by Traci Hall
“The teacher sent home a note, sayin’ if I’m late one more time, I get detention.” He kicked his backpack. “When it’s your fault.”
She winced. “I’m sairy, hon.”
“I told Mrs. Martin about what happened with you getting kicked out and that mean old guy sayin’ he was me great-grandpa, sleepin’ in the park. She didnae believe me.”
“It does sound like a whopper,” she said softly. “But I was there.” She touched his elbow, but he yanked it out of reach. “I’ll email her tomorrow.”
“Mrs. Martin seemed mad, Mum.”
“I’ll take care of it.” She’d set the alarm a half hour earlier.
Instead of home, she drove to the beach and parked. She lowered the visor against the gray afternoon sky, which was still too bright for her headache.
“What?” Brody asked suspiciously. The oppressive air in the Juke reminded her of when they’d come here after Granny died, and then gone to the pet shop to make them both feel better.
She couldn’t afford another dog. “How about an ice cream?”
“Mum.” He crossed his arms and stared at her, his auburn bangs brushing his eyebrows. His skin was as pale as hers, only he had freckles. “Just tell me.”
She blinked tears back. “Isla is dead, love. She won’t be coming tae work for me after all.”
His nose scrunched and he rubbed the rounded end. “What happened?”
“I dinnae ken. The detective said he would be in touch.” Which was quite vague, come to think of it. “It was the same man as from this morning.”
Brody frowned, his brown eyes serious as he processed this information.
Death wasn’t something that happened all the time—his only experience had been with Granny, and Paislee’d done her best to shield the true measure of her grief from him. She’d bought him Wallace for the kind of unconditional love that her grandmother had so generously given them both.
“Does she have family?” he asked after thinking for a minute.
“A mum, in Edinburgh.”
“Oh.”
Paislee would do some digging for her address and send the woman a sympathy card. “And,” she said, “Grandpa Angus will be staying with us for a while.”
At this, Brody scowled. “Where will he stay? I’m not sharing me room. He was mean.”
She recalled how sharply Grandpa had spoken, and how her son had recoiled. “I think he was embarrassed, about not having a place tae live.”
Brody kicked at his backpack again and she prayed he’d eaten all his crisps or there’d be a mess to clean.
She shifted to see him better. “I said he could sleep in Granny’s room, until we figure out a few things.”
“That’s Gran’s!” He pinned her with his gaze. “Not forever?”
Nothing was forever. If she had her way, in eight more years her son would be off to college to live his best life. She hadn’t made it to university—she’d planned on going, but then her da had died, and her mom had remarried and moved to America, and Paislee, acting rashly, had ended up pregnant. The guy was nice enough, but Paislee hadn’t been in love, she hadn’t wanted to steer him from his path as he’d joined the military, so she’d kept her mouth shut.
Brody belonged to her.
He stared at her with wide eyes. Oh yes, he wanted to know if Grandpa would live with them forever.
“No,” she said, ruffling his hair.
He ducked away. “Mum!”
“Sorry.” He hated it when she did that, but she couldn’t stop herself.
“Do we still get Chinese for dinner?” He studied her face to see if things were truly going to be all right. Take-away meals were a treat compared to home cooked, and she’d suggested it this morning.
Paislee pointed to her purse. “Even though Jerry didnae bring the special yarn for Mary Beth, I sold a sweater, so aye.”
“What if Grandpa doesnae like it?”
“I don’t think he’ll be that picky.” She remembered Grandpa’s enjoyment of his bacon butty and coffee earlier and her throat ached with emotion. She had to get herself under control or she’d be a weeping disaster, and she’d no time for that. At the pounding of her temple, she had an awful thought.What if she was coming down with something?
Mums didn’t get sick days. There was laundry to do, and Brody always had a reading assignment, fifteen minutes. She made him read out loud so she could enjoy the story, too, while she did the dishes.
The toe of her son’s runner made contact with the backpack again, and she could tell he was brooding—it didn’t take her maternal senses to notice; his tight mouth and narrowed eyes painted the picture. Because he was an only child, he was mature for his years. Gran said he’d been born with a contemplative nature.
“Brody, Lydia will find another place for Cashmere Crush, so I don’t want ye tae worry. That’s my job.” She patted her chest. “Your job is tae get good grades.”
“My job sucks.”
“Language.”
He rolled his eyes. “You still owe fifty pence.”
“I willnae forget,” she promised. They had a swear jar on the kitchen counter and donated the occasional coins to the church.
After a few moments passed and the abuse to his backpack slowed, he glanced at her and she asked, “So, are ye all right, about Isla?”
The two had only met a few times since Isla had worked for Paislee during Brody’s school hours, part-time, but death was still . . . gone.
“Aye. Can I still have ice cream?”
“That and Chinese?” She gave an exaggerated pout. “Dinnae push it, laddie.”
A smile made a brief appearance and then, “Do you think Grandpa will take me fishing?”
And the subject took a hard-right turn. “Why on earth would he do that?”
“I’ve seen other grandpas on the pier, that’s all.”
Just when she thought it was safe to let down her guard, Brody unintentionally struck her in the heart.
She’d chosen to raise Brody on her own, well, with Granny’s help—she couldn’t have done nearly as well without her grandmother’s support. Nairn had old-fashioned values, mired in the past, and being a single mother wasn’t something to brag on.
Father Dixon had been surprisingly supportive, but the ladies around Nairn muttered about loose behavior and Paislee Shaw being no better than she had to be.
Her grandmother had counseled her to keep her chin high and ignore the gossips, telling Paislee she had nothing to be ashamed of. She’d made her choice and would live by it.
Brody was worth every hardship.
“We can always ask,” she said. And if the old man said no, well, Paislee would take Brody fishing herself. Not her idea of fun, but raising a boy meant getting her hands dirty. Hadn’t she learned to toss the baseball overhand instead of underhand, like a girl?
After adjusting her throw last fall, they’d had a talk about equality of the sexes that had gone right over his young head. She prayed daily that she did right by him.
“Ice cream or dinner, ye can’t have both.”
“Orange chicken!” He smacked his lips.
Paislee started the engine. She’d told him early on that his dad wasn’t around anymore, which was the truth, and so far that answer had been enough.
As she studied his stubborn chin and pert nose, her heart literally thumped. Her head pounded.
What on earth would she do when it no longer was?
Chapter 6
Paislee woke with a start the next morning from strange noises downstairs. She sat up, her feet on the floor as she reached for her robe, before settling back with a sigh.
Angus Shaw was, no doubt, awake.
Her ears strained to hear. Was he going into the kitchen?
She hoped to put the kettle on, as she would need a large mug of Scottish Breakfast to get her through the day. A cold compress against her eyes after dinner yesterday had eased her headache before she went to bed.
She’d feare
d that Brody wouldn’t sleep well, so she’d been up half the night making sure he was okay—each time she peeked into his room down the hall from hers, he was sleeping on his side like an angel, auburn hair curled against the pillow and Wallace tucked in at the crook of his knees.
Isla’s ghost had kept her up the rest of the night, memories of her laughing at something that tickled her, or the rare glimpse of vulnerability in the girl’s eyes. She’d been the same age Paislee had been when she’d opened her specialty sweater and yarn shop. Thanks to Gran, she had a skill, unlike Isla, who hadn’t finished secondary school.
Paislee had started by selling scarves and knit caps at the church bazaar, and then she’d set up a website for Cashmere Crush. Selling sweaters to people all over the world brought in a wee bit more money than she’d make at the market.
She loved knitting, and could do it while minding the baby.
Granny challenged her to take an online business course, to think of having a brick-and-mortar place for community to gather, and support other businesses while making a decent living for her and Brody.
Paislee had started Cashmere Crush at twenty—the first year of the lease Granny had co-signed for her, but after that, the paperwork was in her name alone.
It was as if Gran had known she wouldn’t be around much longer, and she’d encouraged Paislee to be self-sufficient. Scots were known for their pride, and Paislee supposed she was no different.
Despite some wagging tongues and dark looks, Paislee had never taken a cent from the poor box or received benefits from the government for being an unwed single mum. Thank ye, Granny.
Now get up, lazybones!
She quickly brought her clothes down the hall to the upstairs bathroom she and Brody shared and showered to start her day. Fifteen minutes later, after she woke a groggy Brody, Wallace clicked at her heels, wanting out and then fed.
Grandpa Angus sat at the kitchen table, a steaming mug before him, the Brodies tea tin in the center of the round table. She opened the back door to the porch, which led to the fenced narrow garden, and Wallace woofed as he dashed out. “Morning.”
“Morning, lass. The bed was quite comfy, but I swear I heard yer gran’s ghostie yellin’ at me all night long. I might have tae sleep on the porch.”
The back porch was screened and maybe six feet wide. Brody’s old bicycle, the tire deflated, was stored there, along with gardening supplies. Who had time to garden, but they were Granny’s and she didn’t have the heart to toss them. There were also two wicker chairs and a skinny wicker bench she liked to sit and knit on when she passed the time.
“Suit yourself, but she’ll probably find you.”
From what she’d pieced together over the years, Grandpa and Gran had been happily married and had two children—her father, now dead, and a daughter, who had married and moved away, to Japan or something. Aunt Mora hadn’t even come home for Gran’s funeral.
Grandpa and Gran had been happily married until Gran found out about Craigh, Grandpa’s adult son with another woman. Paislee must have been fourteen at the time—everything was hushed up, but she remembered that her father had wanted to meet Craigh. She wondered now if her da had met his half brother before he’d died?
“Do you ever hear from Aunt Mora?” she asked.
He scratched at his thick silver beard. His brow furrowed, though it was hard to tell with the wrinkles. “She passed a few years back. Two of me children are gone, the other missin’. My wife—Agnes Shaw was me only wife, and the love of my bleak life—dead too. Makes you wonder why I’m still here,” he said.
His shadowed gaze found her. It did her heart good to know that he’d loved her gran, through it all—but how sad, that they couldn’t be together in the end.
“If you loved her, why’d ye cheat?”
“I didnae break me vows,” he said in a harsh tone, “but I had too wild of a time the night before. Being sloshed is no guid excuse, but I dinnae remember it at’all.”
Paislee would not point fingers about precaution. She knew all too well that youth and alcohol made you think yourself invincible.
Wallace barked to be let back in, so Paislee crossed the kitchen and opened the back door, closing it once the dog was inside. She gave the pooch an absent pat on the head.
“Did you try tae tell her?”
“Aye, but I dinnae know meself what happened.” Grandpa removed his glasses and positioned them next to his mug. “Mibbe I dinnae handle things as smoothly as I’d wished.”
Had Granny loved her husband so much that she couldn’t stand the pain of what she thought had happened? His intimacy with another woman had resulted in a child just months older than her firstborn.
Paislee had never loved like that and instead poured all of her devotion into raising Brody properly. Romance was not an option.
Grandpa slurped from his mug.
The idea of Grandpa “home” while she was gone didn’t sit right. Though she’d softened at his confession, Paislee didn’t trust him one hundred percent. She didn’t feel like he was dangerous to her or Brody or she wouldn’t have let him in—but this was her sanctuary.
“What are ye starin’ at?” Grandpa barked.
Paislee didn’t blink or back down. “I’d like your help in the shop today. I’ll train ye on the cash register and pay you hourly, as I planned tae do for Isla.” Fifteen hours. Her mind scrambled to form a plan that didn’t break the bank but allowed her to get to know him better—she hadn’t been serious about him working for room and board.
“I can handle a register,” he declared, fidgeting in his chair. Was he uncomfortable because of the conversation?
“I’ll show ye my way.” She liked to have a copy of her receipts and she kept tally of what sold on a spreadsheet at her shop computer.
“Bossy women,” he mumbled, crossing his arms over his thin stomach as he pushed back from the table. His flannel shirt had a frayed cuff, and he wore thick woolen socks.
“Get things done.” She would not put up with his whingeing much longer. “We leave at quarter till nine, so please be ready.”
She went to the pantry and pulled down a box of Weetabix, then grabbed some berries from the fridge, along with milk.
“Ye dinnae make the boy a hot breakfast?”
Her shoulders rose defensively. “Not every day, no. We usually save that for Sunday morning, which is our day off.” Yesterday had been the exception because neither of them had wanted it to be Monday morning. Maybe she’d had a bit of a premonition after all, for the day had been a tough one.
She poured dry kibble into Wallace’s dish and gave him fresh water.
“What hours do ye keep at the shop?” Grandpa Angus rose to add more hot water to his tea mug, then sat back down, his khakis faded at the knees.
“It depends on Brody’s schedule in the afternoon, but half past nine tae quarter past three Monday through Saturday is a typical day, and I bring him back tae the shop if I have work tae catch up on, then Thursday evenings, for a social hour where the ladies gather and work on a project.”
“Blether,” he said. “Like a bunch of hens.”
“Aye.” Paislee didn’t bother hiding her grin. “We gab about the most interesting things.” Anything from Widower Mann and his ladies to local politics.
He stirred his tea.
Paislee reached for her favorite mug—a birthday gift from Brody. She made her tea, adding a spoonful of sugar, then yelled up the stairs to her son.
The bathroom door slammed. Wallace barked from his position by her feet on the braided rug and then raced up the stairs, his short black terrier legs hidden behind a fringe of fur.
Half past eight—she sighed and went to make Brody’s lunch. He liked cheddar cheese on white bread with two slices of pickle. He didn’t care that the pickle made it soggy—and she didn’t complain, so long as he was eating.
His lunch bag was insulated and had a picture of Cawdor Castle on it. She added an apple and a packet of crisps.
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He said he ate the apple, but she doubted it. Last to go in was a chocolate biscuit, only to be had after the rest of his lunch. She had little illusion that it was not eaten first.
Grandpa Angus watched her with hooded eyes. “Ye know he tosses all but the chocolate biscuit.”
“I cannae verra well sit with him each day and make sure he eats it all, now can I?” She challenged her grandfather to say more, annoyed because he was only voicing aloud what she thought in her head.
Grandpa buried his face in his tea mug.
“We see Doc Whyte for his physical tomorrow afternoon. If he’s healthy, then . . .” Paislee shrugged and let the sentence trail off.
Gran had said to pick her battles, and this wasn’t one she was willing to fight—at ten, Brody knew what a healthy meal was, and that he was lucky to get it. He preferred to bring his rather than eat the school lunch.
She checked the clock on the wall. Thirty-five minutes past eight. Where was he?
Paislee walked to the end of the stairs prepared to bellow his name when he appeared at the top, his hair sticking straight up from washing his face.
She opted not to say a word about it. “Cereal’s ready; lunch is packed. We have tae leave in ten minutes.”
Brody skipped down the stairs before her, swinging his hand on the bottom post to swivel toward the kitchen.
She followed, taking stock. Clean denims, clean T-shirt, runners. “I’ll go upstairs and get your backpack. You eat, and dinnae feed Wallace from the table.” Paislee looked to her grandfather. “That goes for you, too.”
His silver brow rose. “I would never.”
How many times had she heard that? She tapped her watch. “Ten minutes before we need tae be at this door, ready tae go.”
She climbed the stairs, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and chose a lightweight cardigan sweater she’d knit with Gran—she loved the ice-blue yarn, which matched her eyes. Jamming her feet into her brown leather half boots, she grabbed her purse, Brody’s backpack, and made it downstairs in five minutes.
“Hustle,” she said, out of habit. It didn’t actually create speed, but it felt proactive.
