‘Chilly this morning,’ she said as she approached him, feeling as ridiculous as she had on the day she’d first arrived at the inn. She tugged the sleeves of the jumper down over her hands and added with a shrug, ‘I’d only brought summer clothes.’
Atholl smiled, conjuring all his reserve and formality into his face. She was leaving and they were going to have a decent farewell. ‘Last day of August’s here. September’s on its way,’ he said, and Beatrice scanned his face.
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know he was coming.’
Atholl waved a hand. ‘He looks brighter this morning. Ten years younger, in fact.’
Beatrice paused before saying, ‘He had a lot to get off his chest, I think. Anyway, there was no point in me spending nine hours on trains when he’s driving back to England, is there? I’m going to…’ she pointed a thumb feebly towards Rich’s car without turning away from Atholl or breaking their stare. ‘And I’ve got to clear my things out of the house now it’s sold…’ Her voice shook.
Atholl looked past her to Rich sitting in the car, the windows misted with condensation from the cool, dewy morning. He was nodding his head to the radio, the music escaping the car.
The whole of Port Willow was asleep; even the fishing boats were still moored by the jetty. Beatrice looked through the door into the bar room and saw that Atholl had cleared all the glasses and rearranged all the chairs and tables overnight. The ceilidh decorations were pulled down and crumpled in a black recycling sack on the floor.
‘We put on a good party,’ she said weakly.
‘That we did.’
A long moment passed where they swallowed down words and Beatrice’s hands fidgeted inside her sleeves. When they spoke, their words came out at the same time yet again and they laughed, wry and abashed.
‘You first,’ Atholl insisted.
‘I was going to say I’d better get going. Long drive and everything.’
Atholl didn’t see the little stamp of her foot and the frustrated twitch at her brow as she replayed her weak words. He was too busy lifting a small box from the reception desk drawer. Tentatively he came round to stand in front of her on the threadbare tartan rug near the door.
‘I,uh, I have something for you.’ He surrendered the box to her hands.
It took her a few moments to get it open, her hands shook so much, but when the lid released her eyes widened at the sight of the large, faceted, teardrop-shaped object and the long silver ribbon threaded through a hole at its pointed end. ‘A crystal?’
‘Made here in the Highlands. Crystal’s another thing we crafty Scots are good at.’
Atholl reached inside the box and released the jewel, letting the heavy glass drop to the end of its ribbon where it twirled and swayed. The morning light from the inn door caught it and sent a hundred glittering, dancing rainbows across Atholl’s face and chest and over the walls and ceiling behind him. Beatrice couldn’t conceal the gasp she made.
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘You said you were dreading the winter months and the dark nights. You said you weren’t sure how you could face them. So I got you this. Hang it in your window, wherever ye may be, it’ll catch the winter sunlight and scatter it in rainbows, lighting up even the darkest corners.’
He put the crystal into her palm, seeming to lean forward for a moment, but pulling back again.
Through tears, Beatrice stepped onto her tiptoes and brushed a soft kiss against his cheek. ‘Thank you, Atholl, for this, and everything else.’
The sharp sound of Rich’s car horn made them both recoil and from somewhere upstairs Echo barked. When Beatrice turned to look at Rich he was smiling placidly and still nodding along to the music.
‘I’d better go.’ Agitated, she pointed her thumb again to the door and this time she turned and followed its direction. She looked back once, smiled wanly, still clutching the crystal to her chest, and Atholl watched her walk through the inn door, climb into the car beside her husband and drive away.
Half an hour later Atholl Fergusson stalked over the headland at Rother Path and clambered down the rocks to the coral beach. He rarely walked this way now, favouring like everyone else the easy path over the meadows, but this morning he needed the distraction of scrambling down a difficult route. He passed the sleepy cows lazily chewing the long grass that lined the precarious path.
‘Atholl!’
He heard his brother calling his name at the same moment he smelled the wood smoke.
Gene and Kitty had spent the night at the But and Ben and were now bundled in blankets and sitting by a camp fire on the coral, and, since there were sausages cooking, Echo had found his way to them too and was wagging his tail in an obedient posture by Kitty’s side.
‘Come and have some tea,’ Gene shouted as Atholl stepped down onto the beach.
Kitty sprung up instantly, craning her neck for a sign of Beatrice following him down the path and understanding instantly that she really had left this morning as planned.
‘Oh, Atholl,’ she said when he reached them by the fire and the two lovers saw his ashen sleeplessness close up.
