Page 20 of The Bookshop By the Loch

There came a couple of stutters. “Well, that’s great,” she choked, struggling to find the words. “Really. I mean… it’s a shock.”

“What, me getting another job?”

“No, of course not. Just you quitting like this and the type of job it is. You know…” Her voice withered. “You managing a bookshop.”

“So, you don’t think I’m up to it?” I said with forced laughter. Oh shit. Right now, I was wondering the same thing. I dragged my socked foot backwards and forwards on Mum’s sitting room carpet.

“Don’t be daft. Of course, you are. I’m pleased for you. I’m just a bit stunned, that’s all. I’ve just got back from Canada, I’m jet-lagged to hell and now this.”

If Rhiannon was pleased for me, I wish someone had told her voice. But then she couldn’t help herself. Like a Scottish Highland wind, she breathed long, low and hard into my ear, before she launched into familiar territory again. “Look, I don’t mean to rain on your parade Lex, but we’re struggling. A lot of the authors are revolting.”

A laugh shot out of me. “You’d better not let Dame Alicia hear you say that, although there were a few that were already revolting when I started working there.”

“Oh, ha ha!” she shot back. “I’m glad you’re finding this so amusing. You never used to be like this.”

“Like what? You mean more relaxed?”

“Sarcastic.”

“I was. I just didn’t have the time or energy to be sarcastic when I worked at Literati.”

Rhiannon let out a grunt.

“Look Rhi, I never envisaged handing in my notice, but things happen. I gave everything to Literati, but it wasn’t enough.”

After a few more moans, Rhiannon conceded defeat. “Alright. Alright. I get it. I guess our loss is this bookshop’s gain then.”

I bloody well hoped so.

The first weekend in May was on the horizon and already, a number of the second-home owners in the area were arriving on the Thursday afternoon, their vehicles topped with bikes, canoes and surfboards.

The refitting of Book Ends was underway. The local joiners I recruited were streaming in and out, removing the old bookcases, as well as preparing to install a platform at each of the two shop windows and John McColl, Mum’s painter and decorator friend, had rung me to say he and his team from Brush Strokes were cracking on with the repainting and would begin in the bookshop office.

The tradesmen were hopeful that with all possible hands-on deck they could have everything achieved over this bank holiday weekend.

We had opted for 25th May, the big bank holiday weekend, to officially re-open, which was now only three weeks away. That prospect was thrilling me but terrifying me in equal measure.

I thought that opting for that long weekend might mean we could draw upon curious visitors to Bracken Way, as well as the returning second homers.

After breakfast and showering, I threw on my jeans, trainers and a sparkly pink T-shirt with a matching cardigan on top. The temptation to go and take another look at the progress being made at Book Ends was too much to resist, despite the persistent rain.

I decided to pop down, take some photographs of the revamp progress on my phone and then I’d upload them on social media, under a “Taking a sneak peek” post.

I slipped on my waterproof and grabbed my bag, before heading out the door. I was so glad, on a day like this, that Mum lived just a ten-minute walk away from the shop.

It might be the beginning of May, but it was the Scottish Highlands and anybody who didn’t carry something to protect them from the rain was viewed with bemusement by the locals.

Sure enough, no sooner had my trainers set foot onto the pavement, but the rain started to dart down.

Hardy souls, though buffeted by the fresh breeze, remained by the railings that looked down onto the loch shore. They continued to take pictures of the castle, now slick with rain and pummelled by the wind. Miserable but atmospheric!

My heart quickened and I realised I was beaming as Book Ends morphed into view.

As I drew nearer, I could see John had strolled out of Book Ends, his white overalls splattered in a rainbow of paint. He was engaged in what looked like a heated conversation with another man.

The man he was talking to was tall, with curly, shoulder-length dark hair pushed back behind his ears.

“Hi.” I smiled, my attention travelling between the two of them.