Page 24 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle (Coorie Castle Crafts #2)

The clay was off-white and smooth to the touch as Freya removed it from the wet cloth she’d wrapped it in to keep it moist and pliable, after it had been delivered yesterday.

It was a warm afternoon and she was in her dad’s garden, seated at the rickety outdoor table on which she’d placed a wooden board that she’d found in the small but incredibly full shed. It was held in place by a pair of rusty old clamps which she’d also found in there.

The familiar feel of the clay had an immediate soothing effect, and she couldn’t wait to get started. But before she did, she went inside and popped her head around the sitting-room door to see whether her dad wanted anything.

Bless him, he was fast asleep, his head resting on the back of the riser chair, the TV on low.

Satisfied that she wouldn’t be disturbed for a while, Freya turned her attention back to the clay. She loved every part of the process of making an inert grey lump come to life: from wedging the raw material, to taking the final product from the kiln and praying it hadn’t cracked.

After breaking off a lump of the wet clay, she placed it on the digital scales, adding more to it until she arrived at a nice round number, then she moved the scales to the side, picked up the clay and slapped it down on the board several times.

Although this process was an essential start to any pottery session, as it knocked air bubbles out of the clay, it also served to get her in the zone, and it was an excellent stress reliever. There was nothing quite like repeatedly bashing a lump of clay onto a hard surface!

Satisfied that she’d given it enough of a pummelling, Freya patted it into a rough circle, then used a wire to slice the clay into horizontal sections, ending up with six flat patties.

Working quickly because she didn’t want the clay to dry out, she misted each patty with water, then donned a pair of thin disposable gloves and a respirator.

Carefully opening a packet of dark pink powder, she weighed out the amount she needed, then sprinkled it evenly over five of the patties, followed by another spray of water.

As soon as she’d stacked the circles of powder-covered clay on top of one another, with the non-powdered one on the very top, she removed the respirator and took a gulp of air.

Despite being outside, she hadn’t wanted to take any risks.

The powder (or mason stain, as it was called) was incredibly fine, and inhaling it could lead to all kinds of nastiness.

Keeping the disposable gloves on, Freya picked up the stack of clay patties and began squeezing them together, gradually mixing the stain and the clay together, occasionally giving it another squirt of water.

As so often happened when she was working (although how having this much fun could be called ‘work’ was something she often asked herself), she lost track of time, and it was only when she re-wrapped the now heather-coloured clay in a damp cloth, popped it inside a plastic bag and then into an airtight container to sit overnight, that she realised two hours had sped by.

She also became aware that she had an audience. Her dad was standing by the back door, watching her. He had a faraway look on his face, but quickly snapped into focus.

‘Have I told you how proud I am of you?’ he said, and Freya’s heart melted.

‘You have.’ Her eyes filled with tears, and she left the box of clay where it was and walked towards him, her arms outstretched. He gathered her to him and she rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I love you, Dad,’ she whispered into his neck.

‘And I love you, my gorgeous wee girl.’

Sniffling back tears, she said, ‘I’m not so wee now.’

He rubbed a hand up and down her back. ‘You’ll always be wee to me, no matter how old you get. I wish your mum had lived long enough to see her little girl going off to America.’

‘So do I.’ She missed her mum dreadfully; she always would.

Vinnie cleared his throat, and his voice was hoarse when he asked, ‘Have you thought any more about it?’

‘I’ve thought of little else,’ she admitted.

‘When do they want an answer?’

‘Soon.’

‘When would they want you to start?’

‘They’ve not given me a date, but the chap I’ll be taking over from is retiring at the end of the year, so I expect I would start in January.’

He pulled back to look her in the face. ‘What are you waiting for? And don’t say you’re waiting for me to get better to tell them yes, because if you are, I’ll put you over my knee.’

‘That won’t do your hip any favours,’ she joked.

‘I’ll do it anyway.’

Freya kissed him on the cheek, his whiskers bristly. ‘I believe you.’

‘Is Hadrian holding you back? Because if he is…’

‘It’s not Hadrian.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘It’s me. What if I’m not good enough?’

‘You are good enough.’ He sounded positive.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because I know you. When you set your mind to doing something, you do it. And you throw your heart and soul into it. Go tell them yes, Freya. Opportunities like this don’t come often.’

Her dad was right: they didn’t. What was she waiting for?

Freya said, ‘Let me put this lot away and get cleaned up first, then I’ll send them an email.’

‘That’s my girl! Now, what’s for tea? I’m starving.’

‘I can do us salmon and cucumber sandwiches, with some sea salt and cracked pepper crisps. How does that sound?’

‘Super.’

She watched him slowly retreat into the depths of the kitchen, then she returned to the task of clearing up.

She would take her equipment to Mack’s place later – after dropping him a message first, of course, in case it wasn’t convenient.

He may have told her to pop in whenever she wanted, but she had no intention of taking the mickey.

She hoped he’d be OK with that, because although the weather had been kind to her this afternoon, this was Skye, where no two days – or even hours – were the same, and she wanted somewhere dry and safe to store her material.

When Mack’s phone buzzed, he didn’t expect it to be a message from Freya, wanting to know whether she could drop some stuff at the byre later. He pinged a thumbs-up emoji right back, then wished he’d taken the time to compose a proper response.

After rushing through the end-of-day chores and ensuring the boat was set up for tomorrow morning’s excursion, he shot off home, intending to give the byre a swift tidy, but when he pulled up to the house and saw Freya’s van outside, he realised she’d beaten him to it.

His heart leapt, and he blew out his cheeks in irritation.

There was no need to be quite so happy to see her.

It wasn’t as though it was going to lead to anything.

Even if there was a chance it might, he wouldn’t want to take it – the risk was too great.

He didn’t intend to be hurt again by getting involved with a woman who wouldn’t be around for long.

Ignoring the irony – that a woman who wouldn’t be around for long was exactly the kind he usually focused on – Mack climbed out of the truck and headed for the byre.

He found Freya standing in the middle of the former cowshed with a large plastic tub in her arms.

‘Hi,’ he said.

She let out a yelp and nearly dropped the box she was holding. ‘Don’t creep up on people like that!’

‘Sorry, I assumed you’d heard the truck.’ It wasn’t the quietest of vehicles, being over fifteen years old and with a blowy exhaust. He’d take a look at it as soon as the next storm hit, when the boat would be unable to go out.

She said, ‘I was too busy wondering where to put this.’ She jerked her chin at the tub.

‘Tell me what you need.’

‘A table or two, a stool, a shelf…’

‘I’m sure I can manage that.’ Mack strode over to his workbench and began putting away the tools sitting on top of it. He’d dumped them there because he couldn’t be bothered to put them back where they belonged, which was supposed to be on the hooks attached to a board on the wall above.

Glancing at Freya, he caught her frowning. ‘Will this not work?’ he asked, tapping the bench.

‘It will, but I don’t want to put you out.’

‘You aren’t. I’m not in here much in the summer – too busy out on the boat.

’ He made a face, feeling guilty. ‘I’m sorry if I landed you in it with your dad.

I didn’t realise you hadn’t told him about New York.

Let me…’ He stepped forward to take the tub from her and set it down on the bench’s rough scarred surface.

‘It’s OK. No harm done.’ Her smile was genuine, so he guessed she wasn’t saying it just so he wouldn’t feel bad. ‘He’s thrilled to bits for me.’

Her teeth worried at her bottom lip and his gaze was drawn to her mouth. It was a very kissable mouth.

Dragging his eyes away, he placed a hand on the box. ‘Is this it? Or do you have more?’

An apologetic expression stole across her face. ‘I do have more. Quite a bit more.’

He got the feeling she wasn’t comfortable with this arrangement and would prefer her own space – which he could understand, as she probably felt beholden to him.

‘That’s no problem. I’ll give you a hand bringing it in,’ he offered, and her expression cleared.

Expecting the back of her small van to be crammed with stuff, he was surprised to see it virtually empty. There were three more of the same kind of plastic tub she’d already brought in, plus a length of wood and a bag of clothes with what looked to be a respirator resting on the top.

‘Is this all of it?’ he asked.

‘Is it too much?’ She looked worried again. ‘I can keep most of it in the van, if you prefer.’

‘I was expecting much more than this. Where’s your wheel?’

‘I don’t have one. I mean, I do, but not with me. I don’t need a wheel for what I’ll be doing.’

He must have looked as flummoxed as he felt, because she said, ‘Didn’t you ever make little pots out of clay when you were a kid?

There’s this spot at the other end of the village where the burn enters the loch, which has some clay deposits.

When I was about eight or nine, me and my friend Alice used to make pots and let them dry in the sun. ’

Mack flinched. He remembered Alice all too well. Alice, his first love; Alice, who had moved to Aberdeen when her father got a job there; Alice, who’d told him she was leaving and had gone without a backward glance, breaking his tender young heart in the process.

It had taken him a long time to get over her. A succession of girlfriends had helped, and he hadn’t thought about her in ages, but hearing her name suddenly brought it all back. Especially since he had a feeling of déjà vu. Freya was another woman who wasn’t going to be around for long…

Keeping his tone light, he said, ‘I can’t say I did, although I know where you mean. I preferred grubbing about at the water’s edge, looking for wee beasties.’

‘How about in school? Mrs Blake got everyone in the first year to make pots and stuff by hand.’

Mack’s mind flashed back to the art room, and he chuckled.

‘Now you come to mention it, I do recall making an odd-shaped bowl once. It could hardly be called a thing of beauty.’ His eyes widened and he cursed silently.

‘I’m not saying that your vases and such are ugly, or that they’re weird shapes. They’re… They’re…’

‘Weird shapes.’ She giggled. ‘That’s OK, they’re supposed to be.’

‘They’re actually quite beautiful,’ he said.

She was laughing at him. ‘You can’t walk it back, so don’t bother trying.’

‘Ah, shite.’ He was mortified.

‘I’m teasing,’ she said. ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as they say, so I don’t expect everyone to like my work.’

‘But I do like it,’ he protested, and when she arched an eyebrow, he insisted, ‘I do .’

‘OK, I believe you.’

‘You do? Thank goodness for that!’

She threw her head back, exposing the creamy column of her slender neck, and laughed. ‘No.’

‘You’re a hard, unforgiving woman. It was just a slip of the tongue,’ he protested, thankful that she didn’t seem upset. He hastily changed the subject. ‘When are you likely to be leaving British shores for the Wild West?’

‘Not until the end of the year. I emailed the academy earlier to ask her to forward me the contract. I’m sure it’ll be a standard one, but I want to read it through and make sure there aren’t any nasty surprises before I sign on the dotted line.

I won’t be handing in my notice to the college until September and, with a January start, they should have enough time to find my replacement. ’

‘I bet they’ll be sorry to lose you,’ he said gallantly.

‘Even though I make ugly pots?’

‘You’re making fun of me.’

‘Yup.’

‘Meany.’

‘If you can’t take it, don’t dish it.’

‘You do want to use my byre, don’t you?’

‘You’d go back on your offer?’

‘I might.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think you would. You’re too nice to go back on your word.’

Nice? She thought he was nice ? He’d prefer sexy or irresistible, charming, even. Nice was so bland.

Blowing out his cheeks, he reminded himself that she had a boyfriend.

She hadn’t been flirting, she was just being friendly.

He, though, most definitely had been flirting.

Which was something he’d have to get a grip on before she noticed.

Either that, or make himself scarce whenever she was around – which may be a fair bit, he concluded as he watched her unpack the tools of her trade and arrange them on the workbench.

Oh, bugger, how could he have been such a bampot!

But it was done now, and he couldn’t revoke the offer.

He would simply have to hold his growing attraction for her in check and remember that she’d be out of his byre and out of his life before the autumn weather put the brakes on his whale-watching business.

But whether she would be out of his mind was a different matter entirely.