by Traci Hall
“You’re like a human internet search. I tell you one thing and you’ve got all the answers. Better than Siri.”
“I want you tae be okay. Besties forever.” Lydia’s phone alarm dinged and she checked the screen. “Time’s up—have tae get back tae the lair.”
Lydia, being the best estate agent around, had a prime office with a view of the Firth instead of a dragon’s den, but she used her power for good, going stiletto to Italian loafer on behalf of her client. Not that Paislee could afford to pay full price, but she made a fabulous praline scone that Lydia loved, and kept her in bespoke cashmere, from chic winter caps to the finest of stockings.
Brody was her godchild, which didn’t hurt.
“What about the Elder Care?” There was no sense in all of them being miserable if there was an alternate solution. And she needed to call the oil rig, Mona, that Craigh had supposedly been on.
“I’ll email you the information,” Lydia said. “I don’t have time tae take it on, but we could use some serious reform for our retirees. Maybe the Earl of Cawdor should tackle that while he’s making Nairn all shiny again. I saw him at a fundraiser last month, and he’s verra approachable.”
Paislee raised her eyes to the ceiling. Lydia was a social butterfly, hobnobbing at swanky dinners, while Paislee preferred smaller gatherings in the store. Hence, Lydia knew things going on in the world, while Paislee knew what Mrs. Williams was doing with her lawn boy while the mister was out of town.
“Since you have your ear tae the ground, what have ye heard about Isla’s death? I cannae find anything on the news.”
“Nothing,” Lydia said. “She’d moved away though, and just returned, so maybe there isnae anything tae hear?”
“Isla is dead, Lydia.”
“I know you cared, and I’m sairy. I’ll see what’s what,” Lydia assured her. “I have tae go.”
“Thanks. Wish me luck. I keep reminding myself that the headmaster cannae actually punish me.”
“Is he old? Flirt a little.”
What did the headmaster look like? She drew a blank. “I think . . . well, I dinnae ken. He’s usually scowling at me, so I don’t get past the overall disapproval part.”
“A little smile, a little wink.” Lydia shifted the strap of her designer bag over her arm and headed toward the door and her red Mercedes parked on the curb out front. “You can take this guy—you are an amazing woman with an amazing son.” She looked over her slender shoulder before leaving. “Mibbe yer worrying over nothing because he wants to discuss Brody being a prodigy?”
Paislee burst out laughing.
Chapter 9
The thought of her son being a prodigy kept Paislee in good spirits for the rest of the afternoon, and she drove to Fordythe with high hopes, arriving at four on the nose.
Of course, she’d planned to leave earlier, but a customer visiting Nairn from Wales had fallen in love with all the colors of yarn, as well as Paislee’s support of local goods and crafters. It had taken just a few minutes to ring up five skeins of Flora’s emerald green—how could she turn down a sale?
She parked in the school lot, next to the large fenced grassy field where Brody was playing football with his friends as he liked to do a few days per week until four thirty. Mr. Mallory, who taught P3, was out supervising, bundled up in a jacket beneath the gray sky. It smelled like it could rain.
She waved to her son, who saw her but didn’t wave back. That wasn’t like Brody. Embarrassed, was he? Or mad? What in blue blazes had happened?
Once inside the school lobby, Paislee was hit by the scent of craft paint from a recent project that lingered near the receptionist’s desk. No sign of Mrs. Jimenez.
Headmaster McCall, however, waited for her as soon as she walked in. He glanced at the square clock above the reception desk. Two minutes after four.
Ach. She stopped herself from apologizing for being late, but just barely.
He stiffly gestured her inside his office. He still wore his brown suit jacket, buttoned in the center. File cabinets took up an entire wall, and a large school calendar was on another. A single window looked out to the parking lot, which was what he viewed when he sat at his desk. There was her Juke.
Not a single personal picture anywhere. His diploma and certificates were framed on the wall behind him. He sat in a brown leather chair with a serious expression, his elbows on the desktop.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Paislee bristled as she perched on the edge of the hardwood seat opposite his desk as she recalled his directive. “You didnae leave me much choice.”
The headmaster was not old at all. A full head of thick blackish-brown hair—like dark cocoa, if she had to be precise—and kempt brows across a broad forehead. Brown eyes. His hair swooped to the side in a popular style, shorter in the back. His suit was brown, his shirt white, his tie a lighter brown. The man was thirty if he was a day and because of his youth seemed like he was ready to do his job to the letter.
“At Fordythe we consider the students’ allover well-being crucial to their development.”
His tone suggested that she was somehow lacking in his joint vision. “Aye?” Brody was, and always had been, her number one priority.
“I can see that you’ve been having some issues with time management. Even today you were late.” His gaze sharpened on her as if she’d earned a demerit.
Two minutes? She crossed her ankles below the chair and set her purse in her lap. “I run a business.”
“Selling yarn?” He steepled his hands before him, a smattering of dark hair on the knuckles, his nails short.
Could he be more condescending? She clenched her hands over the strap of her purse. “In addition tae specialty sweaters.”
“From home?”
She rattled off her premiere business address on Market. “I have a storefront.”
He sat back and rubbed his chin. “Employees?”
“Part-time,” she hedged. Grandpa counted, and Isla—
“So you could make arrangements tae be here on time?” His question was smug, as if he’d won a point.
Paislee’s temper flared and her chin hiked. She would not be intimidated—she did the best she could. “We have never been more than five minutes past—except when it was thirty because I had a flat tire on the Juke and Brody and I walked here, together. I personally explained his tardiness.”
“We have rules for a reason,” the headmaster said, bringing a school handbook from a drawer to lay before her on the desk. “Every parent signs it at the beginning of the school year. I have your copy here.”
Embarrassed, Paislee was tempted to leap across the desk and stuff the handbook down his righteous throat.
He flipped to the page with her signature, and her face flamed.
“You have, on record, six incidents of being tardy since the school year began. Brody has just missed”—he squeezed his thumb and finger together—“being given detention due tae the fact that the maximum for tardiness is three days per grading period. He is again at that threshold.”
Some of her fight deflated as she acknowledged the headmaster had a valid point.
Headmaster McCall used his pointer finger to tap next to the handbook. “When I brought him in to discuss this, your son explained something about a long-lost grandfather sleeping on a park bench and an eviction notice?”
Paislee’s grip was so tight on her purse strap she feared tearing it off entirely. Anger and humiliation warred within her.
His expression suggested that something was not on the up-and-up and he was on the hunt to find out what. “Naturally, I felt compelled tae reach out tae you, as this seems unlikely.”
She exhaled and counted to ten, calming herself down as she tried to rehearse a proper response in her mind.
Headmaster McCall stared at her across the desk, his brown eyes laser sharp. “Is your son in the habit of lying, Ms. Shaw?”
She reeled back on the chair. “Naw. He did not
make that up.”
He nudged the book aside and shook his head. Paislee could tell that he didn’t believe her. “Rules are meant tae create safe boundaries. When rules are not enforced at home, we find that spills over tae a student’s schoolwork.”
She glared at the man across from her. He was so correct in his manner that she suspected he had everything in his life smooth and controlled. “How would you know? Do you have children of your own?”
“N-no,” he sputtered.
“A wife?”
They both looked at his naked ring finger.
He tilted his head, his dark hair falling to one side. “I am not the one we’ve arranged this meeting for today.”
What was his issue with her? Was she not measuring up to some parental standard he thought she should reach?
“I find your attitude toward me and Brody tae be judgmental. Maybe in your fancy university they missed the part about compassion and understanding?”
His jaw tightened and he straightened in his seat. “I beg your pardon?”
“For the record, my grandfather was brought tae my place of business, as he had been sleeping in the park. He is now living with us until we locate his son. I did receive a notice that the building I lease my business through was sold without my knowledge, and I have thirty days tae relocate.”
He smoothed his tie, his nostrils slightly flared.
Paislee channeled Gran and managed a reasonable tone, finding strength in the truth. “My son knows better than tae lie; it’s good you called me in so that we could get this matter cleared up.” She rose, wishing she were taller than five foot three. “If he tells you that someone we know just died, well, that happened, too. I apologize for being two minutes tardy. We will not be late again.”
Paislee sailed out of his office, her vision blurry, but she did not cry—she would not. They would all be getting up thirty minutes earlier for the rest of the school year. It was only three blasted months. She could do it.
Brody saw her in the parking lot and took his time saying good-bye to his mates before getting in the Juke.
He buckled up, still not speaking to her. She didn’t look at the school window, not wanting to give Headmaster McCall the satisfaction of knowing she was upset.
“Why are you mad at me?” If anything, she should be the one having words with her son, telling all of their personal business to the judgmental headmaster.
“No one believed me!” Brody shouted. “Mrs. Martin didnae believe me, and sent me tae the headmaster—he asked if I was making up stories tae get out of trouble!”
She could well imagine how awful that must have been—she was still stung by it.
“I’m sairy, Brody.” No matter what else had happened, it was her responsibility to make sure they were at school on time—even better would be ten minutes early. It was easy to get caught up in the rush of doing one last thing, like the dishes, or a load of laundry that could wait until the weekend.
He looked at her to see if she meant it, so she nodded.
“I dinnae want detention.”
She flushed as she recalled the handbook of rules and her signature scrawled on the page. “I don’t blame ye. Tell you what, if we are late, for any reason, and you get detention, I will serve it with you. Fair?”
Brody’s eyes widened and then he grinned. “Aye.”
Her son knew that she meant every word—overwhelmed she might be, but they didn’t lie to each other—they’d made a pact to be honest, even if it hurt, back when he’d first asked about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.
Gran had said to let him be a child, but at six Brody was wicked smart and when he’d looked at Paislee, demanding the truth, well, she went with her gut and explained that they were stories to make you feel good—but he wasn’t to share this truth with any of his schoolmates.
To her knowledge, he hadn’t.
Paislee had one job to do on this earth, and raising Brody was more important than her business, or some headmaster judging her decisions.
She would stand by her choices.
When they arrived home, Brody sprinted out back and threw a ball to play with Wallace. Her son’s laughter was better medicine than a cup of tea. Her grandfather sat on the porch with a newspaper and what smelled like Earl Grey with whisky. Specifically, Glenlivet.
Had he gotten into her stash behind the oatmeal?
“Hiya,” she said in greeting. “I see you found more than the soup?”
He tugged his beard, his eyes twinkling behind his black frames. “I didnae think ye’d begrudge your grandad a nip.”
“So long as you left me some.” Paislee rarely imbibed, but there were times when even Gran had claimed a dram of whisky to be what the doctor ordered.
His silver brows slammed together. “A gentleman never drains the last of the bottle. I’ll replace it when I get me check.”
Paislee sat and sipped from his mug, her eyes watering at the strong spirits. “I think we should have a heart-tae-heart.”
He stiffened but then met her eyes. “Aboot?”
“I had a meeting with the headmaster today at school, and I cannae let Brody be one second late for the rest of the year.”
“How long?”
“Three months.” She held up her palm as she considered just how her grandpa might best be of assistance. “We havenae had a chance tae really discuss your living situation.”
“Craigh is missing,” he said defensively.
“I will call the Mona. You can help me out, too.” She sat on the edge of the wicker chair to make eye contact—no games.
“How is that, lass?”
“Lydia is going tae email me a contact at Elder Care services in Inverness, in case there is some financial aid you can receive, or even housing?”
“Charity.” His body went rigid. “I’m not movin’ into a home—I’d rather take me chances camping, like I told ye.”
“No camping!” She tilted her head back in frustration before looking at him again. “And it isnae charity. Ye worked all yer life and paid into the system. It’s time the system paid ye back, that’s all. And I dinnae know if this will help. We just need tae make a few phone calls tae see if you can have your own place.”
He drained his tea. “No.”
She recognized his pride and gently clasped his wrist. “Grandpa Angus, please make the calls. Get information. You are welcome tae stay here—”
“Just until we find Craigh. I have a bit of money every month, and I was a commercial fisherman before me back gave out. I can fetch us Sunday dinner, so we willnae be starvin’.”
Her Sundays were her day to sort socks and catch up with household chores as she spent time with Brody and, if Craigh didn’t turn up, her grandfather. “I don’t fish, but Brody mentioned he’d like tae give it a try.” She glanced out at Brody, who was chasing Wallace around the clothesline pole.
“I’m no babysitter, or free labor.”
Why did he have to be so darn prickly? Scottish pride combined with old age. Ach. “I think we can work out an arrangement that suits us both.” He opened his mouth and she raised her hand. “I know, I know, just until we find Craigh.”
Brody and Wallace raced up the steps of the porch and back down again. Paislee rose and held her hand out for Grandpa’s mug.
“What are ye doin’?”
“Making us each a mug of ‘tea,’ is that awright?” She had no plans to leave for the night, and it had been one heck of a day.
Grandpa grinned but then pushed her gently down to the wicker chair. “I’ll get it, lass. Why don’t ye put yer feet up?”
He shuffled inside and Paislee rested her feet on an old milk crate. All she needed was her knitting. There were a million things she could be doing, but at this moment watching Brody and Wallace chase a yellow ball around her back garden was what she wanted to do most of all.
Grandpa bumped out the back with a tray of fortified tea and crackers with hard cheese. “Here ye are, lass.”
&nbs
p; He creaked down, his bones popping like the wicker chair. With a smack of his lips he clinked his mug to hers.
“Slainte,” she said.
“Do dheagh shlàinte!”
They drank.
Chapter 10
As promised, Paislee dropped Brody off at school Wednesday morning at quarter till nine and tried not to take offense when Headmaster McCall politely clapped his hands. Arrogant man.
She could own up to her mistakes—but would he? Judging her on who knows what merit, and wrong about it besides.
Biting back a colorful complaint, she drove with her grandfather to Cashmere Crush. The idea of losing this place, so close to the bandstand and free parking, and downtown festivals like the one this Saturday, physically hurt her heart.
She entered the shop with Grandpa on her heels, his brown work boots clomping against her polished cement floor. “Get the light?” she asked.
He did, and she relaxed in the familiar space. The interior was cozy and bright with rows and rows of color-coordinated skeins of yarn. Granny’s voice was at the back of her head—change, she’d say, was inevitable.
How could she manage this situation best? She would have to talk with Flora, whose natural-dyed-yarn website business was thriving, about ways to increase her online sweater sales. She’d started out her business that way but had changed her focus to the storefront.
“I hear ye sighin’,” Grandpa complained. “What now?”
“Nothing new—but I think I have plenty tae worry about, don’t you?”
“Your choice, but it’s a waste a time.”
“You know, I used tae have a few minutes of quiet in the morning?”
“I’m happy tae go home.”
They both bit their tongues at the fact that he didn’t have one.
His home with her was temporary—as he kept saying.
“Sairy,” Paislee said, putting her purse beneath the register. “I didnae sleep well last night. I kept dreaming of Isla.” The girl had been crying and asking for help.
He crossed his arms, the elbows of his blue chambray shirt a lighter blue but clean. “It’s a shame we havenae heard what happened tae her, and odd that it’s been out of the news.”
