Page 4 of The Bookshop By the Loch

She weaved her way along the street. “You work too hard at that place.”

Yeah. And look where my hard work has got me.

I shot a surreptitious glance back towards the bustling gift shop and then to the kiosk, where Nigel Carter, the dashing, elderly stalwart of the castle, was holding court with a group of visitors. Nigel, suited and booted and with his dark grey hair combed, was pointing a gnarly finger towards the grounds.

I thought again about me returning home. My grandfather lived with my mother. I was looking forward to seeing him again too. They’d act like a morale-boosting tag team, and right now I really needed it.

No sooner had I got through the front door and deposited my case and jacket in the hall, than my grandfather embraced me. He beamed at me from under his white moustache. He smelled of tobacco and fabric softener. “I don’t know how many people your mother is expecting for lunch.”

I popped my head around the sitting room door to see the dining table at the far end of the room laid out with her best crockery, on a starched white tablecloth.

“I’ve made your favourite,” she grinned at me, her eyes shining. “My chicken pasta bake.”

“And then sticky toffee pudding and custard,” added Grandpa.

I stared at the set table and at the familiarity of my old family home. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. My emotions swamped me. My face crumpled.

Both of them shot forward, concerned.

“Lexie. What is it? What’s wrong?” asked Mum, shooting worried looks at my grandfather.

I gave my head a shake, as they guided me into the sitting room and my grandfather encouraged me to sit down.

His sympathetic, papery hands seized mine. “Come on, lass. You can tell us.”

“How could they do it, Grandpa?” I gulped into his shoulder, not making any sense to either of them. “I’ve given them everything. I’ve worked so hard. I’ve sacrificed so much.”

They exchanged puzzled looks.

And out it came: the kick in the teeth about the job I’d been led to believe was mine and which I’d worked so hard to earn, the appointment of someone who they believed held more gravitas than me.

My grandfather surveyed me with his intelligent eyes. His long, considered face was framed with bristly brows and a thick sweep of white hair.

My mum’s sitting room, with its well-worn sofa and armchairs and chestnut-coloured cushions, gave me a shred of familiarity and comfort.

My father had walked out on us when I was seven years old to pursue a career in journalism. Working on the local paper, the Bracken Way Observer, hadn’t been high profile enough. Niall Dunbar had far more lofty ambitions than that, wanting to cover international stories and win the Pulitzer Prize for intrepid journalism.

My parents got divorced a few years later.

I blinked several times, refocusing on my grandpa and my mother.

“This is just a blip. A bump in the road,” he assured me.

“Yes. Well. It’s a sodding big bump.”

Grandpa pressed his lips together. “Things will sort themselves out in the end. They always do. You’ll see.”

Gerald Foyle was still a dapper man, even at eighty years of age, and had long possessed a penchant for snazzy waistcoats, which had endured from his twenties. Today, he was sporting a jade-green paisley style over a cream shirt and dark trousers.

He had been a real father figure in my life.

He had been born and raised in Bracken Way like me and had worked for a local boat building company for years, until his reluctant retirement fifteen years ago. He was also an eternal optimist.

I moved my tear-stained attention to Mum, who looked like she wanted to commit murder. She perched beside me on the sofa and reached her hand over to rest it on mine. “I can’t believe the way you’ve been treated. All the hours and weekends you’ve given that company! I hope they have a good think about what they’ve done and offer you another post.” She sniffed. “So, this American woman was given the senior role instead of you?”

I swiped at my face with the back of my hand. “Yes.”

“And that’s why you’ve taken this extended leave?”