Chapter One
Thurso, Scotland
December 1, 2022
“They’ve drained themock ale again. Were ye expecting this big a turnout?”
“Not half so much, honestly.” Lorna Merriweather tightened her hold on the bright red banister of the raised cashier platform, trying to keep from shouting with joy. Excitement and pride coursed through her. “I wish Miss Agatha could see all this. She wouldha thought it grand for sure.”
“She sees it, hen.” Gracie, her best friend since forever ago, hugged an arm around her. “I guarantee she is smiling down on all of it.” With a theatrical sweep of her arm, she took in the quaint, multilevel bookshop that had squatted on Thurso’s primary thoroughfare for as long as anyone could remember. “’Tis a grand day, for certain. Just look at it all.”
Customers filled the newly renovated place, browsing through the antique oddities, crafts from local artisans, and collections of used books filling the shelves.
“The way ye spruced the place up. Ye know she wouldha loved it,” Gracie said. “After all…” She gave Lorna a teasing shake before offering a dramatic curtsy. “Ye never could do wrong in her eyes, m’lady. Ye know that well enough.”
“I dinna ken about all that,” Lorna said.
But she knew why sweet old Agatha Crowley had left her the store and all her accounts. Of course, that was a special secret between her and the grand dame. They had discovered a kinship as soon as they met. Sisters in the realms of the forgotten, Miss Agatha always said. Neither of them had any family, so they adopted each other. Memories of their happy times and days of laughter made Lorna smile. She hoped the precious old soul was in heaven now, entertaining the angels. Memories of the grand lady’s effervescent cheeriness brought tears to her eyes. The world wasn’t as bright without Miss Agatha.
She straightened her spine, standing taller as she forced her grief back into the shadows. “I think we have enough lemonade and cola left to mix up one last barrel of mock ale. Surely that will get us to closing time, ye think?”
“Lonnie can put it together,” Gracie said. “He’s been standing guard over the refreshments to keep those hooligans from Greer Street out of it. That fool bunch probably thinks it is the real thing.” She slowly twirled, modeling her seventeenth-century attire. “Besides, we mustn’t stain our rentals, aye? Lonnie’s tunic and kilt are his own. If the drink splashes whilst he’s mixing, ’tis no great bother. Cybil will scrub it clean for him. A mess on ours wouldna be so easily remedied.”
“Aye, we must keep ours spotless or we lose our deposit.” Lorna smoothed her hands down the dark gray waistcoat. Its snugness and the stiff embroidered stomacher behind the laces in the front took some getting used to. She had refused the uncomfortable-looking boned stays attached to one of the petticoats the costume clerk assured her she needed. That level of realism for Seventeenth Century Day at the shop was entirely unnecessary. The plain linen chemise, bum roll, and wool skirt in a lovely shade of soft grayish blue were ample for the event. All those layers stopped the winter winds, too. As did the fine, heavy cloak that completed the outfit.
Her pride in the success of the marketing event made her insides all bubbly with daring. “I know it might be risky, but I plan to wear mine out tonight. A bit of a walking advertisement for the shop, aye? I canna wait to see what Patrick thinks of it. Hopefully, I won’t spill anything at dinner. He made us reservations at Old Town Road. Verra fancy, ye ken?”
“Aww, hen. No!” Gracie made a face and groaned. “Ye promised to dump that scabby roaster weeks ago.”
“I did not.” Lorna backed up a step, flinching as she bumped into the new cash register and triggered an irritating alarm that trilled like an annoying bird. “Bloody thing!” She punched in the code and calmed the sensitive new computer. “I am still none too sure about this gadget. The old one was not nearly as complicated.”
“Ye are changing the subject.” Gracie sidled around and cornered her with an accusing glare. “And ye did promise to break it off with him. I remember it clear as day.”
“I said I would think on it.” Lorna hated to admit she had a fatal weakness for underdogs, and the man was definitely that. Surely, she could help him. All he needed was a little support and positivity. But a wee voice inside her head mocked her, harping on what she already knew in her heart but refused to accept. It was time to cut her losses and give up. She had wasted enough time trying to reform a man who would never change. “And I have been thinking on it,” she repeated without conviction.
Gracie thumped the banister. “How much more of yer life do ye intend to waste on that fool? And why in heaven’s name would ye even consider marrying him? Makes me furious the way he pulls yer strings and makes ye dance to whatever tune he fancies.” She snagged hold of Lorna’s left hand and tapped her ring finger. The ill-fitting engagement ring slid to one side, revealing a green circle staining her skin. “Not only that, his ring is a feckin’ piece of shite. Just like him.”
Lorna snatched her hand away and hid it in a fold of her skirt. “It is all he could afford. And besides, the ring doesna make the engagement. ’Tis the feelings behind it.” She struggled to sound more certain than she felt. “I am helping him come around. He is a work in progress, ye ken?”
“Ye canna change a piece a shite into anything other than a turd,” Gracie retorted. “Once a jobby, always a jobby.”
“That’s the truth of it!” Lonnie called up from the main level. He yanked open the door to the storage closet in the base of the cashier platform. “I never left Cybil wondering if I would show or not. Never forgot her birthday, either. And I sure as hell never hurt her feelings by insulting her hair. That bloke deserves a swift kick in his arse.”
“Ye fight tooth and nail for everyone else,” Gracie said. “Why will ye not stand up for yerself with that rat?”
“Can we talk about this another time?” Lorna made a subtle jerk of her head toward their customers. Folks were staring and migrating closer so they wouldn’t miss a word. Gossip traveled faster than grass through a goose around here. She wanted the shop well known and talked about in all of northern Scotland, but not because of her rocky love life. Besides, Patrick wasn’t so bad most of the time. They just never caught him at his best.
The front door’s bell jangled a cheery hello to the newest patron coming in off the street.
“Well, speak of the devil.” Gracie offered an elaborate bow. “Yer knight in shining armor has arrived, m’lady.”
“Gracie.” Lorna fixed her friend with a pleading look. She didn’t want this evening to begin with a poor start and put Patrick in an impossible mood. “Be nice, aye?”
“I will not.” Gracie took a defiant stance and hiked her nose higher. “I dinna like the way the man treats ye. He can go straight to the devil far as I am concerned.”
Patrick made his way to the cashier platform, giving the shop a critical once-over as he sauntered past the displays and sale tables. “Looks nice. Bet all this set ye back a tidy bob or two. Got anything left in those accounts the old lady left ye?”
“That is none of yer bloody business,” Gracie snapped. “Did yer mam never teach ye if ye couldna say something nice, dinna say anything at all?”
