It was a personal record for me, a rejection within an hour. I didn’t leave my bed for a week. I watchedClueandDeath on the Nile(the 1978 version, because Mia Farrow) on a loop, and ate cereal from the box. Since then, the words have dried up.
A large gust of wind brings me back to the present as I lean into it and pedal harder. I ride the same route every day unless the rain is too punishing. Down the hill into town, usually to say hi to Margie atThistle House and get a bit of lunch. But right now, I need to ride off this growing sense of unease that’s settled in my chest. Or at least get a break from my father before my temper gets the best of me, and it turns into a proper fight.Check me out. I must be growing.
I can’t believe he agreed to an entire movie production without even talking to me about it first. He took it to the board, which essentially means the whole town knew before I did.
This can’t be the only solution. A bunch of Hollywood yahoos running amok all over Foyers. Hell, probably all over Scotland. That’s not the kind of attention we want. Save all that fame and farce for the States. Plus, how will I get any work done? I need my book to be done in time for the manuscript contest, and I can’t write with people shining lights about and taking over my house with director’s chairs.
They’ll have to find somewhere else to film.
As I turn a corner into town, the stone and stark white buildings are as familiar as slipping on an old sweater.
Margie is outside hanging up a bird feeder, her white hair neatly pinned back in a bun. She spots me and waves. “Skye!”
I’d rather skip my chat with Margie. I love her. She’s like an aunt to me, or maybe more a great-aunt, but I know if I stop, she’ll just want to talk about the movie. She won’t understand why I don’t want them there. I’ve never told anyone about the fan mail, and I’m not about to start now. Waving, I’m about to take a right when she yells.
“Skye, where are you going? It’s Baltic out. Come in where the drinks are hot, dear!”
I sigh and arc my bike back onto the road toward Thistle House.
As I hop off, Margie says, “It looked for a second like you weren’t going to stop here.” She laughs like that’s the funniest thing she’s heard all week.
I follow her inside, inhaling deeply the smell of bangers, hash, and freshly brewed coffee. The small stone house is much lighter inside than you would expect. Arctic blue walls reflect slightly on the walnut floors. The tables are a lighter wood, each with a small bouquet of thistles and bluebells on them. Floor-to-ceiling windows at the backof the house overlook Loch Ness. On the far left side is a fireplace with comfy seats, each a different floral pattern, with cross-stitched throw pillows and hand-knitted blankets, all made by loyal customers. Family, really. The effect is cozy hodgepodge.
While I hang my coat on the coat rack by the door, Margie pours me a cup of tea, even though she knows I prefer coffee. She insists tea is better for my health. Fall has brought a cold mist that has settled over Foyers, especially in the mornings and the evenings, but the fire is roaring. I sit and hold my hands to it, my fingers warming up from the ride.
“Here, hold this.” Margie hands me the mug. “Where are your gloves?”
“I forgot them.”
Margie narrows her eyes and examines my face. “What’s going on?”
Taking a sip, I hold in my cringe at the floral flavor. Not even black tea? This is going too far. Margie’s still searching my face for answers. I mean to shrug, but just slump my shoulders instead. Everything comes tumbling out as it always does when I talk to Margie. “Dad pimped out the castle to a film crew.”
Margie takes a seat, her face lighting up like I just told her I had a great date the night before. Margie’s always trying to fix me up. Everyone’s always trying to fix me up since Finn.
“I heard a little about that. Isn’t that fun? A film. A proper Hollywood movie. Here! It’s so exciting.” Margie stands and runs to grab a handful of coasters, the Thistle House logo printed on each one. “At the meeting, Callum said they were staying at yours. But put these around the house, dear. You know we have lodging here, too.”
“I wish they could all stay here, but Dad’s already promised them beds in the castle.”
Margie claps, rubbing her hands together like a cartoon villain hatching an evil plan. “Dear, this is wonderful. There might be a man your age, maybe even more than one. You’ll have your pick.”
I knew it. I knew when I told Margie, she would try to turn it intosome kind of dating game, and to what end? This is not an episode ofBachelor in the Highlands. “And what, we fall madly in love and date long distance? I’m not doing that again, ever.”
“Maybe he moves here, maybe you move there. You can figure that out later.”
She knows I’ll never leave again. The castle is too big a job for one person. Plus, the last time I tried to spread my wings, look what happened. I set my offensive herbal tea down.
“Nope. No fairy tale reality TV show ending here. It’s just going to be a pain in my arse for a while. But I’ll figure out a way for the castle to make money without the interlopers. I’ll see you later, Margie. Thanks for the coffee.”
The ride back is quick and blessedly dry. Once I walk in the door back at the castle, Dad hands me the car keys, whispering, “He’s a nice bloke. They’re all good people. You’ll see.”
“Dad—”
Miles walks down the stairs. I didn’t think it was possible for him to look more ridiculous than when he was in his formal kilt attire covered in mud, until seeing him in my dad’s clothes. He is swimming in them.
My dad says, “Ah, here ye are. Skye offered to take you into Inverness to get some things.”
SKYE
