Page 1 of A Scottish Country Escape

Chapter One

‘Are you sure this isn’t a knee-jerk reaction to all that’s happened, Elle? You’ve been to hell and back these past twelve months.’ She gulped back tears. ‘We both have.’

I shook my head at my grandmother, almost dislodging my haphazard bun, which I’d secured in a creamy blonde ball at the nape of my neck.

I stared round with damp eyes at the empty newspaper racks and the plastic jars with their circular screw-top lids that previously housed everything from rainbow-coloured sweeties and pastel-shaded mints to sherbet-sprinkled lollipops.

A couple of lost-looking envelopes were still poking out of the greetings card display.

Further up the shop floor, on the right-hand side, lay the vacant space where Mum had stocked magazines, ranging from fat, glossy women’s monthly publications to those aimed at the train, fishing, and golf enthusiasts.

I leant on the dark wooden counter and dragged my attention away from the inactive electric cash register to the two bottle-glass windows.

I could still see my late parents bouncing ideas and jokes off one another behind the counter, greeting everyone like old friends.

Mum’s imaginative shop displays had been the talk of Fir Haven. So many locals would comment on Dana Cassidy’s Easter-inspired window extravaganza with its yellow and cream daffodils, arrangements of lemon-coloured confectionary and cute cuddly toy rabbits.

Then she would lace silver Christmas lights, like shards of twinkling stars, around the window frames and use everything from Christmas crackers, cotton wool, and glitter to make a festive scene that any high street store would have been proud of.

Cassidy’s was nestled halfway down the cobbled high street, sandwiched in between Mr Monteith’s antique business, Through the Ages, and Mrs Campbell’s pet shop, Paws for Thought.

It seemed inconceivable even a year on. Dana and Gareth Cassidy, much-loved and respected members of the local community, killed outright in a car accident whilst on holiday in the heather-studded beauty of the Scottish Highlands.

Another vehicle, tackling a bend too wide, had veered into them.

Emotions raged inside of me, white-hot and raw. I bit my lip. Life would never be the same again. I had tried to convince myself that after their funeral I might be able to get my life into some semblance of order, but it hadn’t happened. I hadn’t been able to face coming into the shop, but I couldn’t leave the business sitting like this, echoing with the ghosts of them, through layers of dust.

‘Elle?’

I blinked over at my grandmother and tugged at the hem of my jacket. ‘Sorry.’ I cleared my throat. ‘I was lost in my own world there for a minute.’

I forced myself to concentrate on Gran’s question. ‘I know what needs to be done. I won’t put things off any longer. Mum and Dad wouldn’t have wanted me to give up on the shop.’

I studied the shoulder-length sweep of her silver-lilac bob and her sorrowful pale-grey eyes. ‘They never gave up on me.’

I moved around what used to be our family newsagent’s, my leather heels clipping against the rustic oak flooring.

The May sunshine had toyed with us all at the cemetery the day of their funeral, dipping and weaving in and out of rinsed puffy clouds. Now it was spooling in through the windows, like tiny gold necklaces, draping themselves over the counter and looping across the floor.

‘I want to do this, Grandma,’ I appealed to her, ‘but I can’t without your blessing.’

She let out a ragged breath and moved towards the counter. I watched her as she trailed her veined beringed right hand along the edge.

I swallowed, keen not to upset her. ‘The supermarket already stocks so many newspapers and magazines. The town doesn’t need a traditional newsagent any more, given the size of the place.’

I had considered leaving Fir Haven and its wealth of memories behind: our home; the shop; the gorgeous expanse of our local nature reserve, where we would ramble as a tight-knit little family unit of three. Even the thought of going to the reserve now without either of them made my breath stall.

The local nature reserve was like the beating heart of Fir Haven, with its throbbing wildlife, feathery expanse of trees, and tangles of streams that slithered and danced over the rocks. It was a sweet little Scottish town situated on the gateway to the Highlands, only a short train ride away from the likes of Perth and Inverness.

We even had our own Fir Haven Rose Garden, located up one of the cobbled lanes from the main street, where an assortment of beautiful paintbox-bright roses, mulberry trees, and cypress bushes bloomed and made for a very popular setting for tourist and day-tripper photographs.

Mum, Gran, and I would often go and sit amongst its frilly blooms during the summer months, putting the world to rights, moaning about Dad having his rugby matches turned up to full volume on the TV, and inwardly cursing the odd tourist dawdling along the pavement or parking where they shouldn’t.

There were numerous rumours about the historical legacy of our little town, ranging from it being a bolt-hole for William Wallace to it once being used by smugglers to stash their spoils before transferring them on by boat. The latter would have been a very appealing explanation if Fir Haven were close to the sea.

It was even rumoured to be where a local nineteenth-century artist, Stratford Miller, sat and painted his most famous work, Little Town.

The local library had a blurry black and white photograph of the painting hanging in its reception area, showing layers of snow like fondant icing covering the bare branches of the trees before travelling across the hazy winter fields and down to the stippled roofs of Fir Haven itself.