Scotlander, page 21
She looked at him wide-eyed with disbelief. ‘Finn! It’s a shambles. I lied to these people. They’re good, lovely folk who wanted a wee bit of a holiday and I’ve got them building stone dykes and clearing out brambles and clambering round a castle that is a health-and-safety disaster zone. I’m off my heid, is what I am.’
A hug would’ve been useful here. Some words of encouragement. Unfortunately, avoiding eye contact was what he and Orla were used to. They acknowledged one another, sure, but they didn’t ever really look at one another.
He looked at his stepsister now. Really looked at her. A year younger than him, Orla should be glowing with youth. A thirty-two-year-old mum of two living on a beautiful farm on the edge of a breathtaking loch, surrounded by villagers she’d known since she was in nappies. She was in the heart of a community that had supported her from the very beginning. And she looked absolutely knackered.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, feeling his chest release after years of waiting for just this moment.
‘For what?’
‘All of it. I—’ He hesitated, unsure if he should say anything and then thought, Screw it. In for a penny and all that. ‘I could’ve been a better brother to you and I – I just want you to know that I’m here now. For whatever you need.’
Orla’s spine endured a short, sharp shudder. In its wake, she stood, rapid-blinking at the lunch basket, as if giving herself permission to believe him would be a step too far. Her response felt like a sucker punch. Not that he’d been expecting a warm hug and tears of gratitude. He hadn’t earnt her trust. He couldn’t expect it with a few muttered half sentences of apology.
‘Aye,’ she finally said. ‘Right you are.’
‘You know,’ he pressed on. ‘The bank manager said there are buyers if we want. Ones with deep pockets.’
She nodded, tears springing to her eyes. They weren’t tears of relief.
He ducked his head until he was looking her squarely in the eye. ‘We won’t let them take it, Orla. The farm. The castle. Any of it. Okay?’
A round of rigorous nodding and lip biting ensued. When she’d gathered herself, she pointed at the basket. ‘I put a cheese and pickle sandwich in there for you.’
He pressed his hand to his chest in thanks. This was Orla’s love language. Knowing and making someone’s favourite food.
‘Thank you,’ he said, meaning so much more than those two little words could offer. Thank you for not making him pay for being such a complicated stepbrother. For leaving her and her family to sort out the farm even though, in name, it was his.
Leaving had been his way of showing them that he thought of the place as theirs. The grand gesture had totally backfired. He’d failed to notice that they’d been keeping the place ready and waiting for him, just the way he liked it, for when, or if, he returned. An epic, sprawling gift of the Magi. They had loved him like family all along. Unconditionally.
If Willa were here, she would be stage-whispering instructions like, Hug her or Say something nice about her cooking. His lips twitched at the thought and Orla must’ve seen something in it because she smiled back at him.
After it all got a bit too much, standing there smiling at one another, Orla dug into her pinafore and pulled out a list. ‘These folk might be useful to speak to, down the village. They know about’ – she fanned her hand across her outfit and then out towards the castle – ‘the situation.’
‘Thanks.’ He turned to go, digging into his pocket for his keys, then stopped. ‘Orla?’
She turned round and smiled, the worry already eased from her eyes.
‘If it doesn’t work out, getting the money for the harvester, you and Dougie, your kids and your dad, I’ll look after you, alright?’
‘I know, Finn,’ she said. ‘You’ve always been there for us.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When Willa emerged from her hayloft, the first person her eyes lit on was Finn. He didn’t say anything, but she could tell from the softening of his features that he liked what he saw. Though everyone was gathered in the courtyard, pouring teas and coffees for themselves, accepting bowls of porridge, and stretching out the kinks from the previous day’s work, the moment felt strangely private. A Prince-Charming-sees-his-Cinderella-type moment.
Fenella’s piercing wolf-whistle cut through it the way a heavy metal soundtrack broke into a costume drama. Discordantly.
‘Cooooeeee! Someone’s looking proper sick today.’ It was difficult to tell if Fenella was pleased or angered by this.
Jennifer wondered aloud about bad things actually being good things.
Gabe raised his tin coffee mug and winked at her.
ChiChi sent a whorl of ululation her way and Trevor said, ‘I’d do that’ to which he received a punch in the arm from Jules and a noogie from Blair.
Willa flushed. She wasn’t used to being the centre of attention. Not like this. But before the group allowed her to descend, they demanded she give them all a twirl. She had to admit, she loved the dress Orla had brought to her earlier this morning. It was a beautiful, deep forest green tartan with a little cape thing sewn down the back. A perfect match to the claret red triangle sweater wrap Jennifer had gifted her last night at the firepit.
As she stood there, all eyes shining up at her, she felt ridiculous and a little bit like a princess. She knew she wasn’t revolting to look at, but years of knowing there was always someone thinner, prettier, or more famous than her had inured her to being skipped over. Left on the side lines while others basked in the limelight. Something that used to annoy Valentina no end. You’re freaking catnip, mija. The only one who doesn’t know it is you.
So, today, for her best friend and for herself, she enjoyed the attention. Basked in their praise, even letting some of it seep in. After giving everyone a regal wave, she slid down the banister to join them.
Once she’d got a mug of coffee (a new addition to breakfast, courtesy of Lachlan, who’d said he’d had enough of Gabe glowering like Black Jack Randall in the morning. Still gorgeous, he’d quipped, but a right proper arsehole to garden with), Willa settled herself and her preponderance of petticoats on to a stump beside Gabe. They clinked mugs.
‘Howzit?’ she asked.
‘Bueno.’ He yawned, then apologised. ‘I had to do some work last night. Didn’t get much sleep.’ Then he said something in Spanish that sounded like a prayer of thanks to the coffee gods.
She clinked her mug to his again. ‘Speaking of work . . .’ Willa not-so-casually segued.
Gabe held up a hand, stopping her. ‘This better not be you telling me you’re bailing and heading back to LA.’
‘No.’ It hadn’t been, but now that he mentioned it . . . maybe after today’s errands with Finn . . .
Gabe’s expression hardened. ‘Willa?’ He drew out her name in a dark, warning tone. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
Rather a lot as it turned out. But she’d promised not to say anything.
She scrunched up her nose, then told him about Bryony’s latest series of empire-building manoeuvres.
He fuzzed his lips. ‘I know the type. Don’t worry. She’ll fuck up soon enough and they’ll come running to you. Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen. And when they come back? Pay rise and promotion. Those are your terms, okay, Willaford?’
Instinct tugged her spine upwards at the use of her full name. Val was the only person who got to call her that. She considered the alternative – never hearing it again – and decided to let the usual rebuke she would have unleashed go unsaid. Gabe could use her name. For now.
‘Cool. Got it. Thanks, boss.’ They sat in silence, drinking their coffee, the banter of the group around them now more familiar with the handful of days they’d spent together (‘Peee-yew! Someone forgot their pit stick this morning’) and, Willa noticed, a tiny bit edgier. (‘No wonder they skipped over all these bits in the books. Writing about doing the same chores day after day would not have made these bestsellers.’)
Willa bit her tongue. That would change. Later today, if everything went well. But on the off chance it didn’t, she was sworn to silence.
Finn joined them, holding out a plate piled high with steaming scones and a pot of raspberry jam.
Gabe demurred. Willa took one then stepped back as her fellow travellers greedily fell upon the rest of the pile.
‘Wow!’ Jules pointed at her half-eaten scone. ‘These are amazing! How does Orla get them so light?’
‘They’re actually from Balcraigie Bakehouse,’ Finn explained. ‘Orla’s mate from school runs it now. Mhairi Pringle.’
Willa took a bite of her untouched scone. Then another. And another. It was amazing. Fluffy. Light. Buttery. If there was a heaven, these should be the clouds. ‘They’re incredible.’
‘Aye. Her bread’s brilliant too,’ Finn said, lavishing his own scone with a huge dollop of jam. ‘She uses the same oven the bakehouse had installed when it was built away back in the nineteenth century.’
After enjoying the few remaining mouthfuls, a thought came to her. ‘Gabe?’ she asked as innocently as she could.
‘Mmm?’
‘If you had to give tips to one of your clients who was, say, trying to rehabilitate their image with a community who might be predisposed to find them . . . standoffish . . . What would you advise?’
Finn pointedly poured the remains of the jam on to his scone.
Gabe stared at his plate while he considered the question. ‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
He glanced across at Finn who instantly looked away, then caught Willa’s eyes. ‘Why they’d had the rift in the first place.’
‘Oh, well . . . a misunderstanding. This is totally hypothetical, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Gabe gave her a sure-it-is nod.
Finn carried the platter round the group again, but Willa could tell he was still listening.
‘So, if this hypothetical person had been the unfortunate victim of say . . . poor branding . . . people thought they were one thing when, really, they were something else altogether . . . what would you say their best line of combatting the ill will would be?’
‘Behave the way they wanted people to see them. Even if they weren’t feeling it yet. Project the image and the energy of the type of person you want them to respond to.’ Gabe licked some jam off his fingers then finished his coffee. ‘No matter how broad-minded people like to think they are, we’re wired to be responsive to threats. If you normally wander round in a cloud of thunder . . .’ Again, his eyes drifted to Finn.
Willa cut in, ‘Like you did the first time we met?’
Gabe laughed. ‘Yes. Until you plied me with Rocky Mountain Bear Fuckers, I was a bit of an ass.’
She pressed her hands to her heart with a squishy awww. ‘Don’t worry. You made up for it.’
There had been extenuating circumstances. Same for Finn.
‘And I made up for it by . . .’ Gabe beckoned for her to repeat the lesson he’d just taught her.
‘Behaving the way you wanted to be perceived.’
Again, Val’s note came to her. Sometimes you have to step away from the person you think you are, to become the person you want to be.
‘Thanks, muchacho.’ She rose and gave his cheek a kiss. ‘Right, then, Finlay.’ She turned round, nearly knocking Finn over with her skirts. ‘You ready to head into the roaring metropolis that is downtown Balcraigie?’
‘Very subtle, Willa.’ Finn jammed the key into his jeep.
‘Thank you.’ She beamed at him angelically. ‘I thought so.’
He scowled. ‘I know how to behave nicely.’
‘Obviously. I am bearing witness to it.’ She clicked her seatbelt in place nanoseconds before Finn pressed his steel-toed boot to the accelerator. After a few minutes of terse silence she said, ‘I just thought as Gabe does this for a living – rebrands people – a few last-minute tips wouldn’t go astray.’
‘I know.’ He huffed out a sigh then admitted, ‘I guess I’m a bit nervous. Orla’s the one who usually goes into town and does this kind of thing.’
‘Why didn’t you ask her to come?’
She knew why but thought Finn could do with the reminder.
‘Because there’s no future for me here if I keep pushing people away.’
‘Very good, Finn. That was very Dr Phil of you.’ She gave him a sunshiny grin. ‘Now then. Let me see your most charming smile.’
He shot her a rictus-like grin.
It was going to be a long day.
‘Finn.’ Willa nudged him. ‘You have to go into the shop to make a transaction.’
‘I know. Don’t rush me, lass.’
They both stared at the glass-paned door, its name written in swirly gold letters just like it had been since the store had opened in 1843 according to the little plaque to the left of it.
She gave him a few moments, but . . . nothing.
‘Dude. It’s a ribbon store.’
‘Aye,’ he snapped back. ‘I know what type of shop it is. And I’ll thank you to remember it’s actually called a haberdashery establishment.’
An elderly couple passing by overheard the exchange and tsked.
Willa sniggered. For some reason she was finding this fun. Loads better than convincing the latest Coachella stars into a pre-performance interview. This version of Finn in a grump was delightful. It was like being with the Grinch as he fought his deeply ingrained habits in order to embody new ones that allowed him to be happy.
They’d started at the bakery on the premise that, as the owner was Orla’s long-term school friend and they’d just scoffed down a massive pile of her scones, it would be easy. It hadn’t gone quite as smoothly as anticipated. Instead of adopting the happy-to-help-a-mate tone Finn had been hoping for, Mhairi, who ran the place, went full on so-you’re-the-asshole-who’s-been-treating-his-stepsister-like-shite-all-these-years. To the point Willa, who had decided to stand outside and peep in on the whole thing through the window, had heard every word.
Rant finished, Willa expected Finn to nod, thank her for her feedback and walk out.
But he’d surprised her. Stuck to his guns. He’d taken Mhairi’s criticisms on the chin, agreed that he could’ve done more on the farm and, using Jules’s new project as bait, convinced her to come out to Balcraigie to take a look at the castle’s old oven and bring along a few loaves of bread as well. Day old, but still. He’d walked out with a smile on his face and a little kick to his step. It had been fun to be a part of it.
Before she had a chance to come up with some more words of encouragement, Finn had sucked in a big breath, grabbed the brass doorknob, and pulled her inside with him as he offered hearty greetings over the tinkling of the entry bell.
‘Well,’ said the proprietress, a Mrs-Claus-type figure dressed in a long tartan skirt and an immaculate white top. ‘If it isn’t young Finlay Jamieson.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Donaldson.’ Finn nodded his head. ‘Are you well today?’
‘Oh, aye. Not much changed since the last time you were in.’
His face clouded briefly as the memory of whatever it was she’d referred to hit. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
‘Apologies for that, Mrs Donaldson. I wasn’t myself then.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t chastising you, lad. How could you’ve been on top form what with laying your father to rest and all.’
Willa sent him a look and, perhaps because he hadn’t expected the kindness of Mrs Donaldson’s response, he explained to Willa, ‘I came with my mum before Dad’s funeral and might have knocked all the button jars off the counter.’ He pointed at five huge jars filled with a mismatch of buttons.
Mrs Donaldson explained. ‘Folk bring in their spares and when someone’s putting together a new outfit, we try to help with these.’ She looked at Finn and said, ‘It took some time to pick them all up, didn’t it? Two days, was it? Three? Anyway, back in town for the tattie holidays, are you? Taking some time off from the bright lights of Inverness and slumming it with the country folk?’
Willa hid a smirk. From what Finn had told her, Inverness was about as rock and roll as the Yukon.
Finn nodded. ‘I thought Orla and Dougie might need a hand what with . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘. . . things being tricky at the farm.’
Mrs Donaldson gave him a savvy look. ‘I’m sure they appreciate that help, Finlay. And that of your – is this your girlfriend?’
Willa looked at Finn. This should be interesting.
‘She’s, ah . . . she’s my – mo nighean donn.’ He gave a solid nod as if he’d decided to commit to the whole Outlander thing.
Mrs Donaldson unleashed a full bright smile. ‘Ah, well. That’s lovely to hear. Many congratulations to you, Finlay and . . .’
‘Willa.’ Willa reached forward and the women shook hands.
‘Very good, very good.’ Mrs Donaldson wiped her hands as if that was the gossip part of their session finished, freeing them to move on to other, more pressing topics. ‘So! What brings you to Donaldson Haberdashery today?’
Chapter Thirty
A few hours later, Willa stood back so Finn could have a preview of her efforts. Swags of heather, courtesy of the local forager, hung from the exposed beams, and kerosene lamps (borrowed from a local auction house) warmed the darker corners the fading sunlight didn’t reach. The old breakfast table had been scrubbed until it glowed like honey. He’d never seen the potting shed look this inviting. More than that, it looked Jacobean. ‘There’s no need for the collywobbles, Willa. They’re going to love it.’
Her forehead crinkled. ‘Collywobbles?’
‘Nerves.’
She bit down on her full bottom lip and shook her head. She didn’t believe him. He almost laughed at the role reversal. She’d been his maypole throughout the morning’s ‘amends trip’ as he’d named it. She’d been there for him, a kind, generous cheerleader as he’d rehabilitated his image to the community.
It was his turn to do the same for her.
He held out his hands and looked around. ‘I feel like I’m in the show.’
