The House on the Shore (10 page)

“
Good Lord, man!
The last thing I need.”

“In that case let me do the job
my way
.”

“All right.
B
e careful
, and
keep me informed.
I can’t afford to miss the closing date.”

“Y
ou
’
re not the only one with a vested interest in this project.
You’ve promised me a
hefty bonus
for
a successful outcome.
”

“
Ju
st as long as we
’
re clear on what is at stake.
You can go
now.”

“That’s it?
No affairs of the estate to discuss?
As your factor, I’m supposed to be seen with you
-
quite often.”

“How
silly of me to forget
,
”
Alistair sighed
.
“
Y
ou
ha
d better tell the lads to get the silage cut.
Y
ou
’
ll
also
need to
book
shearers for the sheep.
The shooting season gets underway in a few months.
I assume the pheasant pens are well
stocked.
H
ire some beaters.
I can’t afford to turn clients away.”

“Aye, I’ll make sure it’s all taken care of.
Now, if there’s nothing else, your Lairdship, I’ve a few things to attend to.”
He picked up his gun.

Mac
K
innon
rose
,
scraping the antique chair
against the polished wood floor.
Alistair winced
.

“I’m counting on you, MacKinnon, for an early resolution to this problem.
Don’t let me down.”

MacKinnon snorted.
“We’ll, see.
It all depends on how I feel, your Lairdship.
It all depends on how I feel.”
He scuttled out and slammed the door.

Alistair jumped and looked back to see if the vase was all right.
It was, but his stomach wasn’t.

He
swivelled his chair
and
stare
d
out
at
the ornamental garden.
How had he got into this mess?
And
how could he control that vicious Glasgow rat?
He
slammed
his fist
on the desk
.
His glass crashed
to the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces
, spilling its contents on
to the
Chinese rug
.
God damn it!
Did everythi
ng he touch
have to go wrong?

He picked up the largest shards of glass and dropped them into the wooden wastebasket, narrowly escaping cutting himself.
He looked down at the ever-spreading pool of whisky.
Oh,
to
hell with it.
Let Mrs McTavish mop it up.
Poor or not, no pro
per Laird did his own cleaning.

There had to be another way to resolve his problems, but he couldn
’
t see any course of action other than the one he was already taking.
He looked at the papers
lying on the desk
in the vague hope they held the answers, but what he saw only made him more depressed.
He c
lasp
ed
his hands behind his head, leaned back in his chair
,
and stared at the painting of his father on the opposite wall.

“You rotten old bastard.
It’s your fault.
If you hadn’t…if you’d only…oh, I hope you die and go to
h
ell!”
After a moment
’
s contemplation, he snatched u
p the phone and diall
ed
.

“
About that matter we discussed last time I was in town,
”
he growled before the person on the other end of the line had chance to answer.
“
I
’
ve decided
y
ou can go ahead.
”

The short-wave radio crackled above Luke’s head.
The announcer’s voice was barely audible above the static.
Luke adjusted the dial hoping to catch the weather report, but it was impossible to get a decent signal.
He wasn’t too concerned.
Until the replacement pump for the
autopilot
arrived, he
couldn’t
return
to Cape Cod
unless he found someone to help crew the yacht and take a turn at the
helm while he slept.

The scenery and diversity of the coastline amazed him.
The Hebridean islands were stunning, with their white-sand beaches and low grassy, wild flower-strewn
machair
.
But they were nothing compared with the dramatic, impenetrable sea-cliffs of the mainland, interspersed with beaches and fjord-like sea lochs, which, according to his chart, stretched inland like the fingers of an arthritic hand.

In that respect, Loch Hourn was a perfect example.
Its steep mountains, a mixture of bare rock, heather, gors
e and bracken, tumbling streams
and waterfalls
,
were inhospitable.
I
t was also a modern man-made wilderness,
for
along the
shoreline he’d seen the ghostly,
roofless
,
remains of
abandoned
dwellings.

While his dinner cooked, Luke gazed out of the cabin window to the solitary,
whitewashed
cottage across the loch.
The setting sun dipped ever closer to the horizon, its red
,
fiery orb casting a rich ochre shadow on the walls of the cottage.
The colours and panorama were spectacular, and his fingers itched to capture the scene unfolding before him.
It would make a wonderful painting, with the rock and pebble beach in
front
and the majestic mountains behind.
About half a mile to the left
,
a waterfall cascad
ed
over granite boulders into
the
stream below, which
in turn,
meandered in
to the loch.

Luke
lifted the pan off the stove,
gathered up his sketchbook and pastels, and went up the companionway to the deck.
With the cabin window against his back for support and his sketchbook resting on his knee, his pencil strokes soon
captured the image of the croft
bathed i
n the light of the setting sun.

He remembered the time he and Nicole, his fiancée,
had
visited
Lake Tahoe for the weekend.
It had been
t
hree,
n
o, five years ago.
He’d insisted they go for a walk along
the lakeside
after dinner.
It had been an evening similar to this.
Tall, blonde, with vibrant blue eyes, and a ready laugh, Nicole had captured his heart from the moment they’d met.
Despite the warnings from his superior about agents not getting involved, he’d fallen in love with her.
Th
ey dated
for six months
when he decided to propose.
He had it all planned.
He
ask
ed
her to give up her job in San Francisco and move into his house on Cape Cod.
They woul
d be married from there.
He’d even picked out a ring the week before while on a business trip to New York.
A
two-carat
solitaire diamond set in platinum.
When he’d slipped the ring on her finger she’d cried and clung to him.
He’d been
the happiest man on the planet.

H
is world fell apart the day she died in his arms.
If he’d only told her true nature of his work rather than concealing it from her, he migh
t have been able to protect her.
H
er death was his fault.
Luke rubbed his eyes.
Damned memories
,
what would it take to finally burn them away?

He gazed over at Anna’s cottage.
He’d seen similar houses on the islands, but on those, the builder had used turf as a bed for the thatched roof of bracken and heather.
Tigh na Cladach’s hip-ended roof was tiled in slate, its one apparent concession to modernity.
Two small dormer windows were set into it.
Could they be bedrooms?
Surely not, for anyone over five foot would find it difficult, if not impossible, to stand upright in such a confined space.
No, he reasoned, they must be for additional light.

He wished he’d brought his camera on
deck, but with dusk descending
he had little time left in which to sketch the scene, let alone capture it on film.
For this evening, at least, he woul
d have to be satisfied with his drawings.
There woul
d be other opportunities to take photographs, which he would use as an
aide-memoire
once back at the easel in his Cape Cod stud
io.

The water rippling against the hull soothed him.
Even though he’d lost the light, he remained on deck thinking about Anna.
This was a wild and isolated place for a woman to live, especially a
beautiful
young woman, and he wondered what had brought her to this remote glen.
W
as she ever lonely in the croft
with only her dogs for company?

His drawing momentarily forgotten, Luke watched a shadow cross in front of one of the windows.
A light snapped on, followed by
one i
n
the porch, creating an eerie dance of shadows on the lawn.
Anna appeared
, the breeze whipp
ing
her hair into disarray as she
pulled
on a jacket
,
and
walked across the grass towards the rocky beach.
The two dogs followed close behind.

He turned to a clean page and quickly started sketching the tall, slim figure as she paused now and again to throw sticks for the dogs.
S
he lingered at the water’s edge
and bent
down to investigate something.
At the precise moment he lifted his eyes from his drawing, she straightened and looked across the loch to the yacht.
She stood motionless, her hands by her side, staring into the twilight.
At first he wasn’t sure if she could see him sitting against the bulkhead, but then she gave a brief wave in acknowledgement.
Before he
realized
it, he’d returned the gesture.

Although her features were indiscernible, he knew she would be smi
ling, her bright eyes sparkling
as she enjoyed the walk with her
dogs
.
Abruptly, she turned and walked on toward the waterf
all
and was soon out of sight.

Luke felt a sudden stab of envy at her uncomplicated life.
It had been years since he’d enjoyed such simple pleasures.
If he
suggested to Kate, his girlfriend in
Chatham
,
that they go for a walk or stay in a remote mountain cabin rather
than a five-star hotel, she woul
d
be
horrified.
Limousines, designer clothes, exclusive restaurants and champagne
,
were far more he
r style than loafers, a sweater
and old blue jeans.
U
ntil now, he’d felt pretty much the sa
me way.

While he
work
ed
on his sketch,
he
thought about his life back home.
He owned a fine house, an old converted coastguard station on the seaward shore of Cape Cod.
The
re was an SUV in the garage
and this yacht.
He enjoyed
reasonable
success as an artist, with his paintings exhibited in galleries all over the States.
His bank balance was healthy.
And there was Kate, with her too-blue eyes and beach-girl hair.
Life was good, yet now he yearned for something else, such as a walk along the beach with a woman who could love him for himself, and not for his wealth and social status.
As classy as she was, Kate hardly qualified.