Page 49 of The Bookshop By the Loch

Grandpa’s jaw dropped. “Seriously? Bloody hell.”

My grandfather and mother looked at one another, unsaid, stunned expressions travelling between them.

My grandfather let out a long, low sigh. Then he scratched at his white moustache. “Well, even though I’ve no time for the man, I’m sorry to hear that. Is that why he’s come back to Bracken Way?”

I flopped down in the armchair opposite Mum. My hair was escaping from its up-do and half my make-up had slid off. “Yes. It seems that way.”

Grandpa continued to stand by his chair, appraising both of us. Then he took up his armchair and toyed for a few moments with today’s newspaper lying on the occasional table he used for his mug of tea and his library books. “I wouldn’t spit on Niall Dunbar if he were alight, but I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

I almost laughed at my grandfather’s honest and brutal admission about my father, even under these startling circumstances.

Mum heaved a sigh and continued to stare past her wine-coloured curtains and out of the sitting room window at nothing in particular. “I know, Dad.”

The ticking of the clock on top of the stone fireplace broke through the strange atmosphere.

My grandfather pushed and pulled at his newspaper for a few more moments. “Maisie, you and Lexie have to do what you feel is right. If you want or think you should speak to him or spend time with him, then it’s up to you.” He allowed his gnarly hands to still. “Whatever your decision is, I’ll respect it.”

My mum jerked her head away from the sitting room window to look across at my grandpa. “Dad, right now, I don’t know what to say, let alone think or do.”

I reached over and clamped a caring hand over my grandpa’s age-spotted one. He gave me a reassuring pat.

“At the moment, Grandpa, I feel just like Mum. I don’t know what that is or what to think. I mean, I feel sorry for him but as for everything else, I’m not sure.”

I looked to Mum, but she was lost somewhere in the distance again, not hearing what we were saying.

My grandfather squeezed my hand. “Well, whatever you two decide, I’m here for you. And that’s the honest truth.”

It was a relief to escape into the quiet solitude of Book Ends the next morning. Day two of the grand re-opening and I hoped it would be another successful day of sales.

I flipped the door sign to “open” and meandered around the bookshelves, appreciating the rows of novel spines grinning back out at me. My imagination travelled around the varied covers, the photographs, the sketches, the images, the enticing titles.

I turned and stared up at the silent Mirror Image. It conjured up pictures of Tobias, confidently describing his heavenly portraits to discerning customers. Then it shifted again, pulling up more pictures of him as we talked yesterday up at the castle. His attitude towards me, when confronted with my dad and his revelation, had taken me by surprise.

I batted the images of him away into the dark recesses of my mind. Just a few weeks ago, I was blaming Tobias Black for attempting to steal the bookshop from his uncle. Now, I was thinking about the colour of his eyes!

I gave my brain a mental shake. I was vulnerable right now. He’d been kind to me and I was appreciative. Grateful.

I strode over to the counter and fired up the till.

After all, it’s not every day your estranged father reappears from the States to deliver bad news.

I busied myself with tidying up the underside of the counter. Yes. That’s what it was. Gratitude towards Tobias for being a shoulder to cry on.

Outside the bookshop, the weather was mild, but a gunmetal sky rolled overhead and the loch carried an irritated air.

Now this was more typical bank holiday weather! I wasn’t concentrating as I faffed around with a block of post-it notes and they fell to the floor. “Bugger!”

I reached down to retrieve them.

The shop doorbell let out its merry tinkle.

I arranged my face into what I hoped was a welcoming smile and straightened up to greet who I assumed would be a customer. “Good morning. How can I help…” My voice died.

It was my father. Again.

He was wearing a pink T-shirt and beige chinos. His hair was freshly washed and still damp.

The uncertain edge to his debonair features took me by surprise. On TV, he’d appeared so smooth and unflappable.