Page 25 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle (Coorie Castle Crafts #2)

Freya couldn’t believe that it was already a month since the phone call informing her that her dad had suffered a fall and been admitted to hospital.

The time had flown. Admittedly, the first week had been a blur of hospital visits and hotel rooms, and the second hadn’t been much better, what with her dash to London, the long drive back to Skye, and then getting her dad’s house in a fit state for him to come home to.

And that was just the physical stuff. The emotional side of things had been equally difficult, especially since her father had been under the impression that he could manage fine on his own and that she was surplus to requirements.

But as she’d hoped, the pair of them had settled into a routine, and she put it down to her dad finally accepting that he wasn’t able to do everything he used to without support, and that he wouldn’t be able to for some time.

The fall had knocked him for six, and the healing of the wound and the knitting of the bone were only part of it.

He had a tremor in his left hand that she wasn’t happy with, but he assured her it was a leftover from when he’d damaged his wrist a couple of years ago.

She couldn’t remember him telling her about it, despite him insisting that he had, and he claimed that using the walker had aggravated it, as he wasn’t used to putting so much pressure on the joint.

As well as that, he still seemed rather unsteady on his feet, even with his walker, and not sleeping was also an issue for him; and for her too, because she was on constant alert in case he got up in the night – which he did at least once, and sometimes three times. It was exhausting for both of them.

He blamed it on a weak bladder and the joys of growing old, and challenged her to find anyone over the age of sixty who slept through the night.

Needless to say, Freya wasn’t going to accept the challenge.

Instead, she filed it away in a box in her mind labelled: I hope I don’t get like that when I’m old .

She also added irritability and forgetfulness to it, because her dad seemed to have both of those qualities in abundance, and there was only so much that could be excused by his fall and the subsequent operation.

Despite it all, they were muddling along together, with Freya doing her best to make life as easy as possible for him, and escaping to Mack’s place whenever she was able, although never for very long.

It was Mack who had invited her out this evening.

It wasn’t a date, obviously, but as friends.

He had a pint in the village every Friday with his mates and had suggested she came along if she fancied a night out, so she hadn’t visited her makeshift studio today, as she didn’t like leaving her dad alone twice in one day, the only exception being her daily walk to the shop for his newspaper.

‘Have you got everything you need, Dad?’ she asked for the second time in as many minutes.

Vinnie tutted. ‘You’ve just asked me that.’

‘I know, but I’m making sure. Humour me, OK? I’ll have my phone with me, so call if you want anything.’

‘You’ve always got your phone with you,’ he grumbled. ‘All you youngsters do.’

Freya bit back a smile. She was hardly a youngster, but he was right, she did keep her phone close, and that was because she was still waiting for the contract to come through for the job in New York. She wasn’t in any hurry, but it would be nice to run her eyes over it.

Vinnie aimed the remote control at the TV. ‘Shouldn’t you be off?’

‘Mack is going to call for me. He’s having tea with his mum.’

‘He’s a good lad, is Mack.’ Her dad found the channel he wanted and settled back in his chair. ‘You look nice.’

‘Thanks.’ She’d made an effort, happy to dress up for once.

It seemed a long time since she’d worn anything other than jeans or dungarees, and trainers or her well-worn and much-loved Doc Martens.

This evening she was wearing a skirt, her hair was down instead of scooped into a bun, and she was wearing more make-up than her customary swipe of mascara.

Freya was aware of the irony: when she was in London and going out to dinner a couple of times a week, attending exhibitions, meetings and galleries, or giving lectures, she’d resented having to ‘dress up’, wanting nothing more than to don a pair of paint-daubed dungarees and tie her hair up.

Yet now she was grateful for a reason to wear a skirt. Go figure!

A knock on the door alerted her that Mack was outside, and she grabbed her phone and keys, stuffing them into the pocket of her denim jacket, then bent to give her father a kiss.

Vinnie waved her away. ‘Be quiet when you come back. I’ll be in bed.’

‘I won’t be late.’

‘Enjoy yourself. I worry about you stuck here with me, day in, day out.’

‘Stop that,’ she replied. ‘I’m not stuck, as you put it, I’m looking after you.’

‘I don’t need—’

‘Looking after,’ she chimed in. ‘I know, you keep telling me.’

‘Stay out as long as you want. I’ll be fine.’

Of course he would. How much mischief could her dad get up to in his own sitting room on a Friday evening? He’d eaten a good tea, he was in his pyjamas, and there were drinks and snacks in the kitchen if he was peckish. So why was she fretting?

When she left the house, she found Mack leaning against her van, his arms folded, his legs crossed at the ankle. He was gazing at the sky.

The sight of him made her pause, and her breath caught, as it often did when she saw him. He was one good-looking guy, with his tanned skin, sun-bleached curly hair and eyes the colour of the sky he was staring at.

‘Anything interesting up there?’ she asked.

‘Does that cloud look like a dog to you?’

Freya looked up. ‘I can’t see it.’

‘There.’ He unfurled himself and stood close to her, pointing. ‘That’s the head, there’s the nose, and that bit is the eye.’

Mack was wearing aftershave. It was woody and citrussy, and smelt divine. Freya tried not to breathe.

‘Och, it’s gone,’ he said. ‘The clouds are moving fast.’

‘Are we expecting rain?’ She hadn’t listened to the news or the subsequent weather forecast, as she’d been too busy getting ready.

‘This is Skye, we’re always expecting rain,’ he joked. ‘Maybe not tonight, though I won’t swear to it.’

She fell into step beside him as they strolled down the road. ‘Aren’t you fisherman types supposed to be able to sense it? Dad always claimed he could tell when the weather was about to turn.’

‘You realise he probably listened to the shipping forecast, right?’

Freya laughed. ‘Now you come to mention it…’ The shipping forecast had been an ever-present background hum in their house when she was growing up. That, and The Archers .

The pub was as busy as it had been the last time she’d been in, and the same group of people were sitting at the same table, but this time she was going to join them.

Cal was there with Tara, together with Jinny and Mack’s brother, Carter. She also recognised Rob the potter, and the glass-blower. Angus and another guy, who was part of Mack’s crew, were propping up the bar.

‘Drink?’ Mack asked. She opted for a glass of cider and, after he’d gone to the bar, she draped her jacket over the back of a chair and sat down, feeling self-conscious.

She needn’t have worried, because she was immediately welcomed into the group, as both Tara and Jinny began speaking to her at the same time.

‘How are you?’ Tara asked, as Jinny said, ‘I remember you from when we were kids. I was quite a bit older than you, though.’ She laughed. ‘I still am – unless I’m going backwards!’

Freya couldn’t help but smile at the warm welcome. ‘You married Carter, didn’t you?’ she said to Jinny.

‘For my sins.’ She glanced fondly at her husband. ‘Don’t tell him, but he’s the best thing that ever happened to me, apart from the kids. We’ve got two.’

Tara added, ‘Jinny manages the gift shop at the castle’s craft centre.

I’d better introduce you to everyone. This is Gillian, who runs the cafe; next to her is Fergus, who does glass-blowing, and Shane, who does stained glass.

Then there’s Giselle, who makes sea-glass pictures, and Isla, who is our needle felter; and Rob is our potter. Everyone, this is Freya Sinclair.’

A chorus of hellos greeted her, and she said hi back, then caught Rob’s eye.

‘Freya Sinclair ?’

‘Er, yes.’

‘ The Freya Sinclair? You must be. I can’t imagine there are many Freya Sinclairs who are potters. You should have said!’ He turned to the others. ‘Freya Sinclair’s work is really good. I mean really good !’

Embarrassed, Freya blushed. She had no idea what to say to that.

‘I love your work,’ he continued, and she blushed even more.

Jinny said, ‘Tara told me about you, so I looked at your website – your pieces are gorgeous! A bit pricey, though.’

‘Jinny!’ Tara cried. ‘That’s so rude.’

Jinny grimaced. ‘I didn’t mean it to be. I’m simply stating a fact. Freya’s stuff is way out of our league. Her prices are London gallery prices.’

Mortified, Freya said, ‘Sorry.’

‘Gosh, don’t be! They’re worth every penny. They’re stunning and I can see where you get your inspiration from – they’re the epitome of Skye.’ Jinny turned to Tara and winked. ‘It says so on her website.’ Then back to Freya. ‘Have you visited the castle’s gift shop?’

Tara rolled her eyes. ‘Always the salesperson…’

‘I haven’t,’ Freya admitted. ‘I didn’t get a chance.’ She gave Cal a meaningful look. If he hadn’t whisked her away to see Mack, she would have had a good nose around.

‘You must! We’ve got such a lot of lovely stuff, and you could treat yourself to coffee and a cake while you’re there.’

‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ Freya promised. As long as her dad didn’t need her for anything, a visit to the castle and its craft centre would do her good.

Mack strolled over to Graham, a couple of pints in his hands. ‘For you,’ he said, giving one to Graham and placing the other on the bar. ‘Tell Angus this is for him.’

‘Cheers, Skip.’ Graham slurped it thirstily.