The House on the Shore

by Victoria Howard

  It was only when the sun started to slip below the horizon and the kitchen filled with shadows, that she felt able to put pen to paper.

  Her first draft waffled on for pages, never really saying what it should. As the mound of screwed up paper balls grew in number, Anna despaired of ever finding the right words to explain her feelings. There was only one way to do this, and that was to keep the letter short, and write from the heart.

  Darling Luke,

  Thank you for giving me the best summer of my life. At the time I thought I was doing the right thing in letting you go, but I was wrong. I miss you more and more each day. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, please write back.

  Love, Anna.

  She read the letter a second time then added her signature to the bottom of the page. Sealing the envelope, she placed it on top of the box containing her manuscript. If she hurried, she could get it in the mail before the post office closed.

  ***

  Morag returned the last sheet of paper to the box and wiped her eye. “It’s a grand story, lass. You have a fine way with words. Thank you for letting me read it.”

  “I hope the agent agrees with you. I posted a copy this afternoon.”

  “You’ll find a publisher, I know you will.”

  “Is that the Sight talking or you, Morag?”

  “Me. It’s a strange thing—I’ve not had another vision since the accident.”

  Anna smiled. “I would have thought that was a good thing, not a bad one.”

  “Maybe. Pass me that knitting needle will you. This cast is driving me crazy. I’ll be glad when the darn thing comes off.”

  “When do you see the specialist again?”

  Morag slipped the needle down the side of the cast and ferociously scratched her healing skin. “Next week. I’m fed up with visiting the hospital. Three operations are enough for anybody. But it was such a complicated fracture, I’m lucky to be walking again, even if I do have to use a crutch.”

  “Hopefully you’ll be able to throw it away soon.”

  “I hope so. All this sitting around doing nothing is making me fat!”

  “I’ll admit your face has filled out, but you’re certainly not fat. Have you heard if the estate has been sold yet?”

  “Sandy told me a few folk have shown interest, but with an asking price of over three million pounds, I don’t think it will be sold anytime soon. He also mentioned that a date has been set for that man MacKinnon’s trial.”

  “I had a letter from the court. I’ve been called as a witness. I’m not looking forward to seeing him or Alistair again, even if it is from the opposite side of the courtroom.”

  “What about Luke? Won’t they need his testimony, too?”

  “I asked Inspector Drury about that. Apparently they’ve arranged for Luke to give evidence by a video link. He won’t be attending the hearing.” Anna felt an odd twinge of disappointment. It would have been her one and only chance to ask for his forgiveness and tell him she’d changed her mind.

  “What a pity. I would like to see him again. He left in such a hurry I didn’t get chance to say goodbye or thank him for rescuing me.”

  Anna looked away. The misery of her last night with Luke still haunted her.

  “He was anxious to get home.”

  Morag stared at her friend, but said nothing.

  “Besides, it’s a long way to come,” Anna continued, “I thought I told you—he mentioned something about having to get ready for an exhibition.”

  “I still think he should attend in person. I’d hate to think of MacKinnon getting off on a technicality.”

  “He won’t. Neither will Alistair. Inspector Drury assures me there’s more than enough evidence to put them both away for a very long time.”

  “Good! It’s nothing less than either of them deserve.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Eight Months later.

  Morag stared at the painting in her hand. “I don’t see why you couldn’t wrap it up and just post it back to him.”

  “I wouldn’t entrust it to the postal service,” Anna replied. “It’s far too valuable. It’s the painting that inspired Luke to visit Scotland.” Even now after all these months, it still hurt when someone mentioned his name. It hurt even worse when she said it herself.

  “I think he said he found it in a gallery in a place called Bar Harbor.” She wrapped a suit in tissue paper and placed it in her suitcase.

  “It’s an awful long way to go just to return a painting, but seeing as you’re going to New York, I suppose it makes sense to deliver it in person. Have you noticed something? There’s no signature. I wonder who painted it.”

  “I wondered if it was a Jamieson. It looks very similar to his work.”

  “Jamie who?”

  “F. E. Jamieson. He’s famous for painting Highland landscapes and coastal scenes. He painted under other names, too. There’s quite a collection of his work in the National Gallery in Edinburgh. Do you think I should take this?” Anna held up a chocolate silk cocktail dress.

  Morag nodded enthusiastically. “You never know what events your agent will expect you to attend. Are you excited? You must be. After all, not every first-time author is lucky enough to snag a New York literary agent. Tell me again, why do they want to see you?”

  Anna let out a sigh. She’d lost count of the number of times she explained the reason behind her trip. “They want to discuss the proposal for my next book, and it’s easier to do it face to face than over the telephone.”

  Morag continued to stare at the painting. “Morag, are you listening?”

  Morag snapped back to the present. “What did you say, dear?”

  “Never mind. You were somewhere else far, far away!”

  “The picture…”

  “What about it?” Anna tried not to sound too impatient. At this rate she’d never get her packing done. She began folding a cream coloured blouse.

  “Do you recognize the scenery, Anna?”

  “Should I?”

  “It’s Tigh na Cladach. Or rather it’s the bay. It must have been painted before Tigh na Cladach was built.”

  Anna dropped the blouse and yanked the painting out of Morag’s hands. She examined it more closely. “Why, you’re right. I never noticed that before.”

  “Didn’t I tell you that man had come looking for a past he didn’t know he had? I read a book about the glen while in hospital. It was about the Clearances. It mentioned something about folk from Loch Hourn sailing to America in 1773. Do you ever hear from him by the way?”

  “Luke? No. Not even a phone call or a postcard to say he’d arrived home safely.” When she lifted her eyes, the pain still flickered there.

  “I expect it takes a while to sail across the Atlantic. And I daresay he’s been busy painting.”

  Anna bent her head to hide the hurt. “Unless Luke sailed home via Australia, he should have arrived back in Cape Cod months ago.”

  “I’m sorry, lass. I should have known better than to mention his name. I’ve got some news that I hope will cheer you up. It certainly cheered Lachlan and me.” Morag beamed. “I’m pregnant!”

  Anna dropped the painting on her bed and gathered her friend into her arms. “Morag, that’s wonderful news. Is Lachlan pleased? That’s a silly question! He must be delighted.”

  “Aye, lass. That he is. We’ve already turned the spare room into a nursery. By the time you get back from your wee trip, I’ll be as round as a house. I know at forty-two I’m a little old to be a first time mother, but the doctor says I’m fit and healthy.”

  “But shouldn’t you be taking it easy, especially for the first few months?”

  Morag blushed. “I’m fourteen weeks pregnant. I didn’t want to mention it before in case…well you know—”

  “I’m so happy for you both.”

  “And it goes without saying that we want you to be godmother.”

  Anna hugged her friend tighter. “I’d love to. But are you sure
you’re fit enough to take me to the airport?”

  “Apart from an occasional bout of morning sickness, I’m fine. Lachlan has it all arranged. We’ll see you off and then he’s treating me to a night in a posh hotel. We’re driving back the following day. Sandy’s looking after Ensay and Rhona, so you needn’t worry on that score. Now come on, you’ll never be ready in time unless we finish this packing!”

  ***

  During the seven hour flight to New York Anna tried to read the Dan Brown paperback she had purchased from the airport shop, but found she couldn’t concentrate. She put it to one side and stared out of the window at the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Her mind reeled with memories and dreams.

  As the hours ticked by, and the huge plane got closer to its destination, Anna became more and more uneasy. Her fingers tensed in her lap and she moved restlessly in her seat. By contacting Luke, was she about to make the second biggest mistake of her life? Would he even agree to see her?

  Immigration and customs provided minimal distraction, as did the taxi ride from Newark airport to the hotel, which seemed to take forever. Anna was tired, hungry, and longing for a shower. Fortunately, the meeting with her agent was scheduled for midday the following day, which gave her chance to get over her jet lag.

  Finally, the taxi pulled up in front of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Manhattan. Check-in was a mere formality; her agent had taken care of all the details. She was about to leave the desk when the concierge handed her an envelope. Hopeful that Luke had somehow heard of her success, she ripped it open and glanced inside. It contained an invitation to dinner from her editor. She sighed and slipped it into her handbag.

  Her suite was twentieth floor overlooking Central Park. It was decorated in shades of pale pink and lovely, with stunning views of the city, and a separate living room, two white tiled bathrooms and two bedrooms, she felt dwarfed by the space. She sat on the king-size bed and rubbed the pulsating knot in her temple.

  Damn it, Luke. Can you not you pick up a pen and reply to my letter if only to ask me how I am? How Morag is? Would it have been so hard? Do you hate me that much for turning you down? Her eyes filled with tears of frustration and exhaustion. She hastily wiped them away.

  All she wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep, but knew she would never get over her jet lag if she did. Instead, she threw open her case, pulled out her bathrobe, shampoo and conditioner, and headed for the shower. Too tired to eat in the hotel’s restaurant, she ordered room service and watched a little TV before finally crawling into bed.

  The following morning she met with Wanda, her agent, in her Madison Avenue offices. Wanda’s blonde hair was an impossibly high beehive. With her black horn-rimmed glasses, sleek black designer suit, and tall spike heels, she was even taller than Anna. Wanda gave her the slightest whisper of a hug and air-kissed both of her cheeks.

  “Darling, didn't I tell you, we simply adored your manuscript? If your standard of writing is this good in your next book I can see you topping the New York Times best seller list!”

  “Yes, Wanda, you did.”

  “You Brits. So straight-laced. And your accent…just love it, darling. I’ve pitched your proposal to all the big houses. Two might be interested in a three-book deal. That good with you?”

  “It’s fantastic.”

  “Of course it is. Now, honey, don’t be so modest. I’ve set up meetings with them later this week so you can meet the editors and decide which publisher you want to work with. Then, once we’ve got the deal, you can scoot back to Scotland and start working.”

  Scoot? Anna never imagined scooting to Scotland, or anywhere else, for that matter. A three-book deal sounded like the best thing that had ever happened to her.

  Almost.

  The rest of the week passed in a whirlwind of meetings. On Friday, Anna signed a contract, agreeing to deliver three novels in three years. She didn’t believe for a moment she could do it. But Wanda insisted. Anna knew she had to try.

  With the meetings safely out of the way, she was free to do as she pleased. On Saturday she hired a car. She took a moment to familiarize herself with the controls, before heading out of the city onto Interstate 95. Nervous at first, she soon got the hang of driving on the wrong side of the road. She followed the wide, three-lane highway north towards Boston.

  And Cape Cod.

  Once out of the city limits, the roads were quiet. Six hours later, she found an empty parking space on Chatham’s picturesque and historic Main Street. A mixture of upscale boutiques and clapboard houses, it attracted tourists all year round.

  Armed with only the briefest descriptions of Luke’s house, she headed for the nearest coffee shop. Painted in pale blue and decorated with a variety of seafaring artefacts, including lobster pots and fishing nets, the small coffee house was busy.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the dark-haired woman behind the counter. “I wonder if you can help.”

  “Sure, honey. You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

  “I’m from Scotland.”

  “Scotland,” the woman repeated mystified. “We don’t get many Scottish people here. In fact, I don’t think we’ve ever had one before. Herb,” she yelled into the kitchen. “We ever had Scottish people here before?”

  “Dunno,” came the reply.

  “Well, there you are. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for a friend. He’s an artist. You may have heard of him. His name’s Luke Tallantyre.”

  “Yeah. I know Luke. Tall guy, salt and pepper hair. He drives one of those big SUVs. He drops by sometimes. Haven’t seen him in a while, though.”

  “I was wondering if you can give me directions to his house.”

  “Sure. You drive on up Main Street and take a right at the end of the road. Follow it around to the beach. His is the last house—a big clapboard affair with a tower. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate your help.”

  “But you won’t find him at home on a nice day like this. He’ll be off painting some place.”

  Anna closed her eyes feeling utterly miserable.

  “Are you okay, honey? You look pale. Why don’t you take a load off and have a coffee? It’s not that great, but it’s on the house.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Just cream, thank you.”

  Anna quickly slipped a $5 bill in the tip jar on the counter before the waitress returned with the coffee.

  Half an hour later, after several wrong turns, and an occasional drift into the left lane, she slipped out from behind the wheel of the rental car and climbed the weathered steps to the old Coast Guard Station. The clapboard house was stunning. Painted in delicate shades of cream and white, with sea-green shutters framing every window, it stood tall and proud on top of the dunes.

  She looked around. There wasn’t another house in sight. It was a perfect place for an artist to live and work. Suddenly, she understood Luke’s refusal to part with the house after the death of his fiancée.

  She wiped the palms of her hands down the side of her jeans in a momentary bout of panic. It gnawed away at her confidence. What if she’d come all this way and Luke refused to see her? What if his sometimes girlfriend had become more permanent? She’d feel like a fool. Swallowing the last of her pride, she knocked at the door.

  The house was still.

  Her spirits sank even lower.

  Not knowing what else to do, she walked along the veranda that wrapped around the side of the house and looked out over the beach to the ocean, to where the Atlantic rollers thundered ashore in a froth of white water. Soft white clouds drifted overhead and the beach grass swayed in the light onshore breeze.

  The beach was empty save for a solitary figure throwing sticks for a pair of Labradors to chase. She thought of Ensay and Rhona back home in Scotland, and realized how much she missed them. They would have loved it here.

  Lonely and homesick, she slipped off
her shoes and stepped down on to the beach. She couldn’t face driving back to the city just yet.

  ***

  Luke threw his paintbrush down in frustration. No matter what technique he tried, he couldn’t quite capture the old lighthouse at Long Point. He looked at his Rolex. Another half hour and the light would be gone. He packed up his paints and carefully removed the canvas from the easel, loading it, along with the rest of his gear, into the back of the SUV.

  During the forty minutes drive from Provincetown back home to Chatham, he thought about his inability to paint. Ever since returning from Scotland, he’d struggled to put oil to canvas. It wasn’t as if he was short of ideas—he had plenty. Not to mention sketches and photographs from which to work. He just wasn’t satisfied with the work he produced. It lacked the fire, the passion that his paintings were known for.

  Luke turned into his driveway. Yet another car was parked in front of his garage. New York plates. Despite the ‘private’ signs, another city slicker had evidently decided to use his driveway as a parking lot. He really should have ordered those gates before the tourist season kicked off.

  He unpacked his gear and carried it into the house, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. The house was way too big for just one person, but he didn’t have the heart to sell it, after spending so much time and money restoring it to its former glory. Pausing only to drop his coat over a chair, he climbed the staircase to his studio in the watchtower and gazed down on the beach. Apart from his neighbour throwing sticks for his dogs and a woman with hair the colour of copper, the beach was deserted. Tumbling copper-coloured curls… Luke swung the telescope round and focused on the figure.

  Anna shivered in the breeze. In her nervousness, she’d left her coat in the car. She rubbed her arms and carried on walking until she ran out of beach. So much for her hopes of finding Luke at home. There was nothing for her here. The sooner she returned to Scotland, the sooner she could try and forget about him. He obviously couldn’t forgive her for turning his proposal down and had decided to get on with his life.