Read My Very Best Friend for Free Online Page B

challenge. Farming has many challenges. The weather. Blight. Insects. Fungus. Weeds. Water irrigation issues. Long days, long nights sometimes. Fortunately, most of my employees have been working for me for years and I trust them.
    “I was not going to work the farm for my father, after university, but then he and my mother died, and it was our land. Clan Ramsay land. My father had sold pieces off, as he didn’t want to work and needed the money to give to the church and pay debts, and I was determined to buy it back.”
    “And you did?”
    “Yes. And more.”
    “I’m pleased to hear it.”
    I waited to see if he wanted to say anything else about his parents, but it didn’t appear that he did, his jaw tightening. I understood his reluctance to speak of it.
    “I can’t see you inside an office, trapped like a rat, so I’m glad you like to farm.” Those blue eyes refocused on mine. They were blueberries and the Scottish blue sky mixed together.
    “I think it would kill me, I do. I have to be outside.”
    The conversation was easy, fast, as we had so much to talk about. I have never talked to a man like I talked to Toran. Farming. Science. He asked me many questions about my life on the island.
    We had his homegrown blueberries and ice cream for dessert, with a sprinkle of nuts, sitting together on the couch. It was delicious. He was delicious.
    “So, Toran. I’m ready.” My stomach flipped, twisted, and turned, as it had earlier. “How is Bridget?”
    “Bridget.” Toran closed his eyes for a second, sadness covering his face. He rubbed his temples.
    “I haven’t heard from her since last year.” I clenched my hands together. “Is something wrong?”
    “I don’t know where she is, and yes, something is wrong.” He leaned back on the couch and seemed instantly exhausted.
    “I told her I was coming. I had hoped that she would be here.”
    “I wish she was.”
    “You said in your letter to me that you wanted to have a conversation about her.”
    “Yes, I do. Perhaps we should have that conversation tomorrow. You look a bit pale. I know you haven’t slept in two days.”
    “Is she ill?” Please, not ill. Bridget was a kind, fun, funny person.
    “In a way. But . . . there is much more to it.” I thought I saw a sheen of tears over his eyes.
    “What is it?” Flip. Twist. Turn.
    He clasped his hands together. “Charlotte, there are many problems.”
    He told me the problems.
    When he was done I opened my mouth to speak. No words fell out. I closed it. Opened it. No words fell out again. I finally choked out, “You have no idea, not the slightest, where she is?”
    “No.”
    “Or how she is?”
    “She’s alive. I believe.” He put a hand to his forehead. “I think. Now and then she’ll call. Or write. Or someone I’ve hired to find her gets news that she’s okay. But I have nightmares about that question all the time.”
    “I didn’t know.” But I knew something was wrong, something was off. I had felt it.
    “I know.”
    “She didn’t tell me.” Why? Why didn’t she tell me? “I thought we were friends. . . .”
    “You are friends. She didn’t want you to know. She made me swear I wouldn’t tell you about it, what had happened, what is happening, the things she’d done and what had been done to her. Her life is messed up, Charlotte. She’s in the dark. That’s the way I’d explain it. She’s lost. She’s losing her own battle. I didn’t tell you, because I thought it would make things worse for her. There was nothing you could do. You were far away, and she wanted one person to talk to so she could pretend that all was well and she was living the life she wanted. I’ve tried to help. Constantly. It hasn’t worked.”
    “She lied to me then.”
    “Yes.”
    “About what?”
    “Almost everything.”
    And there it was. The truth.
    My best friend had lied to me.
    I felt ill.
     
    I was in bed by ten that night, crashing from jet lag and emotionally whipped.
    I thought of