by Traci Hall
Paislee lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “Now, thanks tae that rotter Shawn Marcus, I’ll lose Cashmere Crush, and cannae hire anybody.”
“Can’t ye move?”
“Aye—but with what cash? This location is key tae foot traffic”—she gestured to her left and the Moray Firth inlet—“being close tae the beach, and downtown.”
“What of yer savings?”
Paislee rolled her eyes. “Wiped out by the water pipe bursting like a ripe watermelon, and getting new tires on the Juke.”
“Ah.” He tapped his short nails on the table. “Life kicks ye when ye’re down, don’t I know it. It’s a sair fecht for half a loaf.”
“Da said that sometimes.” A hard fight for half of what you wanted. He must’ve heard it from her grandfather. Da, Grandpa, and Brody all shared brown eyes. Family. She exhaled and offered him her other half of the bacon butty. “I already ate breakfast.” Eggs churned in her tummy. “Take it, if you like.”
He only accepted after checking her face to see if she was feeling sorry for him. She stood, patted her stomach, and took the lid off her coffee. She added cream and stirred before taking a cautious drink. Though the brew was a nice treat every once in a while, she preferred tea.
She washed her hands in the small bathroom at the rear of the shop. “You can sit back here and watch the telly, so long as the sound is low. Let’s put our heads together and see what we can come up with. Sleeping in the park isnae an option. Is this all ye have?” She pointed to his suitcase.
“I pay a wee bit for a storage unit where I put Craigh’s things. I slept there a few nights, but it isnae big enough. And they have guards.”
Paislee’s brain circled round the ugly truth, accepting that there was really only one awful solution. “You can stay with me for a while, until we figure your situation out.”
“I willnae be a charity case,” he announced, emanating pride in his wrinkled chambray shirt and khakis.
“Oh, it willnae be charity,” Paislee quickly assured him. She’d prayed for a miracle, but this was not the miracle she’d had in mind. She felt like the butt of a cosmic joke.
His long fingers gave his beard another scratch. “Eh?”
“I could use some help in the shop.” She studied him closely, searching for the truth in a man she didn’t know. “Can ye drive?”
“Aye.” His bearded mouth turned down.
“Where’s your car?”
“Didnae need one in Dairlee. I walked where I needed tae go.”
Hmm. “I think we can come tae an agreement.”
“I willnae be free labor, lassie.”
Couldn’t he see she was going to help him? “You’ll be working for room and board.” Paislee crossed her arms and dared him to argue. “We’ll have tae clean out Granny’s room downstairs, but we can make do.”
Her sweet gran was probably rolling over in her grave.
Chapter 3
At quarter to ten, the door to Cashmere Crush swung open. Paislee had put in two calls to Isla, who hadn’t answered. Grandpa was in the back with the television on low.
Instead of the blond Isla, Mary Beth Mulholland ambled in, somehow graceful despite her heavy weight. Forty, with twin daughters in primary school, Mary Beth had been coming to Paislee for her yarn supplies since her shop first opened eight years ago.
Dark brown hair, cornflower-blue eyes, and pink cheeks gave Mary Beth a natural prettiness. She smiled wide as she came into the shop and set her purse on the chest-high table. Stools were packed around the rectangle, yet she preferred one of the wider padded wooden chairs.
“Good morning, Paislee!” Mary Beth rubbed her plump hands together, the large diamond on her wedding ring a crystalline flash. “I ran oot of me pink yarn for the blanket Friday, and I’ve been waiting all weekend for more. I was so anxious that Arran practically pushed me oot the door this morning.”
Paislee’s shoulders slumped. “I’m so sairy, Mary Beth. Jerry was in first thing and said it will be here tomorrow. The dyeing machine broke.”
Mary Beth gasped.
“But is fixed now.” Paislee lifted her hands at her sides to calm her customer down.
“The christening is Sunday,” Mary Beth said, her tone rising.
Paislee tapped the long calendar she kept on the wall behind the register. “I know it. I’ll help if you fall behind.”
Mary Beth sighed. “I changed the pattern and this is a continuous bubble stich that cannae be pieced together, but I appreciate yer offer.”
Paislee couldn’t feel worse.
Through the frosted window, the blurry image of a white Volvo pulled up in the front. She recognized Flora Robertson, who tended to dress in bright colors and long, gauzy skirts or dresses.
“Hang on, Mary Beth.” Paislee hurried to open the door as Flora brought in a crate of gorgeous vibrant emerald yarn. “Morning, Flora. What a terrific surprise!” Paislee hadn’t been expecting Flora, but it was a treat when yarn arrived.
“Morning!” Mary Beth seconded as she peered inside the open box on the counter by the register. “That’s so pretty, Flora.”
Grandpa Angus peeked from behind the divider but stayed out of sight. His pride in accepting a breakfast sarnie eased Paislee’s worries that he’d steal from her. He was paying for a storage unit for his son’s things yet sleeping in the park, and he’d been embarrassed about being evicted from their flat. She would give him a chance, but he’d have to get over any shyness if he was to be of help to her in the shop.
Ach, she’d think about it later.
“Thank ye,” Flora said, pleased. “I was oot runnin’ errands and thought I’d bring this by.”
The craftswoman was in her late thirties and managed to use all-natural dyes to color her yarn, as opposed to synthetics. Paislee was thrilled to sell them in her shop. Flora usually had a flower of some sort tucked in her long light brown hair and would have fit right in during the olden days when Nairn was a shire.
“We sold out of this color,” Paislee said to Mary Beth, who knew Flora from their Knit and Sip nights.
“I’m not surprised!” Mary Beth said. “It’s bright as a shamrock.”
“When will the yellow be ready, Flora?” Paislee asked. “I saw daisies in a pattern book I’d like tae try.”
“This week sometime.” Flora tucked her car keys into the pocket of her skirt, fidgety as if she’d had too much tea. “I’m just waiting for the chrome tae set.”
“And the sage—I’d like another twenty-four skeins.” Paislee hoped she wasn’t making a mistake buying the yarn, but in order to stay in business she had to have supplies. Selling and using local goods was her trademark at Cashmere Crush.
“Thank ye, lass. I’m on it.” Flora turned to Mary Beth, her long hem sweeping the floor. “How’s the christening blanket comin’ along?”
Paislee put the box of yarn behind the counter. She didn’t have the heart to tell the ladies yet about being evicted. What if this was the last order she was able to make for Flora’s yarn?
“Stalled,” Paislee interjected before Mary Beth could say anything. “The machine broke—the yarn will be here tomorrow.”
“Oh no!” Flora said. “You know, I’d be happy tae make ye that color, if you’d like? I’m sure I can match the pink, with a few tries.”
“That’s all right.” Mary Beth pleaded with Paislee, “I can wait a day—but no more?”
Paislee held up her hand. “Jerry promised. He was verra sorry about it—he knows that ye need it for the christening party.”
In the knitting industry there were folks who believed that all-natural dyeing was the way to go, and Flora could often be seen around the local countryside gathering mushrooms and wildflowers in her basket.
Mary Beth believed that the “all-natural” ingredients were just as dangerous to the land as the synthetic dyes, only the synthetic companies had to follow proper disposal laws while the naturalists could do what they pleased and contaminate the rivers and seas if th
ey weren’t careful.
There had been many a heated argument during their Thursday nights with good-natured Mary Beth losing her temper, not at Flora, who used proper sanitation, but those who refused to take care of the earth.
This was often brought on after a glass or two of whisky—so none of the ladies took offense. In Paislee’s opinion, there was room in the knitting community for both synthetic and natural. She’d learned firsthand that it was difficult to hold a bright color with natural dyes without the right fixing agent, which could be dangerous. Some were just as poisonous as the natural ingredients. Flora’s skill with the mordants had a lot to do with their online success.
“Thank ye, though,” Mary Beth told Flora, regarding the pink yarn. “How’s Donnan?”
Flora exhaled and, arms empty, pushed her hair back over her shoulder, baring the miniature blue blossom above her ear. “Every day a wee bit better,” she said. “I hope tae bring him tae the street fair this Saturday tae help me mind the booth.”
Her husband had suffered a stroke two months prior and Flora had been managing their online yarn business as well as his health. Marriage was for better or worse, and Paislee wasn’t the only one to feel sorry for Flora, who had been dealt a harsh hand—Donnan wasn’t even forty.
Mary Beth admired the emerald yarn. “I just cannae believe ye can make such striking colors. What did you use for this again, Flora?”
“Scots broom, mostly.”
“For that weed tae create such a green boggles the mind. What would you use for my pretty pink?”
Flora narrowed her eyes and tapped her lower lip. “Pink rose petals, mixed with . . .” She thought for a moment, “Purple lavender?”
“Oh!” Mary Beth considered this. “It wouldnae fade?”
“Could be set with lemon juice, if that’s what yer worried about. But it will lighten after a few washings,” Flora admitted. “It’s why I prefer the chrome, which I know ye don’t like.”
“Well, they are pretty, Flora. You have a braw talent for creating color.” Mary Beth returned to her seat.
Flora grinned. “Thank ye. I’ll tell Donnan that you like his recipe. Mine was the sage.”
“It’ll be good tae see him,” Paislee said. She felt a pang of guilt for only visiting once when he’d been in the hospital. How did time pass so fast?
“Speaking of,” Flora said, “I should get going. I hate tae leave him too long. See you Thursday, lasses!” She hustled out the door like a flower garden on the run.
Mary Beth left soon after, her step a bit heavier than when she’d arrived. Paislee didn’t blame Jerry—things happened—but she would do her best to make sure that Mary Beth’s blanket was completed on time.
The rest of the morning passed quickly with Paislee’s mostly female client base in to buy yarn for projects from blankets to sweaters to socks—the “men” were usually under five and dragged in by their mums. She’d even sold a cardigan to a woman visiting from London. Grandpa had changed the lightbulb for her.
She poked her head behind the partition to see how her grandfather was doing only to find him sound asleep, stretched out on a long storage crate he’d piled with homemade blankets, emitting soft snores that pierced her defenses.
How would Brody get along with Angus?
Her son’s well-being mattered above all else, so they would try for tonight and see how they managed.
The shop phone rang and she jumped to answer it. Not Isla finally returning her calls, but a woman with a question on a particular knitting needle size.
By one, the shop had emptied and Paislee’d worried herself sick over not speaking with Isla regarding a job. What had happened to the girl? What if the full-time position had been too much for Isla, who had shared with Paislee under oath that she never told a soul that she had a heart condition? Paislee wanted to see her in person and make sure the lass was fine.
Opening the email from Isla, Paislee reread the messages to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood: Hey, Paislee—it’s Isla, back in town and staying at Harborside Flats. Have a new venture in discount yarn, if yer interested? I know ye can’t hire me for many hours, but I’ll take what ye have. I need the work. I miss you! Life has been off the rails. Number is the same; call me. Love, Isla. And then Paislee had responded, setting up their interview for nine thirty Monday morning, to which Isla had sent an aye, see you then. Nothing else.
Hmm. She found Isla’s new address online and asked her grandfather, who was now refreshed from his nap, “Care for some lunch? We just need tae make a quick stop first.”
Grandpa Angus nodded, running a wetted comb through his silver hair. “Aye. I cannae believe how many ladies like yarn.”
“It isnae just yarn, Grandpa—it’s a community. And I sold a sweater.” That boost added more than what Mary Beth would pay tomorrow for her specialty yarn, and was a much-appreciated addition to her bank account.
“Yer granny used tae knit all the time—it’s wise of ye tae put that talent tae use. You any good?”
“What kind of question is that?” She pointed him to the shelf of soft sweaters in varying colors and sizes. Next to that was a stack of blankets, then gloves, caps, and socks.With a sniff she said, “Take a look for yourself.”
“Later,” he said, turning his back on her treasures. “Where’re we stopping?”
“My almost new hire,” she said through gritted teeth. “Her email made it sound like she was desperate for whatever hours I could give, so I’m worried that she didnae show up for her interview, or return my calls.”
Paislee wondered if the discount on wool for sale was through Billy. Isla hadn’t mentioned what her boyfriend did for work, only that she was in love.
Grandpa adjusted his dark green tam over his hair at a jaunty angle and shrugged into his tweed trench coat.
She locked up the shop and they left out the back door.
“What time is yer son off of school?”
“Your great-grandson, Brody, is out of class at three thirty.”
“Do you always pick him up? Why can’t he walk? It doesnae seem very far.”
“Two miles is too far,” Paislee pronounced. Would the old man have an opinion on everything? She was used to being in charge of her own life.
“Humph.”
She plugged Isla’s address into her GPS, and they drove toward the harbor. Destination, ten minutes. Her stomach grumbled. She hoped Isla would understand—and maybe once she got her new situation sorted, if Isla was still looking for work, she could hire her on then.
“Oh, this is nice,” Paislee said. The three-story wood building was partially shielded by branches of a broad oak. Across the road was a small park, and a wooden pier speared out into the choppy Firth. Each flat had two spaces of parking before it, and there was a side lot for overflow. Barren trees were starting to bud in the spring and would be pretty in just another week or two.
Her grandfather’s bushy brows lifted at the sight. “Ye say she was desperate for a job?”
This was much nicer than what Isla’d had before; that was for sure. “Maybe she’s staying with a friend until she gets back on her feet.” Before Isla had moved to Inverness with Billy, she’d shared a flat with her best friend, Tabitha.
If things were tight, why hadn’t Isla gone back there?
They parked in front of number 10. The next spot over was 8, and a shiny new BMW, silver with silver rims, took a place of pride. The other spaces were empty and Paislee imagined that the owners were at work doing whatever paid well enough for a harbor view and a sports car.
“Stay here? I should just be a few minutes.”
Her grandfather gave a curt nod.
A fan of the grunt, the old man wasn’t big on talking. Maybe that was one of the reasons he and Granny hadn’t suited. She had loved to talk and tell stories into the night—keeping Paislee and Brody captivated with Scottish legends or family tales of folks in the far past.
Eager to see her protégée, Paislee got out of
the Juke and knocked on the door. It opened an inch. “Hello?”
She knocked again, expecting Isla to open it farther.
“Isla? It’s Paislee. . . .”
Uneasy now, with the door ajar and nobody answering, Paislee nudged it a bit more and peeked into the foyer.
A white mongrel carrying what looked like a beige rabbit in his teeth darted out and around the building to a grassy area on the side.
Since when did Isla like dogs? “Pup!” Paislee called.
Her grandfather, no better at staying in the car than Brody, whistled after the wee white dog and clapped for good measure.
She would feel terrible if something happened to it. “Isla? I’m coming in, lass.Your dog got out.”
Paislee pushed the door inward and peered inside, standing on the wooden threshold. To the right was a black leather sofa and low table with an open laptop, to the left a custom stainless-steel kitchen. “Brilliant,” she whispered. The kitchen of her dreams.
A door directly across the living room was open and revealed a made bed. Cardboard boxes were stacked behind the couch. The flat wasn’t large, and her gaze returned to the square black dining table in the kitchen. There was no separate dining room.
A flash of metal caught her eye and she looked down in alarm. Her pulse steadied as she realized that it wasn’t a knife. A crochet hook? Isla had preferred crocheting to knitting. A pale hand, slender fingers curled in toward her palm, then a thin arm in a sage sweater—Isla’s favorite color—and then Isla, pale and blue-lipped on the beechwood floor, her eyes fixed on something inward, her blond hair spread beneath her.
Horrified, Paislee brought her knuckles to her mouth to stop a shout. Oh, no, oh no oh no. What had happened to Isla?
“She’s dead,” Grandpa Angus said in Paislee’s ear.
Paislee grabbed the doorframe and screamed.
Chapter 4
Paislee’s entire body shook with fear and she tightened her cardigan around her waist. She stepped inside the modern kitchen, unable to take her eyes off of Isla, who lay so still, like a broken doll.
Bile rose from her stomach.
