The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  Was she taken aback by his eagerness? “But aren’t you busy? I’ve interrupted your work.”

  “Ah, but I’m on summer break. My time’s my own until autumn, and it’s a lovely day.” His smile was winning.

  Light had broken through the ceiling of white cloud, and there were ever-growing patches of blue behind the rips. It was a lovely day, and as the errant sun shone down on her father’s grave, Freya could feel warmth gather in the black stone. Would he approve of her taking Simon to Findnar?

  Oh, grow up. Take responsibility! “Thank you, Simon. It’s a deal. Let’s agree on a price for your advice, though. Just to keep this on the level?”

  He stood. “I have standard hourly charges, but the first consultation’s free, of course. Tell you what—let’s get over there and I’ll work out two time lines and two costings. One for raising the stone, one for evaluating what could be done with your house. I’ll break both down into modules, and you can commission me for as much or as little as you please. Done?” He reached out a hand.

  A moment’s hesitation, and Freya shook it. “Done deal.” Much easier shaking his hand than Dan’s. No second agenda. Go on, admit it. You’re happy. You won’t need to be alone. “Today.”

  “Only today? We’ll have to work fast, then.”

  Freya stammered, “I didn’t mean, that is . . .”

  Simon swept her up from the seat. “Time’s a-wasting. Let’s look at your island, Freya Dane.”

  Breathless, Freya allowed him to chivy her from the churchyard. It was comforting not having to make all the decisions for once.

  CHAPTER 28

  I’M SO sorry.” Rain hit Compline’s windows as if sprayed from a hose. “This is such a waste of your time, Simon. Not exactly strolling-around weather.”

  The architect stood behind Freya’s shoulder as they stared out toward the stone circle through veils of falling water. “Wait five minutes and it’s bound to stop,” he told her.

  “I’ll confess the crossing got my hopes up—it was actually warm on the water for a minute.” Though Freya joked, she felt oddly self-conscious. Yesterday Dan had been here in the kitchen, and talking to Simon alone, oddly, seemed like some kind of betrayal.

  “Would you mind if I looked around while we’re waiting? The house was boarded up all those years ago, so I never got to see inside.”

  “Of course not.” Freya gestured toward the staircase. “Shall we start up there?”

  Simon climbed the stairs behind her, and there was that intimate feeling of his eyes on her back. Did she like being so closely inspected?

  On the narrow landing, there were three identical doors. “It’s quite a small space up here—only two bedrooms and this.” The third door led into a linen cupboard.

  Simon pulled it open. “Quite a large space. Good for hot-water storage, or even—at a pinch—a shower room.”

  “Good storage-storage too.”

  Simon grinned. “Old houses. Never enough places to put things. But we can fix that, we can fix anything.”

  I’ll bet you can. “Who’s this we?”

  Tousled hair, black clothes, striking, lean—Simon really was a treat to look at, and it occurred to Freya that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so struck by the sheer physical presence of a man. But she smiled as she looked away. After all, it was rude to stare.

  “So, this is mine.” She opened the door to her bedroom. “Small, but I have everything I need. Cozy, really—a bonus on a cold night—and the chimney flue from below goes up the wall. That helps take the edge off.” Seen with a stranger’s eye, the single bed in the white room seemed very chaste and narrow. Too narrow for . . . Stop that! Concentrate.

  She preceded Simon to the next door. “And this was Dad’s. The bed’s a bit too big for the room—doesn’t leave much space. Lord knows how he got it up here.”

  “Just like Goldilocks. One bed too small, one too big . . .” Simon grinned, definitely a naughty grin, and Freya couldn’t help responding. Too fast. She instructed her face and eyes into neutral gear. That worked until he said, “Pity there’s no third to be just right.” Simon winked. “But let’s see what you’ve got here.” He paced out the dimensions of the room, all business.

  Freya let him. She wasn’t ordinarily passive, so that was an interesting response. He likes to control things. She half-muttered, “Oh, shut up, Mum.”

  “What did you say?” Simon glanced toward her.

  “Nothing.” Liar. She added, hastily, “So what do you think?”

  “Well, it won’t be hard to rationalize the space up here.” He tapped along the wall to where she stood. “Lath and plaster. Very easy to take down, and you might even be able to squeeze a bathroom between the two reconfigured bedrooms—if you let me colonize the linen cupboard. Then you could use some of the space in that massive bathroom downstairs as a laundry and for storage too.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Too expensive, of course. Freya led her guest back to the kitchen. Money. She’d always got by on so little. You could sell something, though, it’s all yours. You’d have fun working on this house. The gold torque glittered in its nest of cotton wool. No! Freya shook the thought away. All those government regulations hovered, just waiting for her to raise her head above the parapet.

  Simon roamed the kitchen. “So, tell me what you’d like to do in here.”

  “I haven’t really thought about it, not properly.”

  He lifted the pump handle and said, solemnly, “I have late-breaking news. The twenty-first century has all kinds of cool things—taps, for instance. And genuine running water, hot or cold, your choice.” He grinned.

  Freya folded her arms, and unfolded them. What was there to be defensive about? “Dad must have liked things the way they were.”

  Simon looked at her curiously. “Do you?”

  “It’s more work but . . .” Yes, it was more work, but she was getting used to the way things were on the island.

  Pumping water sucks, be honest.

  Simon’s eyes crinkled at Freya’s rueful expression. “No rush. If you do decide to sort out power and water for the house, it certainly can be done. Maybe you could consider a small wind generator with solar panels on the roof. You’d hardly ever need the backup though. I remember it was quite breezy here sometimes, a rich resource for power.”

  Freya laughed. “An understatement.”

  Simon sauntered over and stood beside her.

  She fought the urge to move away. Just slightly. She’d always valued personal space.

  His lips quirked. “This is how people keep warm in Scotland, Freya.”

  “Really?” She fought natural suspicion.

  “Yes. Propinquity.” The rolled rrrrrrrrr made her laugh, and his grin was wicked. “Seriously, reliable warmth is important if the winter is not to get you down. SAD: seasonal affective disorder is real in this part of the world. More daylight in the house would help if you’re vulnerable.”

  “I’m not sure. There was always too much sun in Sydney to know.” They really were standing very close to one another. And there was that moment, that delicious feeling of hanging in space as it seemed he would bend down and . . .

  Why did Freya do it? She moved away a step and said, recklessly, half-sorry, “I did wonder about a glass roof over the kitchen. Now that’d do great things on a dark day.” Timing. Always been my problem.

  But Simon didn’t seem to be offended by her skittishness. He said, lightly, “Not just a pretty face, Miss Dane. Do you have paper?”

  “Paper?” She was thrown by the non sequitur.

  He said, patiently, “Yes. I could draw something—see if I can put your idea into pictures.”

  Freya opened the door to the big room quite quickly. “Sure. In here.” A natural excuse to move away.

  Simon paused in the threshold. “Well, well. Your father had a great eye—this is a lovely room.” He ambled to the windows. “Bet the view’s brilliant too.”

  Freya half-clos
ed her eyes. What an elegant body Simon had: broad, straight shoulders, muscular back, long—very long—legs. And his hair. She wanted to touch his hair, feel its texture. “When you can see it. All of the western sky.”

  Simon turned back. Perhaps he’d felt her eyes on him this time. He pointed to Michael’s desk. “May I use this?”

  She hurried over. “Of course. I’ll just make room.” She stacked her father’s card files on the nearest windowsill.

  “Please don’t worry. Paper is all I need.” Simon sat without fuss.

  “Is this okay?” She held out a wad of copy paper.

  “Grand. I’d kill for a cuppa though. Always work better with a cuppa.” A glinting smile.

  “Sure.” Freya felt the need to clatter about the kitchen as she pumped the kettle full and fired up the gas ring.

  “Milk’s in the barn—that’s my version of a fridge. Won’t be a moment.”

  Simon called out, “It’s pouring out there. Happy with black.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it. Besides, I like milk in mine.” And similar froth and babble . . . Freya cursed herself as she ran back from the barn; she really was bad at flirting these days. Note to self: stop trying so hard.

  The kettle was singing as Freya hurried back into the house, damp curls all over her face. She grabbed a dry sweatshirt from the bathroom, dragged her hair into a ponytail, and ran to pull the kettle from the gas ring.

  In the doorway of the big room, she paused to settle her breathing. She carried a tray with the best of the mugs, and there was even a small silver jug for the milk. It might be tarnished, but Simon would appreciate the pretty form. “As advertised, tea with milk—and a surprise. Tim Tams, the best chocolate biscuits in the world. I smuggled my own from Sydney.”

  Simon was leaning against the window, shoulders back against the glass. He seemed completely at ease. “Have a look.” He pointed to a sketch on the desk. “Just first thoughts, of course.” He strolled toward her. “You’ve changed your clothes.”

  Self-conscious, Freya put the tray down and smoothed her top. It was as if they were speaking a different language to each other, the English conversation an irrelevance. “You were right. It was wet out there.” She leaned over the desk. “You do work fast.”

  Simon had scrawled an impression of the back of the house with an airy structure attached. There was even a girl sitting at the table in the redesigned kitchen. Just a suggestive line or so, but she was looking straight back at Freya, waving. A little figure wearing a scribble of red.

  Freya tensed. And then her brow cleared. Of course, the sweater she’d been wearing before was red. She’d pulled it on at the last minute before going over to Portsolly, just to make herself feel better.

  Simon tapped the sketch. “There are lots of possibilities for Compline, depending on budget. We could make the kitchen work really well, and the rest of the house too.”

  Freya scanned the sheet carefully. “Looks great.” It really does, she thought wistfully.

  “The roof would be glass, as you suggested, but tempered. Tougher than a tank and traps heat really well.” Standing behind her shoulder, Simon removed the sketch from Freya’s fingers, but very gently. “I’ve modeled this on a conservatory.”

  “Conservatory?” Freya swallowed as she turned toward him. There was very little room.

  Simon nodded. He said, gravely, “You can grow things under glass, even in this climate. Tomatoes, lettuces, herbs. Fresh food in winter.” He tipped her chin up with one finger. She could not avoid his eyes when he bent down, just a little. And kissed her.

  She said, breathlessly, “The weather here. Quite entertaining.”

  He murmured, “Especially when you have to stay inside.” He drew her closer, kissed her again, and she did not resist. In fact, she enjoyed what he was doing, kissed him back languorously, her eyes half-closed.

  Yet something hovered. Simon was waiting for something, waiting for her to say something. As if, by inviting him to Findnar, she’d somehow called down this storm and contrived that they’d be forced together and, being sequestered from the world, that she would . . . Stop it, Freya!

  He released her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Freya swayed. She smiled at him uncertainly. “Tea?” He nodded. She could see he was amused.

  “With milk too. After all your trouble, that seems only fair.”

  “Coming up.” She tried not to spill the tea as she filled his mug. Not the easiest thing in the world. Perhaps Simon thought her awkward, even childish, but Freya thought how nice it would be to get to know him slowly—just as a friend—and then see what happened. But maybe they’d crossed a line, though she had to take responsibility for that too. She could have avoided kissing him. Possibly. Really?

  Freya cleared her throat. “So . . . will it be much more expensive doing alterations over here? If that’s what I do.” From somewhere else, the embarrassed place she’d gone to, she noted that her voice was calm, the tone faintly wry. She admired herself for that.

  Companionably, Simon beckoned Freya to sit beside him on the couch. “Getting the materials over the strait and up to the house will cost you a bit. But after that, it’s all about being clever and not in a hurry.” He stifled a yawn. The stove in the kitchen was roaring, and transferred heat made the big room cozy.

  “Keeping you up, are we? Must be time to go home.”

  “Not at all.” His smile was beguiling. “I like being here.” His voice was a low, warm rumble, almost a purr.

  There was something of the cat in Simon Fettler, Freya decided. A big tomcat blinking in the warmth. “Thanks for the sketch, Simon. I appreciate it, excellent food for thought.” She peered toward the rain-swept strait. Where is it? But there was no sign of the sun as fleets of clouds were driven across the horizon. Why am I so on edge? But she knew why. The kiss remained wrong in some way. Enjoyable, yes. But wrong.

  “Tell you what . . .”

  “What?” Freya swung around. The response was sharp.

  He said, mildly, “Are you okay?”

  Her face flamed. She bumbled, hastily. “Of course. What was the what?” Lighten up! He’ll think you’re an idiot.

  “Well, this house is intriguing.”

  Freya forgot to be nervous for a moment. “It really is. I went looking for information”—she pointed to the pile of library books—“but haven’t been able to get to it yet. Quite a few theories, apparently.”

  Simon interrupted politely. “I have online access to the Faculty of Architecture library in Ardleith—it’s a fantastic resource. Unique aspects to this structure were mentioned when I did a bit of research after I met you.” He grinned. “Couldn’t resist. And not that you’d know it up here but . . . the undercroft?”

  “The undercroft.” Freya echoed the word. Why was she reluctant suddenly to talk about Compline?

  Simon nodded. “I’d love to see it. Just thinking about similarities to my church.” He smiled at her expectantly.

  “Oh, your building is much older than my cellar.” She deliberately used the modern word. “That’s Gothic or even later.” She didn’t want to make the offer; she wanted time to think. But in a normal world, the one other people, like Simon, inhabited, it would have been rude not to. “So, would you like to see it?” She twitched a smile back.

  A low whistle. “But this is fantastic. Astonishing.” It wasn’t the vaulted ceiling Simon was struck by, it was the stone pillar at the bottom of the stairs. “Can I use the lantern?”

  “Sure.” Freya handed him the camping light. In the bright blue-white, the enigmatic symbols stood out etched in shadow. She was getting used to the reaction now—Compline’s tour guide.

  Simon peered at the surface. “I haven’t seen anything like these symbols.”

  “Perhaps it’s Pictish work—some of the carvings suggest that.” Freya was deliberately low-key.

  “Picts. That would make this really old.” Simon stood back, and the light spilled into the space ar
ound them. He blinked. “This place is huge! Hang on . . .”

  He strode over to the side wall. “You didn’t tell me about this, Freya. Bad girl.” He said it merrily. They both stared at the carved panel.

  Why hadn’t she told him?

  “Do you think this could be related to my little guy?”

  Freya tried to sound enthusiastic. “Quite possibly, if both are local work. An artisan of the time could have been multiskilled. Of course, the wood needs dendrochronology for a date and—”

  She stopped herself. It occurred to her that she didn’t want to offer an easy way of making comparison between the panel and the angry little man Simon had showed her. What she wanted, most, was to be in daylight again.

  He nodded toward the Compactus. “Lot of storage down here. Useful. Must have been hell to get up that path.”

  Freya managed a smile. “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Your dad built these?” Her guest wandered toward the cupboards.

  Freya tensed. She hurried toward the deep-set windows. “I think the rain’s stopping. Truly. We should seize the chance if you want to see anything of the island again.”

  “Hmm?” Staring at the anonymous steel cupboards, Simon seemed distracted.

  “Yes. I’d like to show you where I need the crane. Can’t afford to keep you here all day, can I?” She strode to the bottom of the stairs. “Coming?”

  “Of course. Though I’m really not in a hurry to get back. Mate’s rates apply to you.” Simon ambled after her, smiling gently. “So long as I’m not outwearing my welcome.”

  “They’re still huge. I was expecting them to look smaller, somehow. Less impressive.”

  “Why?” Now that they were standing in front of the double ring of stones, possessiveness crept up on Freya.

  “Oh, you know. Kids. Everything seems enormous when you’re seven. We didn’t come up here very much, though, when we were on the island. Off-limits—all the kids were warned off—really the only part of Findnar the Buchans seemed to want to keep to themselves.”