Racehead

by Daya Daniels

  Aidan chuckles. “Yeah, I bet.”

  “But no, I was hoping to do something different, at least for a while.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” I whisper, admiring the breathtaking scenery.

  “You’ll figure something out.” He winks.

  “So, do you still fish for fun?” I ask with a smile.

  “Of course, day and night on the loch. That’s never changed,” he proudly admits. “I work a lot now. I have a boathouse right on the shore. I’m always busy.” He laughs. “I have three kids to feed now.”

  The high-pitched ringing of a phone causes me to jump.

  Aidan nearly veers off the road, attempting to retrieve it from his back pocket. He answers the call, steadying his driving again. “Aye,” he says. “Aye, I understand, love.” He snaps the flip phone he’s holding shut. A flip phone! “Fucking bitch,” he quips, pulling over the side of the road angrily. He turns the truck around in a few violent reverse maneuvers.

  “What is it?”

  He groans. “This fucking miserable cow that just bought the old inn on the cliffs hired me to do some work for her. I’m running a little late because of this unexpected taxi ride.”

  “You don’t have to be late for me, Aidan,” I plead but clearly, it’s too late.

  “No, no, it’s fine, Gracie. Besides, these New York City fast food eating/give me as soon as I ask for it/right now, right now assholes need to learn how to relax. That isn’t how we do things around here.” His green eyes twinkle with pride. “We’re more laid-back in Plockton.”

  “Yeah, I suppose things are much different here. But the place on the cliffs?” I question as my brows cinch together. When I was younger, from what I remember, the place was more of a haunted house or a death trap.

  Someone bought it?

  “Yeah, that fucking dump!” He bursts into laughter like The Joker and hits the gas. The truck heads back in the opposite direction at breakneck speed.

  ~

  We arrive in a matter of minutes. Hopping out of the truck, I slam the door. Snuggling deeper into my coat, I look around. This scenery is spectacular, despite the cold, and the view of the loch below from high up here is stunning.

  The building itself, well, it looks like something right out of a scary movie. It looks just as I remember. It’s massive, constructed of old gray stone, covered in vines and moss.

  Historical. Rustic. Dilapidated.

  Doors and windows need to be replaced. Landscaping needs to be tended to. Areas need to be painted and other spots simply need to be cleaned.

  It’s surrounded by lush greenery and just below it is a small farmhouse. A goat nibbles on the grass where a few chickens are scattered around.

  Craning my neck to the sky, I stare up at the third floor of the building. Twisting around, I examine the classy sign once more that decorates the gravelly entrance here.

  “This place really could be something,” I mutter to myself, realizing that it would take a helluva lot of double takes and hope just for someone to think that. They’d have to be crazy and clearly that crazy person is me.

  To the naked eye, this place really is a dump but it really could be something more, I think. I’m intrigued.

  Aidan snatches up his tool bag from the back of the truck and heads over to the large double doors that are the entrance to this massive building.

  He holds on the heavy brass door knocker and uses it to knock a few times in a steady rhythm.

  I remove my hat for a moment, ruffle my hair and fix it back into place again. I head over to the double doors behind Aidan. He knocks a few more times with a huff. I only laugh at his exhaustion. I hadn’t seen this man in nearly thirty years, yet everything about him is the same. He glances over his shoulder at me when I approach.

  He bangs again. Finally, the door opens and a woman comes into view.

  “I’ve been out here banging for at least ten minutes, love,” Aidan growls.

  “Well, you’re an hour late,” the woman snaps.

  He edges past her and heads inside. When she meets my eyes, she plasters a fake smile on. It’s a real tight one showing none of her teeth. I don’t speak. I only stare, honestly mesmerized.

  Something about her reminds me of this place.

  They’re exactly the same.

  Even though her dark hair needs to be brushed and her old shawl sweater had seen better days. She’s beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous. Profanely stunning.

  “Hello,” she says. “I’m Yara.”

  I ascend the last stair and extend my hand. “I’m Grace.”

  We both shake hands. Hers is soft, small, cold.

  She backs out of the way. “Would you like to come in?”

  I stare again and I can’t seem to stop staring at her.

  “Out of the cold,” she asks when I don’t move or answer.

  “Um, y-yes. Yes, I would actually.”

  She gives me another frozen grin. It’s clear that she doesn’t want us here. She’s trying her best to be polite.

  I head through the doors and into an impressive foyer. A huge wrought iron chandelier is above us. Inside, this place is cavernous. The ceilings are high and the old stone that this place is constructed out of makes it feel much colder than it should be inside. Pass where she stands in the den, a large fireplace is lit.

  “Would you like some tea?” she offers.

  “Yes, that would be great.”

  In the distance, I hear banging and then a high-pitched saw starts up. Aidan’s gotten to work. I peek around a bit more. When I meet Yara’s lucid eyes, I realize she’s already been watching me for a while as she stands there.

  “What’s he fixing?” I ask.

  She walks into the large kitchen ahead of me. I follow, removing my coat at the same time and toss it on one of the stools in front of the center island.

  “What’s he not fixing?” she jokes as she moves around the large kitchen.

  “This is a wonderful place.”

  Yara scoffs. “Is it?” Her black brows quirk up in question.

  “Yes, it is.” I look around some more, while she prepares the tea for me. “It could be something.”

  She laughs. “Honestly, I can’t see it. I’m sorry.”

  Bobbing my head a few times, I scan what I can see so far again. All I see on the inside is charm, romance, and a whimsical bed and breakfast that people wouldn’t be able to forget if they ever stayed here.

  Yara gives me an unimpressed expression. “I’m selling it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, it was never my idea to buy this dump, but somehow, I became stuck with it.”

  “I’d buy it,” I blurt out, not realizing what I’d really said until the words had left my mouth.

  Yara hands me the tea and gives me a straight face as she approaches. “You would?” she asks but it’s clear she doesn’t believe me.

  With a pout, I nod. “I would.”

  She giggles as I take the cup from her hands. The start of the banging again in the distance, that’s even louder now, causes us to jump.

  “He hates me,” she says, jerking her chin in the direction of where Aidan had gone.

  I laugh and blow the steam away from the tea. “He doesn’t. He’s a friendly guy. I’ve only just seen him again after not having seen him for many, many years. And he offered me a ride to my next destination. A ride that made him late for work today,” I say sheepishly. “He’s nice, honestly.”

  Yara rolls her eyes. “Okay, maybe I could give him a point for that.”

  “Just one.” I bring my thumb and index finger together, earning a chuckle from her.

  “Now, I know there’s no way you and that dude up there work together. You’re much too delicate.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes at her statement. “No, I’m just a friend of his.”

  “Are you from here?” she asks.

  “Yeah, sort of. I’ve lived in London most of my life.”

>   “What the fuck would make you want to come here then?”

  Taking a sip of the tea, I swallow. “Change.”

  Yara doesn’t blink. Her stare is hard, menacing.

  She thinks I’m ridiculous.

  “Change?” she asks.

  “Yes, change.”

  “I know all about that,” she mumbles before she heads away from me again across the kitchen to the sink. But she doesn’t say anymore.

  “I only just got here yesterday.”

  “Are you staying near town?” she asks, keeping her back to me.

  “No, not yet—still looking actually.”

  “Did you mean what you said about buying this place?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  She inhales loudly and twists around to face me. “If you think you’d really be interested in buying it, you can stay here for free for all I care.”

  Is this an offer?

  “As long as you’re not a serial killer,” she adds.

  I roll my eyes at her youth and naivete. She reminds me a bit of me twenty years ago. No one just offers someone a place to stay after knowing them for just five minutes.

  Insanity? Loneliness? Desperation?

  It’s quiet in the kitchen for a while except for the banging in the distance.

  Yara’s arms are by her sides, revealing the fitted top she’s wearing beneath her ugly sweater. My gaze lingers on her flawless complexion, the mounds of her breasts and her nipples that have perked beneath the top she’s wearing.

  Was it the offer that did it? The cold? Am I hoping it’s because of me?

  “I used to have a wife,” she deadpans. “She’s dead.”

  “I used to have a husband. He’s dead too,” I counter.

  She chews on her top lip and swallows back a sadistic laugh.

  What on earth is so funny?

  Yara speaks again. “She convinced me to buy this disaster but now all I want to do is sell it and get the fuck out of Scotland.”

  I nod and place my tea cup down on the center island.

  This woman is depressed. This woman is in denial that she’s depressed. This house is in darkness, except for the little bit of light that trickles into the den from the drapes that have been opened. Empty liquor bottles litter the kitchen countertops. It’s enough of them to recycle for a century. I’m not sure if she’s even showered this morning and she desperately needs some sunlight herself, since she clearly hasn’t been outside in days. I can just tell. It’s definitely depression.

  She goes on. “But I wouldn’t be fucked up about it, like the sellers were to us. I’ll tell you about every single thing that’s wrong with this place.”

  “And I’d give you full value for it.”

  Yara points a finger at me, clearly entertained. “You’re something else, Grace.”

  I smile.

  “You’d give me full value for this place?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “You have that kind of money?” Her skeptical eyes narrow.

  “Yes.”

  I might not have been good at a lot of things in life, but saving money, I was great at. I had a big enough nest egg now to simply retire, like I planned to—like I promised I would.

  “This place is probably really worth one American dollar,” Yara adds with a smirk. “Just one.” She points an index finger to the sky.

  I laugh and then she joins in. Soon, we’re both laughing.

  She’s amusing, charming, interesting. I want to know more. But something else piques my curiosity about her. Maybe it’s the doctor in me? The need to figure it all out, to get in someone’s head and pick it apart. Only this head, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to put back together once I cracked it open.

  I continue to stare at her. She smiles shyly and my eyes widen at how adorable she looks. Exhausted and run-down but still, adorable.

  I guess I have time to figure it out.

  I have time to breathe...

  But in the meantime, at least now I have somewhere to stay.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Yara

  SHE’S ONLY BEEN HERE a week and had already painted the foyer and the den. The walls in there are now a shade of ivory. Grace said it was called: Sweet Buttercream. It looks good. She’d stayed up most of the night getting it done. During the day, she took a few breaks here and there whenever she was painting but not many. I admired her focus when she started a task. She really didn’t rest until it was all done. And then when she finished she set to something else, all at the same pace.

  I barely ever finished anything I started around here. Usually, I had sixteen different tasks by the end of the week that were all left lazily done and unfinished. The only thing most of the time that was finished was the bottle of scotch that I’d opened. That was always done.

  Grace Bianca Mackenzie is forty-one years old. But I would’ve guessed she was much younger maybe at least by ten years. She has long, dark hair that hits just beneath the top of her shoulders and coffee-colored eyes that feel like they peer far deeper into me than they should when I’m under her gaze. She doesn’t wear makeup and much of the time her shoulder-length hair is up in a messy bun or out down her back. She traipses around this place wearing jeans (expensive jeans) and boots and usually a plain sweater.

  She’s roughly my height—around five foot five—and slim. My first impression of her was that she’s the delicate type, terrified to break a nail or get her hands a little dirty. But the very morning I watched Grace rip apart the upstairs bathroom with a sledgehammer and later take a chainsaw to the overgrown willow tree outside, all thoughts about her being delicate jumped out the window. This woman is just as useful as the handymen that come around this place are and probably more so, since she works for free!

  We agreed that in exchange for room and board, she’d help with what little she could do. And she seemed to enjoy keeping busy since she didn’t have a job here yet. She’d also cleaned up the small farmhouse just below this place. Now, we have two goats instead of one and an insane amount of chickens. Plus, a cow. She’s turning this place into a goddamn farm!

  In the mornings, before I usually awoke, Grace would feed the animals and collect the eggs the chickens had laid. She cooked breakfast and she baked. There was more life in this place than there had been since I got here.

  I think she’s very serious about buying this place.

  And I’m very serious about selling it.

  Grace has no husband anymore. She has no boyfriend and no children, I’d overhead Aidan say. She just seems to be alone. Like me.

  Judging by the little research I’d done on her, she had a very lucrative practice in London and she’d just given it all up to come back here. I thought it was odd. Since there really is nothing here but a bunch of tourists and small scattering of locals that are on the permanent speed of go-slow. The rest are on fucking stop.

  Still, I don’t know her well. And she doesn’t pry. Since she’s been here she’d asked me all of three questions. And I love that about her. She stays out of my way and I stay out of hers. It’s a perfect arrangement.

  It’s seven in the morning and severely cold. I walk the expansive den, holding a cup of tea in my hands, admiring the new paint job. It looks pretty in here—open and light against the mahogany floors that need to be stripped.

  The heavy, dusty dark drapes that used to adorn the windows are gone. Late last night, Grace hauled everything far off the property and set it all on fire. She stood there for a while just watching everything burn. The flames grew higher and higher. Then she started dancing. Actually, no. It wasn’t a dance. It was more of a jig.

  I giggled at the spectacle from my bedroom window. After that, I finished my scotch and went to bed.

  Admittedly, I spent most of my days just watching her. She was interesting to observe and it passed the time, I guess, taking me away from the reality of my very lonely life.

  I edge closer to one of the windows. I spot Grace through the glass. She’s wrapped
in the bubble coat she always wears. Her beanie covers most of her face. She’s holding a basket by her side full of crap and her hands are covered by mittens.

  Barking. More barking. Loud barking.

  She spins around and gives what I think is a golden retriever a harsh scrub on its head as they stroll back here.

  My eyes narrow.

  A dog?

  She got a dog.

  What the fuck?

  An irritated breath leaves me. I rush to the front door and pull it open, allowing the frigid air to rush in with the winds. I grip my shawl sweater tighter, bringing it to my neck. Grace stands in front of me. Fennel and fresh eggs are in the basket she’s holding. She pulls off her beanie. Her thick hair falls around her shoulders.

  “Good morning,” she says with a friendly smile. “You’re up.”

  “Yeah, morning,” I reply as my eyes fall to the slobbering mutt at her feet.

  “This is Jack.”

  I quirk a brow. “Jack?”

  “Yes,” she says, raking her fingers through her hair.

  “A dog.”

  “Yes, I got a dog. I was going to ask but I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “Jack,” I repeat.

  “Yes, I thought you’d like the name. Get it? Jack. Jack Daniels. After the—”

  “Yes. I get it.”

  “Well.” She bites her lip. “I felt bad for him. His owner died a few days ago and he was about to be sent to the shelter, so I decided to take him in. I thought he’d be good company for us, for you. For me, I mean.”

  I give Jack another elevator scan with my eyes. His coat is shiny and he’s obviously healthy. He pads forward and licks my hand. Disgusted, I yank it away. His big brown eyes look up at me rejected. I’ve hurt his feelings.

  I twist back and place my tea on the console table and then move forward to pet him.

  Grace observes the action strangely but she doesn’t comment. I’m trying too hard to be friendly. She can tell. Sigh.

  “I can take him back if it’s really going to be a problem, Yara.”

  Jack snuggles to my thigh. Argh, he’s adorable! “No, no. It’s fine. It’s fine honestly.”

  “Okay, I have some fresh eggs. Would you like an omelet?” Grace asks, rushing past me heading for the kitchen.