Page 5 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle (Coorie Castle Crafts #2)

When Freya unlocked the door to her father’s house, she felt utterly drained.

This past week had been exhausting, worrying and frustrating.

Her dad wasn’t the easiest of patients, she’d discovered, and she dreaded the time when he would be allowed to go home and she would be the one responsible for his care.

She pitied the poor nurses for having to put up with his surliness.

He resented having to be cared for, and she got the feeling he would resent it even more when he was in his own house.

Hopefully, his mood would improve once his mobility started to return, but as both the physio and the occupational therapist had warned, it could be a long journey before he was completely mobile again and able to cope on his own.

It didn’t help that Freya had read that three-quarters of people who’d suffered hip fractures were unable to do their own shopping after a year and, more worryingly, over half were still unable to feed or dress themselves.

She hadn’t shared that little nugget with her dad, of course, not wanting to upset him more than he was already. However, if determination was any indicator of recovery, he would be fighting fit in a matter of weeks.

He was still in hospital in Inverness, but Freya had fought tooth and nail to have him transferred to Broadford on Skye, and she’d been informed that they’d be moving him in the morning, which was the main reason she had travelled to Duncoorie today.

The other reason was that her dad had been fretting about his cottage, and she hoped to be able to put his mind at rest when she visited him tomorrow.

Also, after spending several nights in a hotel, Freya was more than ready to live in a proper house again.

However, he had no idea that she intended to move back in with him for a while. Bless him, he was convinced he’d be able to manage on his own, with a bit of help with his shopping every few days.

She was dreading having that conversation with him and had been putting it off, but it was clear he would struggle on his own for a while, so he didn’t have any choice.

Her dad being so helpless and so dependent on others had been distressing for both of them, and she was shocked to discover that her strong, dependable father had grown old, almost overnight.

She could see in his eyes that he was aware of how frail he’d become, and he was railing against it with all his might.

As she heaved her case out of the hire car and dragged it into the tiny hall, kicking the door shut behind her, Freya shook her head ruefully. If anyone could beat the odds and make a full recovery, it was her dad.

The house felt chilled and damp, despite the afternoon warmth, and the air smelt stale and musty. It was gloomy too, with the curtains in the sitting room still drawn, and she hurried to open them. Then wished she hadn’t, as she saw the state of it.

‘Oh, Dad,’ she murmured, tears springing to her eyes.

Not only did everything look older and more careworn since the last time she was here (which was only three months ago), but there were also little piles of what her mum used to refer to as ‘messes’ everywhere.

Used plates, old flyers and leaflets, clothes…

And she hadn’t ventured into the kitchen yet.

Her mother would have been horrified. She used to be so house-proud, and had always ensured everything was just so. What had happened for her dad to let standards slide so much?

Freya took in the dresser, with the ornaments she knew so well now covered in a layer of dust thick enough to draw her name in, and her heart ached.

If she closed her eyes, she could imagine Mum flicking a duster over them.

Her most treasured, and the one that brought tears to Freya’s eyes every time she saw it, was the little pot she’d made in high school.

Her mum had been so proud of it. Even then, she used to tell people that her daughter was destined to be a potter.

Freya swallowed hard, the memories threatening to swamp her.

They made coming back to Duncoorie and to this house difficult, and she didn’t know how she was going to cope with living here for the next few weeks.

But she would have to put her grief to one side for her father’s sake, no matter how hard she might find it.

The house was an end-of-terrace; a simple farmworker’s dwelling, it had originally had two downstairs rooms and a small bathroom, but at some point a staircase had been put in and the attic had been converted into two bedrooms.

As Freya looked at the stairs, she knew her dad wasn’t going to be able to negotiate them for a while, so she would need to bring his bed downstairs. At least he’d be within easy reach of the bathroom, she thought, but she guessed he wouldn’t consider it much of a consolation.

However, before that could happen, the place needed a damn good clean and tidy, and Freya couldn’t escape the feeling that she was invading her dad’s personal space as she set to.

Starting with the kitchen, she pulled a face at the sour smell from the sink, which was half-full of greasy grey water. The bin wasn’t much better, and she held her breath as she emptied it.

Wishing she had a pair of rubber gloves, she ran the hot water tap, then squirted in a generous dollop of washing-up liquid.

Deciding that she may as well make a proper job of it, she emptied each cupboard, one at a time, before wiping them thoroughly and putting everything back.

Once that was done, she turned her attention to the cooker and the fridge.

In all, it took her nearly two hours to make the kitchen sparkle, and she was knackered after she’d finished, but she also felt weirdly satisfied at a job well done.

She couldn’t face cleaning the rest of the house right now, though.

She needed food and a bath (she would have preferred a shower, but her father only had a bath), and she didn’t care which order they occurred in.

Remembering that there wasn’t a great deal in the fridge, she decided to order a take-away and have her bath while she waited for it to arrive.

However, that plan was soon scuppered when she discovered that delivery wasn’t an option in Duncoorie. She would have to go out and forage.

Bath first, then (although she ended up giving the bathroom a quick once-over while she was in there), and afterwards she got dressed and hurried out the door.

By now her stomach was loudly informing her that it needed to be fed, and she was beginning to feel quite drained. No wonder, after the week she’d had, she thought, as she locked the door, but hopefully a meal in Duncoorie’s pub would sort her out.

The pub was more crowded than Freya expected, and she berated herself

for forgetting how busy Duncoorie could get during the summer months.

But there was a lot about Duncoorie that she’d forgotten, the memories

buried deep.

As she searched for a free table, she almost turned tail and left, but the delicious aroma of food enticed her to stay, and she eventually found a small unoccupied table tucked away in a corner near the door leading to the loos.

After perusing the menu, she realised that she had to order at the bar, so she left her denim jacket draped over the back of the chair and placed her bag on the table.

Taking out her keys, purse and phone (she hoped her bag wouldn’t get stolen, but she wasn’t taking any chances with her valuables), she walked up to the bar.

As she waited to catch the attention of a staff member, Freya gazed around curiously.

It was many years since she’d had a drink in here but the place hadn’t changed much.

The layout was the same: the fireplace with its wood-burning stove was still there, although as it was the beginning of summer, it was currently unlit, and the pub still had the old-world charm she remembered.

She placed her order, then took her drink back to the table, thankful that her bag and jacket were still there. Then as she waited for her food to arrive, she pretended to look at her phone when what she was actually doing was people-watching.

Trying not to be obvious about it, Freya scrutinised each face, wondering whether she knew them.

Her dad had kept her abreast of some of what went on in the village, but he rarely mentioned anyone in her age group; he was more interested in the goings-on of his cronies and his neighbours, so her old friends hadn’t concerned him.

Her eyes alighted on a large group of people on the other side of the room, and Freya was sure that the tall woman with the dark, curly hair was Jinny Rothwell.

Hadn’t Dad told her that she’d married Jean Burns’s son Carter?

Jean lived a couple of doors down from her dad, which was probably why he’d mentioned it.

Carter was five years older than Freya; she’d hardly known him, but his brother, Mackenzie, had been in the year above her at school.

Talk of the devil…

The man himself was standing at the bar and he hadn’t changed a bit.

Well, he had – he’d grown even more handsome.

His hair was longer than she remembered, and his previously dirty-blond locks were now several shades lighter.

He’d grown a beard too, and the combination was reminiscent of a Viking or a surfer dude.

She remembered that she’d had the most horrendous crush on him. Looking back, she thought he might well have been her first love – even if he hadn’t been aware of it.

Just then her meal arrived, and it looked and smelt amazing, diverting her attention away from Mack and onto her supper. She ate hungrily, polishing off the lot. When she eventually looked up from her plate, he’d joined his brother and the others.

As though sensing her interest, Mack turned his head towards her and their eyes met.

Freya hastily looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring, but she soon risked another look (she couldn’t help herself) and she almost yelped when she saw that he was heading directly for her.

However, her consternation turned to relief and then to mortification when he walked past her table, and she realised he was actually going to the gents.

Feeling foolish, she finished her drink. She knew she should go home and go to bed. She had another long day ahead of her tomorrow, and she needed her rest.

Picking up her bag, she pushed her chair away from the table and was about to get to her feet, when she became aware of someone behind her. A sixth sense told her it was Mack.

Freya turned around.

Her eyes were at waist height and her gaze rose slowly, travelling up the breadth of his chest, lingering on the V created by the open neck of his shirt, before carrying on to his face. Her mortification knew no bounds as she realised that he was fully aware of her scrutiny.

‘Hi,’ Mack said. ‘Leaving already?’

‘I, er, yeah.’

‘Can I buy you a drink, or do you have to be somewhere? My name’s Mack, by the way.’

‘Sorry, I have to go.’ She lifted her jacket off the back of the chair.

‘Pity.’ He did look genuinely disappointed, but Freya wasn’t fooled.

He’d been charming back then, too, full of boyish good looks and confidence.

It seemed he still was. Maybe if he’d recognised her, she might have said yes.

But there hadn’t been a glimmer. He had no idea who she was, or that they used to go to the same school and lived in the same village.

Had she changed so much, or hadn’t she made enough of an impression back then for him to remember her?

Anyway, why was she so bothered about Mack Burns when she hadn’t seen him for fifteen years and hadn’t thought about him for nearly as long?

It wasn’t as though she didn’t have more important things to think about.

Feeling completely put out and too tired to make sense of her disjointed thoughts, Freya went home.

She had always referred to her dad’s house as home, even after she’d bought her first studio flat, the one where, if she stretched out her arms, she could have touched both sides of her kitchen at the same time.

But if that was the case, why did she feel like she didn’t belong here, she wondered as she stepped into the tiny hallway. Abruptly, she felt a sudden yearning for London and the life she couldn’t return to while her father needed her.