Summer at the Highland Coral Beach (The Port Willow Bay series Port Willow Bay)

by Kiley Dunbar

  And she sat there for hours, occasionally stopping to pour water into her cupped hands for Echo to drink, and got sunburn on her nose and midges in her hair in spite of the citronella oil and the factor thirty, and it was wonderful.

  As she walked back to the inn that evening with the sky turning a cool pink before her as the sun sank, she told Echo, who trotted along happily beside her, that she could do this.

  ‘I can be on my own. It’s not so bad after all. See, Echo, it’s easy!’

  As soon as they reached the waterfront Echo caught the smell of fish and chips and ran off, leaving Beatrice to amble slowly back to the inn, swinging the picnic leftovers, litter and her new books in their bags, letting them bump against her calves. She was smiling to herself, her shoulders loose and her body at ease. Yes, she thought, I can do this.

  The note she found taped to her door after she climbed the stairs ready for a long bath and a longer sleep, the absolute cherry on top of her perfect summer’s day, confirmed for her that she had new friends and that they wanted her to stay and be happy. She clasped the note in her hands as she let the door shut behind her, grinning as she re-read it.

  The Harvest Home ceilidh planning committee convenes tomorrow at ten a.m. sharp in the bar room. We’ll be needing our chief organiser there, so dinnae miss it! Atholl asked for you specially (wink wink!)

  Night night, Kitty

  X

  Chapter Eighteen

  Best Laid Plans

  ‘Somebody made quite an impression at Skye, I see.’

  Beatrice was learning that Kitty whispering was as loud as anyone else talking normally but since they were alone in the bar room she didn’t mind.

  ‘Oh no, with Atholl’s mum, you mean? I’m mortified I ran off like that, she must be wonder—’

  ‘Not Mrs Fergusson, no. Atholl himself! He was loiterin’ round the inn yesterday like a lost thing. I saw him casting an eye along the high street umpteen times watchin’ for you coming back.’

  ‘He was probably worried about Echo. He followed me on my walk… What? Why are you waggling your eyebrows at me?’

  ‘You’re no’ the only one that can matchmake, you know.’

  ‘Oh Kitty, no! Stop grinning like that. No, don’t do anything.’ No amount of hand waving and panic was going to stop whatever Kitty was planning, she could tell. ‘Please just leave it…’

  ‘All set?’ Atholl’s voice was bright and cheerful from the doorway. Both women turned to watch him come in like schoolgirls caught talking about a teacher.

  Beatrice swallowed, shame-faced, before it struck her that Atholl wasn’t in his usual checked Barbour shirts and cords, instead he wore a navy and white thinly striped top with a widely slashed neckline that showed a tantalising glimpse of pale collar bone. The cotton stretched perfectly over his biceps and shoulders reminding Beatrice with a jolt of how good it had felt to be held against them, so warm and hard and broad, that afternoon on Skye.

  Kitty was distinctly giggling. There was nothing Beatrice could do but sit straight in her chair and inspect her hands.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he asked warily as he pulled up the chair next to Kitty.

  ‘Actually, Atholl, I’m keeping that seat for your brother,’ Kitty said solemnly.

  ‘Oh, right-o.’ Atholl shifted his long body into the chair directly across the small bar table from Beatrice.

  Kitty looked back and forth between them, pleased with herself and tipping her head none too subtly at Atholl to say something.

  Atholl cleared his throat, drawing his chair in and shuffling some papers in his hands, until at last he looked up. ‘Mornin’, Beattie. Good walk yesterday?’

  ‘Beattie!’ Kitty spluttered with a laugh that she couldn’t hold in and promptly got up and left the table.

  ‘Where are you away to?’ Atholl asked her.

  ‘I’ll bring us some coffee. You cannae have a meeting without coffee, Atholl.’ As Kitty left the room, and consumed with the wicked spirit of revenge, she threw a wink over Atholl’s back towards Beatrice.

  ‘You dinnae mind me calling you Beattie just now? I dinnae ken why I did that.’

  Beatrice was surprised to find she didn’t mind it one bit, even though it was a name she’d have associated with her great granny’s generation. ‘I like it. Seth gave it to me, my Highland nickname.’

  ‘That’s right, he did.’

  Beatrice could have sworn that a look of blushing shame crossed Atholl’s face as they both remembered the way they’d sniped at one another less than a week ago and how he’d chided her for the fact she wouldn’t be sticking around long enough for nicknames.

  Realising they were both still looking at each other and nobody was saying anything, Beatrice rushed out some words. ‘Umm, so, yeah… I had a perfect day yesterday. Thanks for the picnic. We both loved it. Echo and I, that is.’

  ‘I wondered where the wee menace had got to.’

  ‘My dog in shining armour. I think he was protecting me from adders.’

  ‘I hate to burst yur bubble but he’d have run a mile had he seen one. Hates ’em.’

  She found she was still watching him and it was hard to draw her eyes away from his pale curling lips. Had he looked this good before she spent her day alone thinking about his kindness and how she’d caused him nothing but trouble since she arrived?

  ‘Well, there were no snakes, thankfully, and it was actually really, really, peaceful out there. I don’t think I could have got a day like that anywhere else in the world but here in the Highlands.’

  ‘I’m glad tae hear that. I missed you though.’ Atholl blurted the words before inhaling a breath that stopped his lips and widened his eyes.

  ‘Coffee’s up!’ called Kitty as she bustled in with a tray and Gene, still dressed in his chef’s whites, loping placidly behind her.

  Beatrice, a little put off by the interruption and wanting to hear more about all the missing her that Atholl had been doing, eyed Kitty’s tray as it was set down, noticing eight tumblers amongst the steaming mugs. ‘Whisky? I’ll stick to coffee thanks.’

  ‘The whisky’s no’ for us,’ said Atholl. ‘You’ll see,’ he added wryly.

  Beatrice shrugged, amused. ‘O-kay.’

  She passed Atholl his mug, turning the handle to face him before reaching for her own, not noticing the little lift in his brows at that gesture.

  Aware that he was watching her as she took her first sip, it was just possible she exaggerated the long ‘mmm’ as she lowered the mug again and rubbed her shoulders into the chair contentedly. ‘Nice coffee, thanks Kitty.’

  Kitty smirked knowingly as she settled beside Gene, her hand sliding over his thigh as she pulled her chair closer to his.

  For a moment all eyes fell on Gene who had the look of a lottery winner upon his face. Beatrice was aware of Atholl bobbing his head and smiling to himself at the sight of the new couple. She wondered if he too could feel the charge in the air that they were creating and a part of her wished she could mirror Kitty by reaching across the table and laying a hand upon Atholl, but of course, she couldn’t. That would be totally inappropriate. They were just friends, after all, and if she wanted more she’d have to tentatively find out whether he really was interested in her. And just how did she go about doing that again? Asking him suddenly seemed impossible.

  ‘Go ahead, Bea, call the meeting…’ Kitty prompted.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘We all ken you’re quite the organiser.’ This was delivered with a salacious twist of her lips.

  ‘And we’re glad o’ it,’ Gene piped up, pressing his hand on top of Kitty’s against his thigh, making Kitty turn her eyes back to his and they both seemed to get lost in their shared gaze.

  A little flustered, and a tiny bit jealous, Beatrice shifted in her chair so she wouldn’t have to watch Eugene and Kitty’s flirting. ‘Ahum,’ she cleared her throat, suddenly nervous. ‘OK… um, this is the Harvest Home ceilidh planning committee. I have actually made a
few notes.’ She drew out the list she’d hastily scribbled last night. ‘First… music?’

  ‘I’ve had the Garleton band booked in since last year,’ said Atholl. ‘I’m picking up one of the lads from Fort William on Saturday morning and the rest are coming in their van with their instruments in the afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, OK, good.’ Beatrice made a note. ‘Food?’

  ‘That’ll be me.’ Gene raised a bony finger. ‘It’ll be shortbread and sandwiches. And Mrs Mair’s gonnae bake ten loaves o’ her famous black bun this afternoon.’

  ‘Perfect.’ Beatrice ticked at her list, aware that Atholl was watching her over his coffee cup. ‘And drinks?’

  ‘I’m no’ too late, am I?’ Seth had let himself in the pub door and was pulling off his bicycle clips.

  Beatrice watched him shuffle in, his eyes bright behind his spectacles, and still wearing his green woollen beanie even though the sun was streaming in through the bar windows.

  ‘Is that for me?’ Seth asked, lifting a whisky and sipping it before anyone could answer.

  Atholl met Beatrice’s eye and smiled meaningfully. She grinned back.

  ‘What are we talking about?’ Seth asked, squeezing in beside Atholl, forcing him to shift around the table a little. Beatrice jolted at the sensation of Atholl’s booted foot coming to rest up against her own, bare, foot. She had slipped off her black summer pumps under the table at the start of the meeting. Instead of moving away now, she crossed her ankles, letting her bare arches softly press against Atholl’s boots. Their eyes met in sudden heavy silence.

  Kitty was talking to Seth, saying something about making Gene’s Highland punch recipe but Beatrice couldn’t hear a thing.

  Atholl’s eyes, suddenly heavy-lidded, followed Beatrice’s hand as she raised it to her ear and nervously lifted a strand of hair, tucking it behind. She hoped the long silver earring she’d exposed was shining against her throat, drawing his eye all the more, and yet, all the while, she was beginning to wish he’d tear his eyes away before she lost her cool and melted onto the floor.

  ‘Bea. Bea? Earth to Chairperson Bea,’ Kitty called through the heat haze.

  ‘Oh! Yes, where were we? Right…’ Beatrice tried to concentrate on the notes in her hand, but dammit, if Atholl wasn’t hitching up the sleeves on his Breton top and his wrists were just right there flexing in front of her…

  ‘New clothes, brother?’ Gene interjected, suddenly alert to Atholl’s new look.

  ‘Oh, uh, aye.’

  ‘Boden, is it?’ Kitty didn’t even try to hide her delight.

  ‘Eh… well, yes,’ he flustered. ‘Beattie mentioned she liked them and I needed some new things, so… Can we no’ get on wi’ this meeting!’

  Beatrice sat upright again, feeling Gene and Kitty’s leery smirks burning her cheeks. Shifting her feet away from Atholl’s she was struck almost breathless to find him stretching his legs beneath the table searching for her once more and gently slipping a boot between her feet.

  ‘So… other entertainment!’ Beatrice said in an unexpectedly pitchy voice, intently consulting her list, peering at the words through exaggeratedly narrowed eyes. She would concentrate. Meetings were her thing. She was good at this. Then again, she was normally sitting across the table from Helen Smethwick or nice but dim Ben, the twenty-year-old Hub intern who was forever bored and fiddling with his phone, making everyone wonder how he’d got the job until it came out that he was Helen’s nephew. Beatrice was definitely not used to working opposite distractingly handsome Scotsmen with all the muscles and the rough-skinned, crafty hands and the tight red curls and long auburn lashes…

  Seth was looking expectantly at her. ‘I said I’ll be reciting my poetry. You’ll be wantin’ to write that doon.’ He nodded at Beatrice’s notepaper.

  ‘Jist make sure it’s something tasteful,’ Atholl warned. ‘Like Robert Burns, and no’ that filthy limerick about the young lady from Ecclefechan that you did last year.’

  Seth wasn’t exactly convincing when he promised he would keep it clean. Then Atholl had surprised everyone by announcing he’d play his fiddle. Beatrice had noted this down too, her eyebrows raised and wondering if there was no end to his talents.

  Before long the other whisky glasses had been claimed. First, by Mr Shirlaw from the stores who dropped round the first prize for the raffle, a fine fishing rod.

  ‘It’s for charity,’ Atholl told Beatrice, watching her scribbling her notes. ‘For the lifeboats.’

  In came Patrick the fishmonger, and Davy McTavish the builder, followed by Tam from the chippy, all asking if the inn still needed their spare chairs and tables to line the road outside with and each one was rewarded with a dram from the tray.

  Just as Eugene was explaining that there would be so many people coming to the ceilidh that the drinkers would spill out onto the streets to find seats, and so the roadside would be decorated with bunting strung from each window and streetlight, the silversmith dropped by with a thin twisted ring in a pretty box, and the owner of the tartan mill called in with a kilt pin to raffle, both of the visitors effusively praising Atholl for supplying the sudden boost to their businesses with his clever crafting holidays idea. Atholl met their warm embraces and slapped their shoulders and handed out the tumblers and not a man refused.

  Finally Mr Garstang called by, offering a skilfully made watercolour of Port Willow harbour as a prize. Beatrice grabbed the opportunity to ask how Jillian and Cheryl were getting on with their lessons.

  ‘Aye, they were making guid progress at first, before they got hold o’ the notion that I needed a… what did they call it?’

  ‘A makeover, by any chance?’ said Gene.

  ‘Aye, that’s the one. Said I was a secret silver fox, whatever that is, and now look at me.’ He swept his very arty black beret off his head to reveal choppy cropped locks, definitely the handiwork of the Bobby Dazzler girls. ‘They’ve paintings they wanted to donate to the raffle too, but they’re no’ quite finished them yet. Anyway, I’d best be making tracks, we’re doing thermal mud masks this afternoon. Oh, and Beatrice? That’s you, isn’t it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘They told me to mention they’d come to your room before the ceilidh to do your hair and make-up.’

  At this, Mrs Mair, who had been pottering at the bar, announced that she had a dress and dancing shoes for Beatrice to wear. They had been her daughter’s but since she was in South Africa now, she wouldn’t mind her borrowing them.

  Delightedly, Beatrice noted all this down, and everyone raised their drinks to toast a very successful meeting. Soon she was asking if anyone had any other business and getting ready to draw the meeting to a close.

  Gene interrupted her closing remarks. ‘Whit aboot the caller?’

  ‘The what?’ said Beatrice.

  ‘A caller tells everyone on the dancefloor what to do next… for the uninitiated,’ Kitty added. ‘And the ceilidh band are supplying their own.’

  ‘For the Sassenachs like me, you mean?’ said Beatrice. ‘Ooh, there’s an idea!’ All eyes were upon her as she spoke animatedly. ‘If you had a dance teacher, your guests could do their craft lessons during the day then there could be lessons here in the bar after dinner in the run up to future ceilidhs.’

  ‘She’s got a point, Gene,’ said Kitty. ‘There could be lessons in the summer before Harvest Home and at Christmas leading up to Hogmanay.’

  Gene thought deeply. ‘There was a dance teacher staying here for a while, a Scottish wummin. Do you mind her, Atholl? I forget where she was from. She’d ken the steps. What was her name? Maggie something, was it? You must mind her…’

  A heavy thump resounded from under the table somewhere in the direction of Kitty’s boot and Eugene’s shin.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Atholl,’ he said hurriedly, before clearing the empty cups back onto the tray.

  In the sudden air of awkwardness Beatrice realised he had been talking about Maggie, the married woman who’d neglected to mentio
n her husband and, who had at best, embarrassed Atholl, and at worse, broken his heart. She didn’t dare glance up at him to see how he’d taken this reminder of how he’d unwittingly played the other man in this Maggie’s marriage, but she saw his knuckles blanching white and heard the glasses rattling on the tray as he took it from his brother. And so the meeting ended, the committee left the bar and Beatrice went back to her room more than a little disappointed that Atholl hadn’t glanced over at her as she walked past the sink where he rinsed the glasses in silence.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A Package Arrives

  ‘Special Delivery!’ Atholl called from behind the princess room door half an hour later, and his voice was so warm Beatrice felt sure he must have recovered from the shock of everyone hearing Eugene talk about Maggie whatever-her-name-was at the meeting.

  When she opened the door, Atholl was smiling and holding out two postal packages. ‘Well, I know what’s in this one, Beattie, because I took the liberty of ordering it for you,’ he was saying, handing her the plastic-wrapped box.

  She didn’t know what was more astonishing; the fact that he’d bought her some kind of gift or that he was now, apparently, intent upon always calling her Beattie. Both made her smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I, um, do actually know what that other package is.’

  ‘You do?’ Atholl handed it over too.

  ‘I popped in to the café in Mr Shirlaw’s shop yesterday to use one of their computers. I wanted to contact my sister and tell her I was OK, and I ended up buying something online, had it sent here, next day delivery. I’m amazed it’s made it to be honest. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all, this is your home while you’re here, Beattie.’ He’d said it again, soft and lyrical in his deep Highland burr.

  ‘Come in for a sec, if you’ve time? Are you going out?’ she prompted.

  ‘Only to dig out the bunting from the inn’s store room. I hope Gene didn’t chuck it in there all in a tangle last year.’

  He stepped inside and let the door close as Beatrice excitedly tore open the result of her online shopping spree. It had been so long since she’d seen a high street shop – the Port Willow general store may have everything needed for village life, but it was lacking in the fast fashion department – the temptation to treat herself had been too much to resist.