Page 31 of A Secret Scottish Escape

Clem frowned as she sank into the armchair next to Norrie and swiped his arm.

“Ow, woman! What was that for?”

“For teasing the poor lass.”

Clem set her teacup and saucer down on the coffee table. It was decked out in a burnt-orange cotton tablecloth that reminded me of an amber traffic light. “We haven’t had any other offers or folks asking about it. The old heap hasn’t even gone on the market yet.”

Norrie appraised her with indignant hazel eyes. “It is not an old heap. I don’t understand for the life of me why neither Ross nor Scott wanted to carry on with it.”

Clem rolled her clear blue eyes up to her puff of white hair. “They’ve got their own lives to lead and neither of them lives locally.”

There was a few seconds’ pause before Norrie burst out. “I don’t mean to sound nosey, Layla—”

“But you will anyway,” supplied an irritated Clem beside him.

“But how will you be able to pay for all this? I mean, we all know of Mac’s passing – we’re so sorry for your loss – and there were rumours he’d left you—”

Clem gave Norrie a sharp tap on the trouser leg with her pink slipper. “Will you mind your own business, man?”

Norrie shifted in his seat, suitably chastised. “I shouldn’t have said anything, lassie. My apologies. It’s just that starting up a business back in my day was hard enough. Nowadays, the financial pressures are even worse.”

A wavering image of Mac threatened to upset me. I gave my brain a mental shake. “Let’s just say that Mac’s will did contain a financial surprise for me.”

Clem didn’t push it any further, but when Norrie opened his mouth to interrogate me again, she pushed a plate of clotted cream shortbread fingers under his nose. “Biscuit, Norrie?”

He didn’t dare refuse.

We exchanged handshakes all round. Norrie said he would contact Victor first thing the next morning and I promised to get everything sorted with David Murray as a priority.

Then I raced back up the lane on excited legs, still reeling from what I had just done.

I stopped by Dad’s house to tell him. I felt like I’d been awake for hours – in truth I had – and it was only just after 10.30 a.m. Tiredness and anticipation clouded me.

Dad had changed into his trusted gardening gear of a frayed, moss-green T-shirt and his combats, and he was delving his gloved hands into the rich, chocolate-coloured earth in the back garden.

I smiled at the look of concentration on his face as he tore at weeds and tossed them into a nearby wheelbarrow.

“Dad, you are now looking at your daughter, the business owner – well, almost.”

At the sound of my voice, his head jerked up. He snatched off one of his gardening gloves. “So you’re going ahead with it, then?”

My mouth morphed into a wobbly grin. “Yes.”

His mouth curled upwards. “Come here and give your old man a hug.” He bundled me into his arms. “Good luck. I’m very proud of you.”

I clung to him. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

“Oh, but you will.”

“I thought you weren’t all that keen on the idea this morning.”

Dad’s brows arched. “I wasn’t, but I could see how enthusiastic you were about it. I glimpsed the old Layla, all bubbling over and full of excitement for something. I think that’s the first proper smile I’ve seen from you since Mac died.”

He crouched down a little so that his smoky-grey eyes were level with mine. “After you left here this morning, I got to thinking about your plans. I should be delighted that you’re as passionate about music as I am.”

I smiled. “It’s definitely in the genes.”

“And you’re being so brave about everything,” he added. “It’s great that you’re trying to move on and be positive, after what happened.”