‘Wow, that’s unusual. But what about you? Didn’t you meet anyone special?’
‘There were a few all right lads, but I haven’t met anyone special recently,’ Kitty conceded. ‘Most academic men aren’t ideal husband material, you see; always working late into the night, never taking their summer holidays even though they’ve earned them, chasing promotion and preferment,pfft! No thank you. And they seem to be the only chaps I get thrown together with in my line of work. The rest have been farmers and fishermen away from dawn till dusk. I have a theory that nice, available Highland blokes whoaren’tout grafting twenty-four seven are likeBrigadoon; one rises from the mists every one hundred years.’ Kitty laughed.
‘I know a bit about busy men,’ Beatrice said, but in a tone that told Kitty she couldn’t bring herself to say more. Thoughts of Rich swiped the breath from Beatrice’s lungs and she felt suddenly tired. Rich always worked so hard, doubly so since Beatrice lost her job. He liked the idea of breadwinning for her. All that work and long hours away from home must have taken their toll somewhere along the line, but she couldn’t pinpoint exactly when. Perhaps it had been slowly eroding their joint lives, eating away at their intimacy and their happiness day by day and they’d both been too busy to notice.
Kitty spoke first, calmly steering the conversation back to safer ground. ‘So, are you resolved to stay a little longer then? Maybe you’ll get as proficient as Atholl at the weaving if you give it a try?’
Kitty was pointing an elegant finger up above the bar and Beatrice followed its line.
‘What on earth is that? Atholl didn’t make that, did he?’
Kitty simply nodded.
In the dark space above the optics hung a wild-looking, chestnut-brown Lion Rampant and a white unicorn; twin symbols of Scottish sovereignty. Beatrice screwed up her eyes to make out the details. How could long willow whips become these light, airy, magical sculptures? Their delicate feet seemed to tread the very air they were suspended in; their broad, hollow haunches formed of nothing but tightly interwoven supple branches spoke convincingly of movement and musculature; their wild dark eyes, elegantly poised heads and pricked ears conveyed pride, stoicism and dignity.
‘Wow! So Atholl’san artist?’ Beatrice couldn’t draw her eyes away from the sculpture.
‘One of the best, I imagine.’
A vague impression returned to Beatrice; it was becoming clearer now. Back at the But and Ben there had been baskets made of willow on the long table, and curved horns of plenty upon the walls filled with dried flowers and sculpted fruits, and many other curious objects which Beatrice had been too flustered, and perhaps too bloody-minded and stressed out, to see clearly.
‘Oh no.’ A memory hit her hard. ‘I think I insulted him. I said… I called his work “messing about with sticks” or something. I don’t remember my exact words, but I know I was dismissive and rude. And that’s not all he’s heard me saying. No wonder he’s sick of the sight of me.’
Other memories crowded in now, painful in their fresh clarity. She’d criticised the inn rooms that he and his brother must be proud of, even if they were a bit dated and dusty, and she’d taken one look at the place and said she was leaving,andshe’d turned her nose up at the food last night – though, she felt she really did have a point there. Either way, the Fergussons had been hospitable in their own way and she’d wanted to run a mile. ‘Talk about getting off on the wrong foot!’
Covering her face with her hands and cringing did nothing to take away the embarrassment. It was the same mortification that seemed to accompany her everywhere she went at the moment and in the rare moments she was free from its restraints, she seemed to resort to taking big, bold swipes at the people around her, and especially at Atholl Fergusson. Beatrice looked through her fingers at Atholl’s willow sculpture again and groaned.
‘I have a feeling he’ll forgive you,’ said Kitty, in a low whisper. ‘But don’t let him get away with being a miserable ass, either. It takes two to willow weave, remember.’ Kitty was hopping down from the bar stool.
Before Beatrice knew what was happening, she felt the sea breeze from the open door behind her and Kitty was pressing a quick peck to her cheek. ‘I’ll be here most days if you need anything,’ she said in a low voice, and then she was gone.
Beatrice turned on her barstool only to see Kitty passing a steely-faced Atholl who seemed to be frozen to the spot on the bar room doormat, his cheeks ruddy from the building summer heat.
She turned swiftly back to face the bar and pressed her elbows into it, holding her face with her hands. Why was her breathing failing her, she wondered? Her chest tightened with the sound of his heavy steps approaching. He didn’t pass through the raised bar hatch, much to her surprise, but settled himself on the stool previously occupied by Seth, pushing aside the empty whisky glass with the back of his wrist, bared now he’d removed his jumper and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
Looking at her own glass, wishing it were filled again and offering her something to do with her hands, she felt Atholl’s eyes assessing her.
He cleared his throat in a low growl and when he spoke, his voice was gentler than she’d heard before. ‘I thought you might have called a taxi and left.’
‘Are there any taxis to be had on a Sunday in Port Willow?’
‘Good point,’ he said with a nod, before reaching his arm over the bar and running his hand along the shelf beneath, coming up with a clean glass.
Gene must have filled a jug with water and lemon and left it by the beer taps and Beatrice watched as his younger brother deftly filled his glass and lifted the jug to her own, his brows lifting to ask her assent. She nodded, and he poured. Silence filled the bar and they both drank.
‘I’ve, uh, I’ve come to apologise for shouting back there at the beach. You were frightened and I could have been… gentler. And I shouldn’t have sent you over the rocks. I don’t know why I did that, but I never expected you to meet with the cattle…’
‘I know. I haven’t exactly been an easy guest either. I don’tmeanto be rude and awkward. That seems to be my default setting at the moment.’
A sharp, wry laugh shook Atholl’s shoulders. ‘I might be guilty of something similar myself.’ He drank quickly from the glass, and Beatrice nodded with a smile, her eyes cast down, muttering an apology which Atholl waved away.
‘My question to you, Beatrice, is what do we do about this? Can I make amends? Will you stay if we try to make you happier?’
‘Don’t be nice to me,’ she blurted out. Her lips quavered without her permission and she wondered if she was going to cry. Biting her bottom lip, she looked down at her glass.
With a look of sudden recollection he reached into his shirt pocket, retrieved her phone and placed it on the bar. ‘Echo brought me this. It’s quite sandy and I suspect it’s had a drink o’ water.’
‘I must have dropped it when the cows started running at me.’ She was relieved at the shift in focus and pursued it. ‘Am I the first visitor to cause a stampede?’
