“Heading to the back for a quick break,” I mutter to Sheila and Ruby before escaping to the kitchenette.
I click on the kettle, more out of habit than any real desire for tea. As it boils, voices drift through from the salon, not exactly quiet and impossible to tune out. Struan, unfortunately, remains the subject of conversation.
“Ardmara’s very own Casanova, that one,” Sheila offers with a chuckle.
I roll my eyes. Harmless banter. Part and parcel of salon life. Still grates, though.
“Well, about that...” one of her clients says in a tone that suggests she hasbig gossip.
“Aye?” Sheila says eagerly.
I pop a teabag into a mug, ears pricking despite myself.
“I heard something interesting at the Ferryman’s Rest the other day. You know Lindsey McVey? She was Lindsey Wallace before the divorce.”
The blonde from the beach. The woman whose house Struan was so keen to visit alone.
“Aye, I know her,” Sheila confirms.
“Well, apparently Lindsey invited Struan round to give her a quote for a new bathroom—only a quote wasn’t the only thing she was after.” She drops her voice to a stage whisper that I can still hear perfectly well in the back. “She all but put it on a platter for him.”
Iknewit. Knew that was why Struan was so determined to go to that appointment without his da.
Not that it matters. He’s a free agent. I told him I wanted to forget what happened on his step, didn’t I?
My jaw tightens anyway.
“Bold move,” Ruby says, sounding impressed.
“Anyway,” the storyteller continues, clearly enjoying her moment, “he turned her down. Said he was flattered but wasn’t interested. Quite the gentleman about it, apparently.”
That’snothow I was expecting the story to go.
Sheila lets out a low whistle. “Didn’t think he was the sort to turn down an offer like that.”
“Poor woman,” Ruby murmurs. “I’d be mortified.”
I pour my tea and perch at the breakfast bar, spoon circling idly. The chatter moves on to something else, but not my thoughts. I’m still thinking about Struan.
He turned her down. Why?
My phone buzzes. “Mum” flashes on the screen.
“Hi, Mum,” I say, answering. “Everything okay?”
“No.” Her voice is high and shaky. “It’s your father, Ainsley. He’s fallen off a ladder. He landed on his arm and—oh, Ainsley, he’s in so much pain. Gone so pale. And?—”
“Mum, have you called an ambulance?”
“Yes, but it was going to take them too long to get here, so our neighbour, Billy, is driving us to Inverness. I’m in the back with your da, and—oh, Ainsley, I’m so worried about him.”
My chest tightens. “Mum, deep breaths, okay?” I force myself to do the same. “Everything is going to be fine. I’m going to head through now.” I grab my bag and my coat. “You stay strong for Da, okay? I’ll see you at the hospital.”
“Okay,” Mum says shakily. Then: “Oh, your da’s saying you don’t have to drive?—”
“I’m coming through, Mum. I’ll see you there.”
I end the call and pull on my coat. What the hell was Da doing up a set of ladders? And how many times do Mum and I have to tell him not to attempt stuff like that himself?
