by Traci Hall
Brody eyed Grandpa warily across the table as he ate his cereal, pushing aside the blueberries to eat for last.
She settled Wallace out back for the day—with access to the screened porch if it rained—and tucked Brody’s lunch into his backpack.
“It’s a miracle, but I think we’re going tae be on time.” She crossed her fingers for luck.
“I dinnae want detention,” Brody said. “They should give it tae you, anyway, not me. I’m only ten.”
“You could walk,” Grandpa suggested.
Brody turned his back on Grandpa and the stranger’s unwanted opinion. “I’m ready, Mum.”
“Coat?”
“I dinnae need it.”
“Your sweatshirt, then. It’s still cool for recess.”
He grumbled but retrieved it from the hall closet.
Her grandfather shrugged into his trench coat, his hair neatly combed. He left his tam in his room.
She patted her pocket for her keys, then shook her purse, listening for the jingle. Nothing. In a panic, she dumped her bag upside down on the small table by the front door. Lip gloss, coffee receipt from yesterday. “Where are they?”
“Not again!” Brody dropped his backpack to the floor with a huff. Her keys fell from the side pocket of his bag and he looked at her with very round brown eyes. “Oops.” The rule was her keys belonged in her purse, so that she always knew where they were.
Her hand landed on her hip like a magnet. “How did that happen?”
“I dunno.” Brody smacked his forehead. “I forgot me reading assignment in the car and needed yer keys tae get it. I guess I didnae put them back.”
It was things like this that created tardiness, and whose fault was it? She brought out her mum tone. “Brody!”
“Sairy.” He slung his backpack over his shoulder and handed her the keys.
Her grandfather wisely kept his gob shut, waiting in the foyer.
Paislee herded them out the front door like errant lambs. “Hurry!”
They made it at nine on the dot with Headmaster McCall tapping his watch. He wore a dark brown suit jacket and a frown. Had he been waiting for her? Today was not starting off any better than yesterday, which didn’t bode well.
Brody darted out of the Juke and into the brick building without a backward wave. The headmaster followed Brody inside, the blue door closing behind them.
“Mibbe we need tae leave a few minutes earlier tomorrow?” Grandpa Angus suggested.
She pulled out of the drive to the main road. “You saw for yourself—I have the best of intentions, but things just . . . happen. Missing keys, Wallace gets out, Brody forgets his homework or, even worse, forgets tae do his homework—”
Grandpa made a harrumphing noise.
They arrived at Cashmere Crush, and she parked in the back. Jerry’s truck pulled up next to her as she got out.
“I’ve got the pink yarn, lass!” Jerry called. “With an extra, at no charge, since we were late.”
“Oh—thank you.” Paislee could knit a pair of booties to go with the blanket as an apology to Mary Beth.
She unlocked the back door and her grandfather and Jerry followed her inside. The smell of wool was both welcome and familiar and she switched on the light, illuminating the back of her shop. What would she do without it? It was her creation, her proof that she could thrive in their community.
She wrote a check to Jerry for her wholesale cost of the yarn, accepting the extra skein on Mary Beth’s behalf. She’d learned from Gran to charge fair retail prices and not discount for everyone or else she would be out of business. And who would take care of Brody then?
“Did yer day get any better after I left?” Jerry looked from her to her grandfather.
The two men hadn’t actually met yesterday. “Sairy—Angus Shaw, this is Jerry McFadden. My grandfather has come tae live with us.”
“For a time,” Grandpa interjected. “Only until me son is found.”
Jerry rocked back on the heels of his workman’s boots. “He’s missing?”
“Off an oil rig,” her grandpa said.
“Ach.” Jerry glanced at Paislee for confirmation.
She nodded. “We’ll look into that this week, Grandpa.”
“And then there was the dead girl,” Grandpa shared with a theatrical sigh as he removed his trench coat and slung it over the armchair by the small television.
“The dead girl?” Jerry tugged off his cap and twisted it as he looked from her to Grandpa.
She barely refrained from elbowing her grandfather as a reminder to keep his mouth closed. “Isla Campbell—she used tae work with me? Bonny blonde?”
Jerry settled the cap back on his head. “Sorry tae hear that. Didnae she move away tae Inverness?”
“ Aye. ”
“What happened?”
“We don’t know yet.” She thought of the prescription bottle on the table and goose bumps pricked down her spine.
“Poor lass. She was so young.” Jerry headed for the back door. “Well, I better finish the deliveries. Give me best tae Mary Beth?”
“Of course—thanks, Jerry.”
Jerry left and she whirled on her grandfather, who was studying the yarn in the box, oblivious to her annoyance. “Grandpa, do ye mind not being the town gossip?”
“What’s wrong with ye?” He shook his head.
She exhaled. “Isla was someone I cared about.”
“Sairy.” His mouth pursed and he paced to the front of the shop, suddenly interested in whatever was out her front window.
Paislee knelt down and opened the safe below the register, readying the till for the day. When she was through, Grandpa had returned.
“Can I help ye with the yarn?” He tapped the box that was still on the counter.
“Naw. Normally, I would price these at twelve pounds a skein, but because they’re for Mary Beth, who will be here any minute, we don’t have tae bother marking them with the label gun.”
“Twelve pounds?” he repeated, sounding as if she were robbing her customers blind. “Is the fleece made of gold?”
Picking up the light pink yarn, she smoothed her thumb over the silken strands. “This is high-quality pre-shrunk merino wool, specially dyed for Mary Beth to match her niece’s baby’s room.” She met his eyes. “It’s meant tae last a lifetime.”
“Waste of money, if ye ask me,” he pronounced. “The babe will outgrow it long before then.”
“I didnae ask you.” Baby blankets weren’t meant to grow with the bairn for heaven’s sake. “Why don’t ye go watch the news or something?” She made a motion of zipping her lips and looked up at the ceiling. I don’t blame ye for givin’ him the boot, Gran.
He huffed off behind the divider and switched on the telly. She scanned her incoming messages online but hadn’t gotten too far when Elspeth Booth entered at ten. Tall, slender, with iron-gray hair and few wrinkles, she’d had her seventieth birthday last week and created exquisite needlepoint. She was followed by Mary Beth, who literally cooed when she saw the pink yarn on the counter. “Thank ye, Paislee—this is perfect.”
“I’m glad, and Jerry was so sairy by the delay that he gave you another skein at no cost. I’d be happy tae knit a pair of booties.”
“Or a wee headband? I’ll do it. How wonderful.” Mary Beth lumbered toward a chair by a regular-height table rather than the long rectangular high-top and sank down.
Paislee brought the yarn over. “It’s lovely. Your niece will be thrilled.”
Elspeth joined them, sitting across from Mary Beth, who brought out the portion of her blanket already completed from the knitting bag at her side.
“The bubble stitch pattern is so pretty . . . what size needle is that again?” Elspeth noted the design with interest, her thumb the same size as the individual yarn bubble.
“UK eight,” Mary Beth replied, admiring the yarn. “It’s too precious. I’ll need tae finish it on Thursday night, during the Knit and Sip. Mibbe Arran can watch the bair
ns.” Mary Beth’s husband was mildly overbearing and treated time with his kids as if he were doing Mary Beth a favor. She rarely missed a Thursday but always acted as if she needed permission.
Thursdays mattered to each of Paislee’s ladies for various reasons. Elspeth, until last year, had worked at the church office with Father Dixon, but she was now retired and cared for her blind younger sister. The two argued constantly and it wasn’t an easy relationship. Cashmere Crush was Elspeth’s respite.
Flora used to come in, back before Donnan’s stroke, to escape his temper—which was worse after a few drinks. Flora refused to discuss it and had flat-out denied any wrongdoing, so they’d all learned to avoid the subject.
Amelia played computer games and drank her whisky neat. She had once shyly admitted she’d never had a boyfriend, and had discovered knitting when she’d given up smoking two years ago.
They were all very different, yet they had knitting in common.
Lydia, who never missed a Thursday, couldn’t knot thread but dropped by for the camaraderie and wine.
For a while, Paislee had completely forgotten about Grandpa, who sauntered from the back room as if he had nothing better to do. “Did ye tell the lasses that yer being evicted?”
Elspeth and Mary Beth gaped at her in horror.
Paislee shook her finger at her grandfather. He’d done that on purpose, she’d bet. “I’ll call ye when I need you.”
“What’s he talking aboot?” Mary Beth dropped the yarn to the box at her feet as if it had given her an electric shock.
“Who is that?” Elspeth asked.
“My grandfather.” She and Grandpa would have a heart-to-heart. He was a worse instigator than old Mrs. Peets at the church, constantly stirring up trouble. “I received a letter yesterday from the landlord, that’s all.”
“What did it say?” Mary Beth’s cheeks were the same shade of pink as the yarn. “Arran is a solicitor. He can read it for ye. He kens knitting keeps me sane.”
“With all that happened yesterday, I havenae even looked at it yet.” A large part of her didn’t want to acknowledge the eviction notice, but Grandpa wasn’t letting her forget. Paislee dragged her feet but took her purse from the shelf beneath the register. Inside was the letter.
“That doesnae seem verra responsible, Paislee, and not like ye at all,” Elspeth said. The older woman perched on a stool to stay awhile, taking out a lace square to work on while they caught up.
“Tell them about the dead girl,” Paislee’s grandpa shared before ducking into the back and out of her reach.
“Dead girl? What is happening around here?” Mary Beth’s chins jiggled with concern.
She couldn’t have him upsetting her customers!
“Isla Campbell. I was going tae hire her back tae work part-time, but I found her, dead, yesterday at her flat, with my grandfather.” He’d been mellower yesterday. Good food and a good night’s sleep had emboldened the man. There was something to be said for bread and a cold night in the park.
“Oh—I’m sairy, Paislee,” Mary Beth said, setting a skein of pink yarn in her lap. “I know how ye liked her.”
“She was a sly one.” Elspeth’s judgmental tone was exactly why Paislee felt the need to protect the girl. Sometimes there were extenuating circumstances, like a neglectful mother or frail health, that gave a person a rougher edge.
Those reasons weren’t hers to share, so Paislee bit her tongue, pulled out the paperwork from her landlord, and skimmed the legalese.
“Well?” Mary Beth dropped the yarn in the box and rose from her chair to join her at the counter.
The message hadn’t changed since the day before. “I have thirty days tae vacate—Mr. Marcus said the building had sold. Every one of the businesses on this strip will have tae move. They’re tearing all this down tae build a boutique hotel.”
“No!” Elspeth said, her mouth tight. “I’ll contact the historical society. This building is two hundred years old.”
Paislee hadn’t thought of that. “Can they help?”
“Mibbe.” Elspeth rested the lacework on her lap. “I dinnae mind making a few phone calls—we have tae protect the integrity of Nairn, no matter what the Earl of Cawdor wants,” she huffed, looking ready to take on all comers—lean and sharp as an iron blade.
The Earl of Cawdor had plans to bring Nairn back as a popular tourist destination, and had increased the population from nine thousand to twelve in the last few years. There were growing pains, as the seaside town had its heyday in the Victorian era a hundred years ago and now its residents were expected to make room for new roads and traffic circles.
How to embrace the modern, while respecting the old?
Paislee felt like that on a personal level in Nairn all the time but had learned to curb her too-modern ideas in order to fit in and make a home for herself and Brody.
Being a single mum meant that she needed to be able to trust her neighbor, and the idea of living in a big city, like Edinburgh, boggled her mind.
She would take growing pains any day over the hustle and bustle of city life.
Paislee faced her ladies, arms lifted at her sides. “We’ll figure this out—and no matter where I end up, we will have our Thursday nights, even if it’s on my back porch until the right place turns up.”
The ladies sighed with relief.
Her grandpa muttered something from the back room about moving out as soon as possible.
She completely agreed—the crotchety man kept stirring up trouble and sharing unwanted opinions. It was no wonder Granny couldn’t speak his name without looking like she’d sucked a lemon.
Chapter 7
The ladies left by noon, and Paislee’s stomach rumbled. She poked her head behind the divider to see her grandfather watching the news.
“Not a word about yer girl Isla,” he informed her.
Between customers, she’d searched the online news, thinking she’d missed it earlier, but Isla’s death hadn’t warranted a snippet anywhere. “It breaks my heart. Can you watch the place for a few minutes?” She hated to be the bearer of bad tidings, but Tabitha deserved to know that her best friend was dead. She, Billy, and Tabitha were all that Isla’d had in the world.
Grandpa straightened in his armchair. “I thought I’d step out fer a bite—ye could take it against my pay.”
Oh, he did, did he? So far he hadn’t done more than learn how to ring up a skein of yarn and empty her candy dish. “There’s a packet of crackers below the television. I’m off across the street tae speak with her best friend, who works at the florist’s, in case Tabitha doesnae know that Isla is gone. Then we’ll discuss lunch.”
He waved her off.
Guilt pinched like an ant bite. The old man wasn’t used to working. What had he done with his time while living with Craigh? “You can go home after I get back for the afternoon, awright? I have a cupboard full of food.”
“Take yer time.”
“Can you turn the telly off and listen for customers?”
He grumbled something she couldn’t hear but flipped off the switch. “I’m just supposed tae sit at the counter and count sheep?”
Paislee compromised with, “You can listen tae the sound on low, but yes, I’d like you tae sit at the register and look . . . busy. Or you can read the news online; the laptop is open.”
Grandpa shuffled his boots but pulled a stool to the counter and sat, propping his elbow on the laminate like a surly silver-haired teenager. Was this what she had to look forward to? Ach.
“Thank you.” She left her shop and breathed in deep of the salty sea air—it gave her a bit of clarity after the morning’s drama, brought on strong and steady no thanks to her grandfather. She had to put finding her uncle Craigh at the top of her list.
Everybody would be happier.
Both feet on the crooked sidewalk, her gaze was drawn toward the beach, and the police department on the right side of Market Street. She couldn’t see the Moray Firth from her corner, but she
could smell the salt and brine. Her friend Amelia would know what was going on, since Paislee hadn’t heard a word yet from the detective.
She crossed the street, reflecting that this two-story row of gray stone businesses wouldn’t be affected by the sale of their building.Was there an open spot for lease? She could ask Tabitha.
Paislee entered the flower shop, assaulted at once by the scent of roses—the heady perfume was thick in the chilled air: air conditioning? That must have cost the owner a pretty penny, as most of the old buildings didn’t have it.
Two designers stood at back tables, surrounded by buckets of pale pink roses and vases of pink arrangements, each in the midst of arranging flowers.
“Hello!” the man singsonged. Wisps of black hair fell over his broad, pale forehead and dramatic black brows. A silver hoop adorned each ear. Thin and short—Tabitha, at the other table, was taller than him by a hair despite his black cowboy boots with heels. Each designer had a red-handled knife with a silver blade they used to slice the ends of rose stems and slide them into vases as if racing the clock.
“Is this a bad time?” Paislee asked.
“Wedding,” the man explained. “Can I help you?”
Tabitha’s brown eyes were red rimmed and puffy, her blondish-brown hair in a halfhearted bun.
Paislee took a hesitant step forward.
Tabitha sniffed and lowered her knife to the table. She knew, then, that her friend was dead, poor lass, and still had to work. It was obvious that the shop was busy and understaffed.
Paislee nodded with empathy, glancing to the sage-green scarf around Tabitha’s neck and then zeroing in on it.
Paislee had made that for Isla as a going-away present. She recognized the tassel and her signature crocheted flower. The scarf was crafted with Flora’s perfected sage color. Why did Tabitha have it?
Maybe Isla had given it to her before she died—but that wasn’t really like Isla to give away her things. Now that she thought about it, Isla’d had a platter of shortbread cookies on the dining room table of her flat when she didn’t eat sweets ever, because of her heart health, and a cup of tea, Lipton, when she was careful with caffeine.
Had Tabitha been to see Isla before she’d died, sharing tea and cookies? Her borrowing the scarf?