes, which had felt tired, are now wide open. Everything within my field of vision seems to be on a different scale. There is an infinite amount of unspoiled space, and the world seems bigger, or perhaps I am smaller.

A couple of hours later, beyond Glencoe and Fort William and still mesmerized by the spectacular views, I realize I haven’t seen much of the world for years. I have locked myself away from reality, too busy writing—when I still could—but I wasn’t really living . Merely existing inside my own head. Then grieving for everything and everyone I have lost. Not just my wife. Over the last ten years I let my relationships with real people drift while I obsessed over fictional ones. My work became my everything. I ignored invitations, and most calls, texts, and emails, because I was always too busy writing the real world away. Besides, I didn’t need anyone else when I had Abby.

The realization deflates me a little, a new list of regrets writing themselves inside my mind. I drive on through this moment of grief, still in awe of the boundless beauty outside the window. I don’t stop, even though I would like to. There isn’t time. The ferry to the Isle of Amberly operates only twice a week, and I’m anxious not to miss the next sailing. According to what I read online, tickets cannot be booked in advance and can only be purchased on the vessel. From the few pictures I found of the island, it looks even more stunning than everything I have seen on my journey, so hopefully this epic road trip will be worth it.

When we finally arrive, late at night, the moonlit sea mirrors the coal-black sky in an unfamiliar bay. The satnav appears to think it has successfully led us to the “ferry terminal,” which looks more like a bus shelter in front of a rickety wooden jetty. There is literally nothing and nobody else here. I climb out of the car and the cold air feels like a slap. I stretch my tired bones, easing the cramp caused by too many hours of sitting in one position, and let the dog out to do the same. All I can find to confirm that I’m in the right place is a handwritten sign saying amberly ferry with a list of sailing times scrawled beneath. They are entirely different from the times I found online, and the next ferry isn’t due until tomorrow morning. I check my phone and see that I have no signal. There are no people, or houses, or any buildings at all, just a vast stretch of coast. There isn’t even a vending machine. Columbo looks unimpressed.

“Sorry, boy. It looks like we’re sleeping in the car.”

The following morning, we are woken by the sound of squawking seagulls. I’ve barely slept and feel drunk with tiredness, but when I open my eyes I am greeted by the most spectacular sunrise. The sky is stained the color of crushed cranberries, looking like a painting composed of angry brushstrokes over a picture-postcard white sandy bay. When we arrived last night it was so dark that I was completely unaware of the stunning views, but now I can see rugged countryside dotted with purple heather on one side of the road, and a seemingly endless pristine coast on the other. I spot the outline of a small island in the distance, sitting pretty on the horizon—my first glimpse of Amberly.

We have been joined by two more cars and a black van, which has a quirky Highland cow logo on the side, and they are all parked next to the jetty. There is still no sign of a ferry—despite the handwritten timetable suggesting it is due—and I noticed there were no details for return sailings; all of the specified times are for one way only. Given that there seems to be no danger of an imminent departure I take Columbo for a short walk along the beach. The wind gently pushes me forward and ruffles my hair, the smell of the ocean floods my senses, and a taste of sea salt lingers on my tongue.

The sun is a faster riser than I am. Its golden yellow reflection dances on the surface of the sea, like a shimmering pathway from the mainland to Amberly. With the cloudless blue sky, calm turquoise water, and perfect white sand, this place looks more like the Caribbean than the Scottish Highlands. Only the cold gives our actual location away, stinging my face and creeping beneath my clothes. The air is so cool and fresh and pure compared with London. I greedily gulp it down, filling my lungs, feeling awake, alive, and a little bit excited for what might be a second chance.

The sea’s calming sound is hypnotic and reminds me of where we used to live. Our old “not forever home.” Then I think about that night, the sound of rain and the waves crashing on the rocks below the cliff road, the last time I heard her voice. My wife is always trespassing on my thoughts. Even now.

Memories of when we first met play in my mind like a scene from a favorite film, and I wonder if I might have edited them over time into something more meaningful than it was. I know some people thought she just decided to leave me when she disappeared. But even if she was going to leave me, I know she’d never stage something so dramatic. Abby isn’t like that.

I try to pack my feelings away in a box inside my head. Like I always do.

They tend to let themselves back out.

As I walk, Columbo runs back and forth kicking up clouds of sand, chasing any loitering seagulls. I pick up a smooth dark gray stone and skim it across the surface of the sea. It bounces three times before disappearing and the dog runs into the shallow water. He’s chasing something he’ll never find, but we’re all guilty of that. I turn and spot an old Volvo with a horse trailer pull up to join the other cars in the distance, back where we are parked. A hatch opens, and I see that the horse trailer has been converted into a small food truck. The smell of cooking soon mingles with the scent of the ocean and my stomach rumbles. I haven’t had much of an appetite lately but I am suddenly ravenous.

“Come on, Columbo. Breakfast is served.”

Back in the car, with coffee, a bacon sandwich, and sausages for the dog, I stare out at the sea. It’s not as calm as before, and the once perfect blue sky is now covered in bruises. The ferry was due half an hour ago, but all I can see on the horizon is what looks like an old fishing boat. The other drivers turn on their engines as it approaches the jetty, and I feel a little nauseated as I read the name on the side of the vessel: AMBERLY FERRY . As ferries go, it’s tiny . I’m reminded of a Fisher-Price toy ferry I owned as a child, which only had room for two plastic cars. Admittedly, this is slightly bigger, but it’s old and rusty, and looks so unseaworthy that I’m surprised it floats.

The other drivers—who have clearly done this before—move their vehicles to form an orderly line at the front of the old wooden jetty. The sight of it makes me think of a scene from Jaws . One by one, they drive onto the ferry before I’ve even managed to put on my seat belt or turn on the engine. I see someone up ahead checking the cars before they board, leaning down to peer inside each vehicle before allowing anyone onto the boat as though looking for stowaways. I think it’s a man at first, mainly because of their height and the way they are dressed—faded baggy blue jeans and an enormous yellow jacket that looks like it could double as a life raft. But as she walks toward the Mini, I can see it is a very tall woman. She’s a good twenty years older than me, and has shiny black hair tied off her face in a short ponytail. She leans down and I lower my window.

“Can I help you?” she asks in a thick Scottish accent.

“Hope so. I’m trying to get to Amberly.”

She stares at me for a long time as though she doesn’t understand what I said or thinks I am dangerously stupid. “Sorry, I canny help. It’s out of season.”

I stare back. “What does that mean?”

“It means the Isle of Amberly Trust owns the island. It is home to thousands of protected trees and a community of just twenty-five people. Visitors are permitted on the island only from May to July. Even if I could let you on board—which I can’t—you’d have no way of getting back again for days and nowhere to stay—”

“But I do,” I insist. “I’ve been invited to stay for three months.”

Her makeup-free eyes narrow into suspicious slits. “By who?”

“Kitty Goldman. She owns a cabin there.”

She shakes her head. “Never heard of her, and I’ve lived on Amberly all my life.”

“She inherited it from Charles Whittaker.”

The exceptionally tall woman stares at the island in the distance before studying my face, and her expression is hard to read. Then she smiles.

“Charlie’s bonnie old writing cabin? Good for you. Well, you’d best grab your things and get on board then. Your car should be safe parked up here for a wee while at least.”

“Can I not take the car on the ferry? It looks like there’s room.”

“ Visitors are not permitted to bring vehicles to the island.”

“What? But I have all my stuff...”

The woman’s weathered face folds into a weary frown. I see myself through her eyes and try again. I need this woman to help me.

“I’m sorry. I’ve had a long journey—”

“Haven’t we all,” she interrupts, as though I have already taken up too much of her time. “You can bring as much as you can carry, or you can stay on the mainland. Them’s the rules, and that’s the only option, I’m afraid.” Only option. What a ridiculous expression. Only means one, and one option means none. “The choice is yours. You’ve got as long as it takes me to get a sausage sandwich from the food truck to make up your mind,” she says, then walks away.

I have always been rather slow at making quick decisions, but this one seems simple enough. I grab a rucksack filled with Columbo’s food and things, a suitcase filled with mine, and throw my satchel containing my laptop and notepads on my shoulder. I can’t carry anything else, not even the bag of food I packed, but I grab a packet of milk chocolate digestives and shove it in my jacket pocket. That will have to do for now. I lock the car and hurry toward the boat, Columbo trotting at my side just as the ferrywoman returns with her breakfast. She takes a large bite of her sausage sandwich and ketchup oozes out, landing on her chin. She curses, wipes it with a white paper napkin, and the resulting stain looks like blood.

“Decision made?” she asks, and I nod. “Then welcome aboard,” she says with a smile, before taking another bite.

The seagulls squawk and scream, flapping their dirty white wings as if protesting, and circling above the ferry as it breaks free from the jetty. Their wingspan is vast, casting swooping shadows across the deck, and when I look up, I see that the tips of their beaks are red, as though dipped in blood too. They descend and dive so that I have to duck out of the way, and the ugly noise they make almost sounds like a warning:

Go back. Go back. Go back.

I’m sure it is just the exhaustion and my imagination playing tricks on me, and I notice the birds do not stalk us for long. They retreat toward the mainland when the ferry pulls away, slowly sailing out of the bay.

The sun has fully risen now, and everything is a dazzling shade of blue. It’s hard to tell where the sea stops and the sky begins. The Hebridean Sea is rough and the other passengers all stay inside their vehicles, but that isn’t an option for us. Columbo and I make our way to the front of the ferry and I sit my things and myself on a metal bench on the exposed deck. It’s cold, and we get showered with an occasional mist of sea spray, but the view of the Isle of Amberly is utterly mesmerizing. A halo of white sand and a turquoise sea surrounds the tiny island, making it look like a mirage and this feel like a dream. A pod of dolphins leaps from the waves the ferry has created as though they are escorting us on our voyage, and my face stretches into an unfamiliar smile.

Our adventure might have had a tricky beginning, but this is beautiful, and I experience something like hope for the first time in a long time. Perhaps Kitty was right, and this is the fresh start I so desperately need, a second chance to get my life and career back on track. My agent is almost always right. I look around the deck, wondering if anyone else has spotted the dolphins, and that’s when I see her. She’s wearing the same bright red coat she had a year ago, the one she was wearing the night she disappeared, and is standing at the back of the boat, staring right at me. I shiver, not just from the cold, and it feels like time stops for a moment. Columbo barks, breaking the spell. I glance down to see what he is growling at—it turns out he was looking in the same direction as me, at her—but when I turn back, she is gone. It all happened so fast that it feels like I might have imagined it, but the woman I saw was the spitting image of my missing wife.