Page 38 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle (Coorie Castle Crafts #2)

Millpond days, when the waters of the loch were glass-smooth and mirror-clear, happened only occasionally, and today was one of them. With no wind, and the tide in that brief hiatus between being fully in and before it began to turn again, there was hardly a ripple.

Mack slowed the boat as he steered it nearer to the shore and when he deemed it to be close enough, he cut the engine.

It would soon start to drift, but for a minute or two they could enjoy the peace.

There was at least ten metres of water beneath the Sea Serpent ’s keel, yet the pebbly seabed was clearly visible, and the reflections of the hillsides above the loch could have been painted on its still surface.

It was a perfect day for being out on the boat, and Mack’s passengers were loving it.

The calm of the water was echoed in their hushed tones, only broken by the calls of glaucous gulls overhead, and the unexpected snort of a seal as it blew out water from its nostrils after it poked its sleek head above the surface to stare at them.

Mack leant casually against the cabin door, his arms folded, his eyes resting briefly on the faces of his passengers as they snapped away furiously, before automatically scanning his surroundings to check for other craft, the sky, the tide and the location of his vessel in relation to the shore.

A figure caught his attention.

A woman was sitting hunched on the rocks. Straightening, he moved to the port side and gripped the gunwale as he leant forward and squinted, trying to make out her out.

It was Freya, he was certain of it.

Tempted as he was to shout and wave to attract her attention, he held himself in check. His passengers didn’t need him shattering their peace, and since the excursion was for their benefit…

What was she doing? She had her face in her hands and was rocking gently back and forth. Or was the slight roll of the boat making it seem that way?

The seal slipped below the surface and Mack sensed his passengers becoming restless. Nevertheless, he didn’t move. Although he couldn’t put his finger on it, he had a feeling something was wrong.

A flurry of exclamations distracted him and he glanced around to see all nine of the passengers peering over the starboard side.

Mack gave Angus a questioning look.

‘Sea eagle,’ Angus told him, and the boat fell silent once more as the bird’s unmistakable cry pierced the air, panicking the gulls.

Mack understood why. The eagles were magnificent, truly awe-inspiring.

Indiscriminate and opportunistic hunters, they would take whatever they could get, whether it be fish, eels, small mammals or birds.

No wonder the gulls were alarmed, although their cries sounded more like a human cry of anguish than an alarm call.

The realisation that the gulls had fled and that the cry was actually coming from the woman on the shore struck him simultaneously.

Without stopping to think, Mack untied his boots and pulled his T-shirt over his head.

‘Skip, what are you doing?’

Taking his wallet, phone and keys out of his pockets, he shoved them at his second-in-command, and climbed onto the gunwale, saying, ‘Freya’s in trouble. Take the helm and finish the trip. I’ll see you back at the quay.’

‘Mack, you can’t—’

The rest of Angus’s sentence was lost as Mack hit the water, diving in head first, his arms outstretched. When he broke the surface, he began to swim, cutting through the water with strong, clean strokes as he kicked for the shore.

It wasn’t too far, no more than a football pitch away, but he was breathing hard by the time he felt pebbles beneath his feet.

Quickly he waded out, splashing through the shallows, ignoring the sharp rocks, his focus on Freya.

He could hear her crying, her sobs cutting him to the quick, shredding his heart.

He’d do anything, anything , to make them stop, to take away whatever was causing her so much distress.

Praying that nothing had happened to Vinnie, Mack hurried towards her, calling, ‘Freya! Freya!’ and when she looked up, the pain in her eyes and the expression on her face tore him in two.

‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded. ‘Is it your dad?’

‘What?’ She was gazing at him blankly, her eyes brimming with tears, her cheeks and nose red from crying. Never had she looked more beautiful. And never had he wanted to take someone else’s pain away as much as he wanted to shoulder hers.

He was desperate to hold her in his arms, but she continued to stare at him as though he were a stranger.

Inexplicably, her gaze hardened. ‘Did you know?’

‘Did I know what?’ He lowered himself gingerly down beside her, then flinched as she edged away.

‘About my dad?’

She wasn’t making sense. ‘Freya, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘His Parkinson’s,’ she spat. ‘Did you know?’

‘Parkinson’s?’

‘He’s got Parkinson’s disease and he didn’t bloody tell me.’

Mack shook his head slowly. ‘No, I didn’t know. How long has he—?’

‘No bloody idea. The damned GP surgery wouldn’t tell me anything.’ She barked out a bitter laugh. ‘They should have, considering I only found out because the receptionist slipped up big time.’

‘What does your dad say?’

Another laugh. It ended on a sob.

He inched closer, and this time she didn’t move away. He desperately wanted to comfort her but feared she might reject him.

‘I haven’t spoken to him,’ she muttered.

At the risk of getting his head bitten off, he said gently, ‘Don’t you think you should?’

Freya rounded on him, her eyes flashing fury. ‘Don’t you think he should have told me? I shouldn’t have had to find out like this.’

Mack took a deep breath. ‘I expect he didn’t want to worry you.’

‘Do you know anything about Parkinson’s?’

‘Not a lot,’ he admitted.

Freya stared up at the sky, blinking hard. ‘It’s a progressive, degenerative disease and it’s probably why he fell.’ Tears trickled down her face. ‘He isn’t going to get better; he’s going to get worse. And the stupid old bugger didn’t tell me because he knew what I would do. What I’m going to do.’

‘Which is?’

‘Stay here and look after him. For however long it takes, no matter what it takes.’ Her tears turned into noisy sobs, her body shaking with the force of them, and Mack gathered her to him.

It was as he held her tight, her damp face on his shoulder, that he understood that she wasn’t going to leave Skye after all. She was going to stay in Duncoorie.

And to his shame, his heart soared with the hope that maybe, given time, she might come to love him the way he loved her.

Freya paused outside Jean’s door as Mack was about to go inside. After her crying jag had eased, he’d walked back home with her, and she hoped his mother had some dry clothes he could fit into.

‘I’m sorry I snapped at you,’ she said, noticing the goosebumps speckling his arms and chest. His hair was still wet, and she could see a faint dusting of salt on his skin. He must be freezing.

‘It’s OK.’

‘You didn’t have to jump in. I wasn’t in any danger.’

‘You were sobbing your heart out,’ he replied. ‘Was I supposed to ignore it?’

‘Are you sure you won’t let me drive you home?’

‘I’m sure. Mum won’t mind taking me, although she will be asking loads of questions. What should I tell her?’

‘The truth. There’s been enough of a cover-up already.’

‘Don’t be too hard on your dad. He did it for the best of reasons.’

That was what Freya was finding so difficult to take: the knowledge that her father would have struggled on so that she could have sailed off into the sunset, blissfully unaware that he was so ill.

She placed a hand on Mack’s chest and reached up to kiss his cheek. ‘Thank you.’

‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘You did. I’d probably still be sitting on that rock and feeling sorry for myself, when it’s my dad I should feel sorry for.’

He stroked her face, his finger wiping away a stray tear. ‘If you need me, call. Day or night.’

She pressed her lips together and nodded, then turned to leave. It was time she faced her father.

He was in the sitting room. The TV was off and so was the radio. The air was thick with silence, and she didn’t know how to break it.

He didn’t look at her, but his face told her that he knew what had happened. He’d aged ten years in the couple of hours that she’d been out, and it broke her heart.

Moving slowly, she sat on the arm of the chair opposite. He shot her a glance, then hastily looked away. He looked cowed, defeated, and the tremor in his hand was worse than ever.

The silence stretched between them, a physical thing, a barrier that neither appeared to want to cross. But one of them had to make the first move.

‘I didn’t manage to pick up your tablets,’ she said.

‘I know. The surgery phoned.’

‘They said you need to make an appointment for a review, before they’ll issue you with another prescription.’

‘I’ve got an appointment this afternoon. Five fifteen.’ The tremor intensified, and he clasped that hand with his good one. Although it mightn’t be good for much longer, from what she’d read.

‘I’m coming with you,’ she said.

He hung his head. ‘I thought you might.’

‘I’ve got so many questions.’

‘I expect you have.’

‘I understand why you didn’t tell me, Dad, but you must have known I’d find out sooner or later.’ Her voice shook.

‘If I hadn’t fallen—’

‘But you did,’ she interrupted. ‘Almost definitely because of the Parkinson’s.’

There was a hint of belligerence as he retorted, ‘That doesn’t mean I’ll have another.’

‘It probably does. You know that as well as I do.’

‘Since when did you become an expert?’

‘Since the receptionist at my doctor’s surgery let slip that my dad has a disease he’s been keeping secret from me,’ she retorted sharply.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and she suspected he was trying not to cry.