Page 27 of A Secret Scottish Escape

I wriggled under the duvet and let out a sigh. What was going on inside my head? I’d decided to move on. I was going to leave Loch Harris and begin again.

But if I was so certain about my next steps, why was that great hulk of old boathouse nudging at the corners of my mind? It just wouldn’t go away.

I shoved a frustrated hand through my hair, sending it flying back off my face.

Faith’s remarks about Loch Harris being in urgent need of an injection of something new flitted around inside my head.

Could I just walk away from the area, when there was a chance I might be able to do something? What if there was a possibility that I could help?

Fuming with Mac for putting me in this position, I threw back my bedcovers with an irritated, “Sod it!”

Even though 5 a.m. had only just clicked up in red neon on my alarm clock, I jumped in the shower and washed my hair.

I tried to focus on the hot needles of water pounding into my body, but it was useless. Images of Mac and the boathouse jostled for position.

I fired my damp hair back into a high ponytail and clattered about in the kitchen. I didn’t feel hungry, but managed a modest bowl of cereal and a glass of fresh orange juice before I switched on my computer and raced through my emails, noting a couple of new freelance commissions that had arrived for me.

My dad’s house was only ten minutes’ walk down the lane, so I set off at a leisurely pace, with only the thrum of birdsong for company.

As it was Sunday morning, the church bells would soon echo around the loch and surrounding treetops.

When I was little, I used to love rolling down the hills and tumbling through the clusters of heather, and Dad had taken great delight in pulling together modest but mouth-watering little packed lunches for the two of us to take on our adventures.

We’d shove them in our rucksacks and then thump off down the lanes in our walking boots. He’d become very adept at doing my hair into pigtails and, as they swung about my shoulders, I’d gaze up at this bear of a man, with his rock music T-shirts and ready smile, and think how much I loved him.

Usually, on a day like this, I’d drink in the thick hedgerows and crafted dry-stone walls, but this morning all I wanted to do was speak to my dad.

My late grandparents’ cottage peeked out as I rounded the corner. Visions of me scampering around their patch of front lawn scoffing local strawberries and darting in and out of their trellis porch swam in front of my eyes. I smiled to myself.

The cottage was set back a little from the road, an off-white affair with a black roof and double chimney breast. Dad had cultivated the side rockery, so that it added an extra splash of colour in the shape of stout, lush shrubs.

He’d painted the front door and surrounding woodwork in sky blue so that it was much more vibrant and welcoming than the plain charcoal my grandparents had opted for.

I was about to knock on the door, when I heard a clatter from the back garden.

I eased open the black iron side gate and saw a glimpse of Dad’s legs fired out in front of him.

There was a mug of coffee stewing gently on the wrought-iron table and the remnants of toast on a plate. His head was bowed over one of the Sunday newspapers. I could make out his jutting chin from behind that curtain of hair.

When he sensed movement, he swung his head up. “Layla, love!” He stared down at his chunky wrist watch. “Bloody hell. It’s not even half seven yet. You’re up and about early.”

He stalked over and enveloped me in his tanned arms.

“Morning, Dad,” I smiled as he planted a kiss on my cheek. “I couldn’t sleep.”

I gave him a kiss back and studied him. “Sitting there, you still look like a Seventies rock star, rather than a landscape gardener.”

He broke into a wide grin. “One does one’s best.” Dad pointed to his coffee. “Would you like one or would you prefer one of those herbal tea things you’ve started drinking?”

“Oh, a herbal tea thing would be great, thanks.”

He rolled his eyes good naturedly and vanished through the open back door.

I felt as though I’d only just closed my eyes and raised my face to the blossoming sunshine when Dad reappeared with one of his ceramic mugs for me and a fresh coffee for himself. “Camomile OK for you?”

“That’s perfect. Thanks.”

Dad sat in the garden chair opposite. “Go on then. Spill.”