The House on the Shore

by Victoria Howard

  Anna thought about his offer for a millisecond. He was attractive, intelligent, and at times, amusing. All the qualities she admired in a man, but a cynical inner voice cut through her thoughts. He was also a love-them-and-leave-them Lothario. Could his father’s illness have forced him to change his ways? She doubted it. Besides, she wasn’t ready for another relationship, at least not yet. When she was, it would be with a man she could trust with her life.

  “Alistair, it’s very kind of you, but no thank you.”

  “Not even for old time’s sake?”

  Anna wavered. “May I think about it?”

  “Of course you may. You never know, you might enjoy yourself.”

  “We move in totally different circles and have absolutely nothing in common,” Anna said looking out of the window to where the dogs lay on the lawn.

  “On the contrary, I’m sure if we took the time to become re-acquainted, we would find we have many mutual interests.”

  “I’ve only just arrived, Alistair. Let me get settled in, then ask me again.”

  “Very well, my dear, if that’s what you want. Think of the world I could introduce you to. Who knows? You might even become mistress of Killilan House one day. I’ll drop by one day next week.” He tugged at his waistcoat and stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must be going. I have an appointment with my factor. Thank you for the drink.” He gave her a hug.

  Anna watched him drive off before returning to her manuscript. It was only when Ensay, bored by hours of inactivity, wandered over and sat at her feet that she looked up.

  She leaned back in her chair and cast a critical eye over the words on the screen. Not bad for an opening chapter. Of course the grammar would need to be tightened. The storyline needed tweaking, and her characters needed names. She smiled to herself, feeling guilty. She always told her students they must plan each chapter down to the last comma, but now she realized she couldn’t write like that. She much preferred the freedom to develop her characters page by page, rather than have them fully evolved before a word was typed.

  Absentmindedly, she reached down and stroked the black and white head resting on her knee. When she stopped, the dog nudged her hand for more attention. Anna looked into the trusting brown eyes.

  “I suppose you think I’m ignoring you.”

  The collie nudged her hand once more. Anna’s gentle laughter rippled through the still air. She was sure the dog understood every word she said.

  “I get the message. You want to play. But if I’m going to keep you in dog biscuits all summer, you’ll have to learn to amuse yourself and let me work.” She saved her manuscript and then carried her laptop into the croft. The dog followed faithfully at her heels.

  Chapter Five

  Alistair Grant returned to Killilan House and shut himself in the library. What was wrong with him? He’d always had success with the ladies - it took little effort. Yet that little effort hadn’t made Anna MacDonald accept his offer of a date. Nothing was wrong with him. It was her. She had clearly become a man-hater. Still, he had to do something about her…something…

  He opened the small rosewood drinks cabinet and poured himself a large measure of Scotch. He stared into the glass. A resentful expression settled on his aristocratic features. Until a month ago, his life had been perfect. A yacht, admittedly leased for the season, an Aston Martin, fabulous parties, attended by A-list celebrities, but it had all come to an end the day his father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

  At least the old boy was safely ensconced in a nursing home where he couldn’t do any more damage. The cost, added to the estate’s huge overdraft, was crippling. Sophie, his sister, and her Hong Kong banker husband, were of no help. They had refused to assist with the fees, saying that all their spare cash was tied up in stocks, bonds, and other investments, and would take some time to convert to cash. It was a poor excuse. He knew they were lying, and had told them so, and the ensuing argument was bitter and futile. Sophie said she would never speak to him again. He had every reason to believe her.

  A grim letter from the family accountant had arrived that morning. Things were worse than he imagined. He tossed back the whisky, then picked up the decanter and carried it back to his desk. While drinking didn’t solve his problem, it sure helped. Although having the servants see him drinking this early in the day would have given his mother apoplexy.

  Ordinarily, he would have found comfort in the library, but today its sombre decoration only added to his depression. The walls, apart from one, which held portraits of his father and grandfather, were covered in floor to ceiling bookshelves. Chinese rugs covered the polished wood floor. He paced the room, stopping in front of the Louis XV mantel clock. He wondered whether it was an original or a copy. He turned it round to examine it when someone knocked on the door. A wiry, bald headed man stepped inside the room and glared at him wordlessly.

  “MacKinnon. Come in. I’ve been expecting you.” Alistair sank into his overstuffed leather desk chair.

  McKenzie MacKinnon had been recommended by a friend of a friend in France as having the skills necessary to do the job, but God alone knew which gutter he’d climbed out of, or where he had found his clothes.

  MacKinnon kicked the door closed with the heel of his right boot.

  “For God’s sake!” shouted Alistair. “Be careful. You nearly sent a Minton vase toppling. It’s worth all of three grand.”

  Mac scratched his head. “Aye? But that’s nothing compared with the value of this place as a whole, and once you’ve signed yon piece of paper, you’ll be able to afford even more fancy jugs.”

  “That rather depends on you, doesn’t it?” Alistair replied. “So far, we haven’t discussed the finer details of our…our little business transaction, which brings me nicely to the subject. Take a seat.”

  Mac dropped heavily into a Chippendale chair. The delicate chair legs creaked rebelliously under his weight. He rested his shotgun on his knees and folded his arms across his chest. His gaze settled on the young Laird’s face.

  “I have four weeks in which to sign the contract. If I don’t meet the deadline the deal is off, and along with it, our arrangement.”

  Mac’s thin lips twisted into thin line. “That’s what you think, your Lairdship. We have an agreement and it says nothing about payment being conditional on completion.”

  “Don’t try veiled threats with me, MacKinnon. I know enough about your activities to put you inside for a very long time.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind. You must be desperate to hire the likes of me.”

  Alistair took out his handkerchief and dabbed his palms. He felt dirty having to deal with this disreputable man, but time was running out, so he had no other option.

  “I was told you could get the job done quickly and without any fuss.”

  “Aye, so you said on the phone. The taxes on this place must be crippling. Even so, it must be really tough owning all this,” MacKinnon said, waving his arm about the room. “But don’t worry, your Lairdship. There’s plenty of time for me to deal with your problem.”

  “You’ve made little progress to date. You told me that you would have everything sorted within no time at all. What happened?”

  “It will be sorted, so long as you stop interfering. You should have stayed in the south of France.”

  “I couldn’t, you know that. An estate of this size doesn’t run itself.”

  “That’s as may be. These matters take time your Lairdship, if they are to be handled properly. You’ve only just appointed me as factor. I can’t start shouting orders or your tenants will get suspicious. That McInnes woman, for one—she sees everything. It’s positively uncanny. You don’t want the village gossip spreading rumours.”

  “Good Lord, man! The last thing I need.”

  “In that case let me do the job my way.”

  “All right. Be careful, and keep me informed. I can’t afford to miss the closing date.”

  “You’re not the only one wit
h a vested interest in this project. You’ve promised me a hefty bonus for a successful outcome.”

  “Just as long as we’re clear on what is at stake. You can go now.”

  “That’s it? No affairs of the estate to discuss? As your factor, I’m supposed to be seen with you - quite often.”

  “How silly of me to forget,” Alistair sighed. “You had better tell the lads to get the silage cut. You’ll also need to book shearers for the sheep. The shooting season gets underway in a few months. I assume the pheasant pens are well stocked. Hire some beaters. I can’t afford to turn clients away.”

  “Aye, I’ll make sure it’s all taken care of. Now, if there’s nothing else, your Lairdship, I’ve a few things to attend to.” He picked up his gun.

  MacKinnon rose, scraping the antique chair against the polished wood floor. Alistair winced.

  “I’m counting on you, MacKinnon, for an early resolution to this problem. Don’t let me down.”

  MacKinnon snorted. “We’ll, see. It all depends on how I feel, your Lairdship. It all depends on how I feel.” He scuttled out and slammed the door.

  Alistair jumped and looked back to see if the vase was all right. It was, but his stomach wasn’t.

  He swivelled his chair and stared out at the ornamental garden. How had he got into this mess? And how could he control that vicious Glasgow rat? He slammed his fist on the desk. His glass crashed to the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces, spilling its contents on to the Chinese rug. God damn it! Did everything he touch have to go wrong?

  He picked up the largest shards of glass and dropped them into the wooden wastebasket, narrowly escaping cutting himself. He looked down at the ever-spreading pool of whisky. Oh, to hell with it. Let Mrs McTavish mop it up. Poor or not, no proper Laird did his own cleaning.

  There had to be another way to resolve his problems, but he couldn’t see any course of action other than the one he was already taking. He looked at the papers lying on the desk in the vague hope they held the answers, but what he saw only made him more depressed. He clasped his hands behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the painting of his father on the opposite wall.

  “You rotten old bastard. It’s your fault. If you hadn’t…if you’d only…oh, I hope you die and go to hell!” After a moment’s contemplation, he snatched up the phone and dialled.

  “About that matter we discussed last time I was in town,” he growled before the person on the other end of the line had chance to answer. “I’ve decided you can go ahead.”

  Chapter Six

  The short-wave radio crackled above Luke’s head. The announcer’s voice was barely audible above the static. Luke adjusted the dial hoping to catch the weather report, but it was impossible to get a decent signal. He wasn’t too concerned. Until the replacement pump for the autopilot arrived, he couldn’t return to Cape Cod unless he found someone to help crew the yacht and take a turn at the helm while he slept.

  The scenery and diversity of the coastline amazed him. The Hebridean islands were stunning, with their white-sand beaches and low grassy, wild flower-strewn machair. But they were nothing compared with the dramatic, impenetrable sea-cliffs of the mainland, interspersed with beaches and fjord-like sea lochs, which, according to his chart, stretched inland like the fingers of an arthritic hand.

  In that respect, Loch Hourn was a perfect example. Its steep mountains, a mixture of bare rock, heather, gorse and bracken, tumbling streams and waterfalls, were inhospitable. It was also a modern man-made wilderness, for along the shoreline he’d seen the ghostly, roofless, remains of abandoned dwellings.

  While his dinner cooked, Luke gazed out of the cabin window to the solitary, whitewashed cottage across the loch. The setting sun dipped ever closer to the horizon, its red, fiery orb casting a rich ochre shadow on the walls of the cottage. The colours and panorama were spectacular, and his fingers itched to capture the scene unfolding before him. It would make a wonderful painting, with the rock and pebble beach in front and the majestic mountains behind. About half a mile to the left, a waterfall cascaded over granite boulders into the stream below, which in turn, meandered into the loch.

  Luke lifted the pan off the stove, gathered up his sketchbook and pastels, and went up the companionway to the deck. With the cabin window against his back for support and his sketchbook resting on his knee, his pencil strokes soon captured the image of the croft bathed in the light of the setting sun.

  He remembered the time he and Nicole, his fiancée, had visited Lake Tahoe for the weekend. It had been three, no, five years ago. He’d insisted they go for a walk along the lakeside after dinner. It had been an evening similar to this. Tall, blonde, with vibrant blue eyes, and a ready laugh, Nicole had captured his heart from the moment they’d met. Despite the warnings from his superior about agents not getting involved, he’d fallen in love with her. They dated for six months when he decided to propose. He had it all planned. He asked her to give up her job in San Francisco and move into his house on Cape Cod. They would be married from there. He’d even picked out a ring the week before while on a business trip to New York. A two-carat solitaire diamond set in platinum. When he’d slipped the ring on her finger she’d cried and clung to him. He’d been the happiest man on the planet.

  His world fell apart the day she died in his arms. If he’d only told her true nature of his work rather than concealing it from her, he might have been able to protect her. Her death was his fault. Luke rubbed his eyes. Damned memories, what would it take to finally burn them away?

  He gazed over at Anna’s cottage. He’d seen similar houses on the islands, but on those, the builder had used turf as a bed for the thatched roof of bracken and heather. Tigh na Cladach’s hip-ended roof was tiled in slate, its one apparent concession to modernity. Two small dormer windows were set into it. Could they be bedrooms? Surely not, for anyone over five foot would find it difficult, if not impossible, to stand upright in such a confined space. No, he reasoned, they must be for additional light.

  He wished he’d brought his camera on deck, but with dusk descending he had little time left in which to sketch the scene, let alone capture it on film. For this evening, at least, he would have to be satisfied with his drawings. There would be other opportunities to take photographs, which he would use as an aide-memoire once back at the easel in his Cape Cod studio.

  The water rippling against the hull soothed him. Even though he’d lost the light, he remained on deck thinking about Anna. This was a wild and isolated place for a woman to live, especially a beautiful young woman, and he wondered what had brought her to this remote glen. Was she ever lonely in the croft with only her dogs for company?

  His drawing momentarily forgotten, Luke watched a shadow cross in front of one of the windows. A light snapped on, followed by one in the porch, creating an eerie dance of shadows on the lawn. Anna appeared, the breeze whipping her hair into disarray as she pulled on a jacket, and walked across the grass towards the rocky beach. The two dogs followed close behind.

  He turned to a clean page and quickly started sketching the tall, slim figure as she paused now and again to throw sticks for the dogs. She lingered at the water’s edge and bent down to investigate something. At the precise moment he lifted his eyes from his drawing, she straightened and looked across the loch to the yacht. She stood motionless, her hands by her side, staring into the twilight. At first he wasn’t sure if she could see him sitting against the bulkhead, but then she gave a brief wave in acknowledgement. Before he realized it, he’d returned the gesture.

  Although her features were indiscernible, he knew she would be smiling, her bright eyes sparkling as she enjoyed the walk with her dogs. Abruptly, she turned and walked on toward the waterfall and was soon out of sight.

  Luke felt a sudden stab of envy at her uncomplicated life. It had been years since he’d enjoyed such simple pleasures. If he suggested to Kate, his girlfriend in Chatham, that they go for a walk or stay in a remote mountain cabin rather
than a five-star hotel, she would be horrified. Limousines, designer clothes, exclusive restaurants and champagne, were far more her style than loafers, a sweater and old blue jeans. Until now, he’d felt pretty much the same way.

  While he worked on his sketch, he thought about his life back home. He owned a fine house, an old converted coastguard station on the seaward shore of Cape Cod. There was an SUV in the garage and this yacht. He enjoyed reasonable success as an artist, with his paintings exhibited in galleries all over the States. His bank balance was healthy. And there was Kate, with her too-blue eyes and beach-girl hair. Life was good, yet now he yearned for something else, such as a walk along the beach with a woman who could love him for himself, and not for his wealth and social status. As classy as she was, Kate hardly qualified.

  Twenty minutes later, the dogs trotted back into view, Anna trailing behind. She paused and looked up into the sky. At first, Luke couldn’t see what she was searching for. Then he saw them. First one, then two, then four tiny black dots came wheeling out of the old barn at the side of the croft. Bats! He hadn’t seen a bat since childhood, when his uncle in Austin had taken him to Congress Bridge to see them emerge at dusk. He certainly hadn’t expected to see them this far north or in such an isolated place.

  He looked at his watch—eleven-thirty, yet felt much earlier. The strange half-light of a Scottish summer evening confused him, despite the fact that he’d first dropped anchor in the Outer Hebrides.

  Across the loch, Anna called the dogs, her voice carrying over the water in the still evening air. When she disappeared inside the cottage, Luke rose. He checked the sails to make sure they were securely stowed for the night, and that the anchor was firmly set. He picked up his artist’s materials and headed for the companionway, pausing to enjoy the scent of wood smoke drifting across the loch before going below.