Page 17 of Of Heather and Thistle

Mark exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Heather, listen to me. You were never a joke. You are the kindest, most brilliant person I know. And if she couldn’t see that?” His voice softened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “…that’s not on you. That’s on her.”

Heather inhaled deeply, the words settling into something raw, something unshakable in her heart. Her chest ached—not just from the hurt, but from the sheer relief of being seen. Of knowing that maybe she hadn’t been the fool Ivy had made her out to be.

Her fingers released the strap of her bag, and both hands curled into fists at her sides, then released as she breathed out a slow breath, a steadying exhale. She met Mark’s gaze, not just with exhaustion, but with something closer to believing him.

Finally, she gave a small, reluctant nod. “I’ll think about it,” she said.

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’s neck 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 a large 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.

The mannequins were draped in lace bralettes, silk robes, delicate satin. The kind of things Ivy would have picked without a second thought. But Heather? She had always stuck to the clearance racks at department stores.

She tightened her grip on the bags in her hands that were full of various articles of clothing—cozy sweaters, a sturdy coat, practical things.

This wasn’t practical.

This was something else—a choice. A breath of uncertainty curled in her chest. Could she do this? Did she deserve to? Heather inhaled sharply. Then stepped inside.

A low, sultry melody drifted through the air as the faint floral scent of the store instantly soothed her nerves. The boutique was small but charming, with its delicate racks of lace, satin, and silk in every shade imaginable—all bathed in soft, flattering light.

She meandered through the store, her fingertips skimming over the intricate embroidery and delicate fabrics.

She picked up a lace-trimmed slip, the silk cool against her skin.

Each piece was more beautiful than the last. Everything about the space felt intimate and unique.

It was like stepping into a secret world.

Her eyes landed on a matching set with a silk bralette and lace-trimmed briefs in soft lavender, its lace trim so fine that it looked like fairies had spun it.

She paused, brushing the fabric lightly with her fingers and marveling at how something so small could feel so exquisite—a far cry from her department store usuals.

“Can I help you find anything?” a cheerful sales associate asked, her smile friendly and genuine.

Heather smiled back, trying not to feel self conscious. “I’m just… looking for a fresh start. Something that makes me feel pretty, I guess?”

The associate beamed. “I’ve got just the thing. Follow me.” Before long, Heather found herself in a fitting room with a pile of options draped over the bench.

She stood before the mirror with her curly tresses tumbling over her shoulders in unruly waves and her fair skin catching the soft, flattering light.

Typically, she wouldn’t have lingered in the mirror: the roundness of her hips, the soft lines of her belly, the fullness of her breasts that never seemed to sit quite right in anything she wore.

But today… she pa used. Something had shifted.

There was curiosity instead of criticism.

She slipped into a matching bra and panty set of pale pink satin, the silky fabric skimming over her curves.

For once, the mirror didn’t feel like an enemy.

Next, she tried a classic black lace set that hugged her body in all the right places, making her feel bold in a way she hadn’t in years.

Lastly, she put on a soft gray bralette with delicate floral embroidery, the gentle support making her feel comfortable and undeniably feminine.

Surprisingly, Heather didn’t focus on what she usually picked apart. Each piece made her feel a little more like the woman she wanted to be. Confident. Beautiful.

Sexy.

As Heather made her way to the checkout counter, she saw a display near the back: a long-sleeve white linen two-piece set, understated yet effortlessly chic.

The top was light and airy, with a relaxed fit, and the flowy pants featured a high, comfortable waistband.

She imagined herself lounging by the fire in her new home, cuddled up in a large leather armchair with a hot cup of tea, wearing the effortlessly-comfy-yet-polished outfit, stepping into the next chapter of her life with quiet confidence.

She picked up the outfit without hesitation, adding it to her growing pile as well as a soft cashmere robe in a dainty blush tone, its fabric thick enough to ward off the Highland chill but still delicate against her skin.

By the time she left the boutique, her arms were full, and her cheeks were flushed—not with embarrassment, but with a new and unfamiliar joy. She’d indulged—not out of necessity, but simply because she wanted to. And it felt liberating .

Heather’s fingers hovered over her phone. Ivy’s name sat at the top of her messages.

You should tell her you’re leaving, Mark had said.

Even after everything, some part of her still felt like she owed Ivy something. A goodbye. An explanation.

But for what?

Ivy had already decided who Heather was—small, convenient, disposable. And maybe Heather had spent too many years believing it.

Tightening her grip on her shopping bags, she huffed in frustration: No! Not this time. Then she slipped her phone into her pocket and turned toward the bus stop, knowing that she didn’t need Ivy’s permission to move forward. And she let herself savor the moment for once.

As she waited for the bus, she glanced at her reflection in the glass of a nearby shop window.

Her wild red curls framed her face and her cheeks were pink—both from the cold and the day’s excitement.

She expected to see the same hesitant girl that she always was—the one who lingered in the background, who let others shine while she faded.

But the woman staring back at her looked…

different. Lighter. It was as if she had finally stepped into her own space—into her own skin.

Heather didn’t avert her eyes from herself. She held her own gaze, the hint of a smile curling at the edges of her lips.

She was beginning to see herself truthfully.

The bus pulled up with a hiss, and she stepped on, settling into a seat by the window.

As the boutiques and cafés of Millhaven’s shopping district blurred past, Heather thought about what lay ahead—the long flight, Glenoran House.

The solicitor. Her mother’s legacy… It was daunting, but such a bi g spark of excitement flowed through her. Would Mom have liked this one?

Elidh had always been a memory—an absence. A ghost in photographs. A laugh Heather barely remembered.

But now, she imagined her mother beside her, watching with quiet pride. Maybe she’d have nudged Heather toward the green sweater. Teased her for overthinking. Squeezed her hand and whispered:

You’re ready, sweetheart.

The thought warmed her, even as it ached.

Maybe this—this strength, this peace—was what her mother had dreamed of for her all along.

Heather let herself lean into that new perspective, ready to see where it would take her.