Page 17 of The Boathouse by the Loch (The Scottish Highlands #4)

‘You want what?’

‘A sledgehammer.’

‘May I ask what you need the sledgehammer for?’

‘No, you may not,’ said Jake, opening his wallet and wondering how much the tourist rip-off premium was this season.

‘We don’t sell ’em.’

‘Excuse me?’ Jaked looked at the sledgehammer that Mr Gillespie had just deposited on the counter right in front of him.

‘That’s mine, from my workshop.’

Jake sighed heavily. ‘How much?’ He closed his fingers around a big wad of cash.

‘Put it away, son, for goodness’ sake.’

Jake looked up, perplexed.

‘You can borrow it; just as long as you remember to bring it back when you’re done doing whatever it is needs doing.’

Jake took his fingers out of his wallet. He didn’t know what had surprised him most – the fact that Mr Gillespie was going to lend him the thing, no questions asked, or the fact that he wasn’t charging for it.

Mr Gillespie handed Jake the tool. ‘And I’ll have you know I don’t fleece tourists.’

Jake rolled his eyes. He was sick to death of being called a stranger in his hometown, the place of his birth, the place he had lived quite happily until an ill wind brought forced change. ‘And I’ll have you know I’m not a bloody tourist,’ Jake answered back.

Mr Gillespie raised his eyebrows. ‘You sure act like one.’

Jake blushed; it was true, he’d always breezed into town on vacation like a tourist, throwing money around, acting like he owned the place while doing his utmost to steer clear of the locals – and that went for local establishments too.

Everything was catered for, ready for their arrival; good food and fine wines sent ahead from London.

He never had reason to visit Mr Gillespie’s store, even though it was just a short ride or a reasonable walk from his house.

His mother may well have brought him to this store all those years earlier, but Jake had not stepped inside the place since. Mr Gillespie was right; although he had been born there, and he had property there, he was now just a stranger – one of many tourists visiting the town.

Perhaps it was time he got reacquainted.

‘I own The Lake House,’ said Jake by way of introducing his credentials as a fully paid-up member of the community.

‘Do you, now?’ Mr Gillespie nodded. ‘Vacation home, is it?’ His disapproval was glaringly obvious.

Jake blinked. He had assumed Mr Gillespie knew The Lake House was the Rosses’ holiday home.

Maybe he did, and he was just making a point that it was of no consequence to him.

Jake got the idea that Mr Gillespie was not someone he should underestimate.

After all, he’d sublet part of his store to Robyn, and the shop was buzzing – not just in Robyn’s Interior Design, but in the original grocery side of the business too.

Jake glanced over his shoulder at the interior design outlet and debated whether he should wander over to the other side of the store and talk to Robyn’s assistant, who was working there that day.

He recalled Gayle mentioning that David had arranged with his sister-in-law, Annie, that she would work on Friday and over the weekend.

Perhaps he’d wait and see if Robyn arrived at the guesthouse first before he ventured over there.

Jake looked at the sledgehammer in his hand. Perhaps it wasn’t the right moment to introduce himself. Besides, he did have something much more pressing he wanted to do.

‘The house used to belong to a Royal Air Force officer. Nice fellow. His wife was born and raised here. Know what I’m saying?’

Jake turned back to Mr Gillespie, and nodded.

Jake did know what he was saying, loud and clear; Mr Gillespie had mistaken him for one of the city-dwellers who were buying up local property as weekend homes, taking advantage of the scenery, the skiing, and giving little back in return, stripping away entire communities to leave them practically deserted ghost towns.

He was guilty of that, it was true, but not through choice.

Circumstance had dictated he had not been able to grow up in that house, in this community, but thanks to William, at least he had retained some links to his past, however tenuous.

‘I’m his son,’ said Jake.

‘Pardon me?’ Mr Gillespie was evidently surprised.

‘The RAF officer. I’m his son.’ Jake watched the man’s surprise turn to embarrassment at his obvious gaffe. ‘I was born here too, in Aviemore, but did not have the good fortune to grow up here.’ Jake’s voice was tight .

‘Yes, I remember.’

Jake didn’t doubt that; small towns had long memories.

‘You’re Rosemary’s boy.’ Mr Gillespie’s eyes danced around Jake.

‘I remember your mother bringing you into this shop while she was shopping.’ He paused. ‘You’ve been away a while.’

Jake looked at him quizzically; it was a strange way of looking at things.

It made it sound as though Jake had just returned from a trip rather than having been gone twenty-five years, apart from his annual holiday.

It made Jake feel strangely homesick, but not, as he would have expected, for England. ‘I live in London now.’

‘I would never have guessed.’ The corner of Mr Gillespie’s mouth twitched.

Jake gave him a sideways glance as he picked the sledgehammer off the counter. It felt satisfyingly heavy, like he could do some serious damage – just what he wanted.

‘Are you coming back – to live perhaps?’

‘Maybe,’ Jake frowned. Where had that come from? He had absolutely no intention of returning to live there. So, what the hell had he said that for? Jake walked to the door, pondering the question.

‘It’s what I’ve been telling them all along.’

Jake stopped short of the door. He turned to look at the old man. ‘Telling who?’

‘The young ones like yourself who leave for the bright lights of the big cities. I tell them that they’ll come back.

They always come back. Can’t help themselves.

You see, it’s the place – The Highlands – it haunts you.

When you leave, your soul doesn’t want to go with you; it wants to stay here with the mountains and the lochs.

There’s no place in the world like it. ’

Jake stood by the door in contemplative silence, broken by Mr Gillespie beating a fist on the counter.

‘It’s those damn weekenders,’ he said vehemently, ‘stealing the houses from our children. Means they can’t come back, doesn’t it?

You should count yourself lucky, son. Never sell, lad. Never sell. Keep it for your children.’

‘I have no children,’ Jake said stiffly. He opened the door.

‘Yes – I remember now,’ Mr Gillespie spoke softly. ‘It was your wife that had that terrible accident up there last Christmas.’

Jake nodded.

‘An unfortunate set of circumstances.’

‘Yes.’ Jake agreed that it was. Last year had been exceptional, both in terms of snowfall and the potentially dangerous conditions it had brought about, one of which Jake was now well-acquainted with – overhangs; snow and ice hanging precariously over precipices, waiting to be dislodged, creating mini-avalanches to bury alive unsuspecting skiers passing underneath.

And they would not have become those unsuspecting skiers if it hadn’t been for Eleanor’s bizarre decision to lead them all off-piste.

Marcus may have mentioned skiing off-piste, but nobody would have expected Eleanor to take him seriously.

Not for nothing was skiing off-piste considered a hazardous pursuit; in some circumstances, it was illegal.

But in Scotland, under normal conditions, it would have been fine.

That unfortunate set of circumstances would haunt Jake for the rest of his life.

Jake looked at the sledgehammer in his hands. It was time to face up to what had happened and put it behind him.