Page 7 of The Bookshop By the Loch

“What?”

She forced a smile. “Oh, just forget it.”

“No, come on. You were going to say something.”

She started to talk about Mrs Hamilton’s grandson passing his driving test. I folded my arms. “I’m going to keep asking you what you were about to say. And stop trying to change the subject.”

She set down the kettle and surprised me with a short laugh. She dropped her voice, so Grandpa wouldn’t hear, although there wasn’t much chance of that anyway, going by the volume the TV had to be at for him. He was a stubborn bugger about wearing his hearing aid. Mum gave her head a sorry shake. “I know this is going to sound pathetic, but Niall Dunbar will always be the love of my life. There. I said it. Satisfied?”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Mum blinked at me. “So, you’re not surprised?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve known for years how you still feel about him.” I pursed my lips. “He doesn’t deserve love like that.”

Mum eyed me. “No, he doesn’t.”

I heard a puffing noise behind me.

Grandpa had materialised in the kitchen doorway, concern for us both etched into his features. “I wouldn’t waste any more time or energy on that man. I know he’s your father, Lexie but he’s a waste of space.”

Mum flashed me a guilty glance.

“He’s not my father. Well, he is biologically, but that’s as far as it goes.” I offered my grandfather a soft smile as he stood there, hunched in the kitchen doorway. “You know who I think of as my dad. I’m looking at him right now.”

He blushed a fetching shade of pink. “Och, away with you!”

Mum stood there, gazing out of her kitchen window at the stippled roofs of the other surrounding cottages. She wasn’t hearing a word of what we were saying.

I shot a hot look back through at the sitting room TV. Bloody typical. If we’d been five minutes later switching on the news, we wouldn’t have seen that dashing, tanned expression of his.

“Right. Enough about Niall Dunbar,” I announced, pushing forced joviality into my voice. “I’m looking forward to lunch, Mum.”

The next couple of days rolled past to midweek.

Mum had been doing mad trolley dashes around local shops and had purchased some new fluffy towels for me to use, as well as a lavender-scented candle and a gorgeous set of rose-gold printed bedding.

I was meandering by the castle, when Mrs Dinklage from the gift shop, emerged out of nowhere, like an inquisitive tropical bird, with her penchant for multi-coloured dangly earrings and draped chiffon scarves. “I heard you were back, Lexie. Just a flying visit?”

I nodded and murmured in the right places. Blimey. You weren’t allowed any secrets in Bracken Way. “Yes, something like that.”

“No young man in your life then?”

“Nope. Too busy.”

“That’s the spirit. I bet that grand job of yours keeps you out of mischief.”

I squinted against the sunshine. I didn’t feel like explaining the whole, sorry situation.

Sweet and harmless though she was, I also knew that my conversation with Mrs Dinklage, would soon be public knowledge.

She opened her mouth to say something else, but I started to edge away. “Anyway Mrs Dinklage, nice to speak to you. Take care. Must go. Sorry.”

I would have to move on from the Literati disappointment. I had to. I couldn’t sit and do nothing for the next three months. It would drive me insane. I was used to being occupied.

So, gathering myself together after breakfast the next morning, I phoned a couple of writing magazines for their advertising rates and began to compose a post to promote my editorial services on social media. The fact that I’d been an editor for a number of high-profile authors should be a real selling point, I reassured myself. Surely that would lure frustrated writers? It would also help me keep my hand in with my editing and copy-writing skills and boost my savings in the meantime.

Still dreaming of securing that publishing deal?