Page 87 of The Bookshop By the Loch

It was no surprise that my grandfather was speechless about the whole turn of events. When Mum told him, he’d looked at her as though she’d just landed in a spaceship from another planet. Then pragmatic realisation took hold. “Aye. You know, part of me isn’t surprised,” he had sighed at her in his crumbly Scottish accent. “You’ve never stopped loving that man, even after all these years.” He had rubbed at his pencil-thin moustache. “I hope he realises what a lucky bugger he is.”

When Mum had left the sitting room, my grandfather had looked at me, resigned. “Your mother’s mind is made up. What can I say?”

I crouched down by his armchair and hugged him. “You don’t realise what a wonderful man you are.”

“Och, I do,” he replied with a twinkle. “It’s just you and your mother don’t tell me often enough.”

I had laughed. “Well, once Dad is staying here, Grandpa, you’re more than welcome to come and stay with me in my flat any time you like, for a bit of respite.”

Grandpa blinked at me. “Your flat? Where are you going, lass? What flat?”

“I’m buying the one above the greetings card shop,” I explained. “I’m going to tell Mum now.” I let out a laugh. “She won’t want me to leave but under the circumstances, it’s for the best.” I gave a casual shrug. “Looks like everything happens for a reason.”

Grandpa sat up straighter. “You kept your flat-hunting quiet.”

“I didn’t say anything in case it didn’t work out. I love staying here but I need to feel that I’m moving forward and living with my mum and grandpa at the age of thirty isn’t doing that.”

He patted my hand with his. “I understand that, lass.”

I smiled into his eyes. “You’re welcome to come and stay any time you like.”

“Only if I can bring my Dame Shirley Bassey record collection.”

I assured him that as I was partial to a bit of Bassey myself, that would be more than acceptable.

Monday morning in mid-June continued to be busy, with the anticipation of summer.

We were delighted to see that book sales were in the ascendancy, as locals planned their beach reads and tourists browsed, looking for a bargain to lose themselves in on their journeys home.

Tobias texted me to say he would be in around lunchtime, as he was planning to head straight to the residential home to continue painting Celeste’s portrait.

I fired back a brief reply saying that was fine, thanks for letting me know and that I would see him later. No need to ask if he had a good weekend, I thought with a stab of hurt.

Tobias appeared just before midday, adorned in an old, loose white shirt smeared with dollops of paint and a pair of tatty beige canvas trousers. With his hair curly and wild around his jaw, he looked irresistible, which irked me further.

I moved over to one of the wooden stands, where I housed a variety of bookmarks and began tidying it up. My stomach still insisted on a lurch when I saw him. Why couldn’t his teeth and hair have fallen out overnight?

“Hi,” I managed. “How’re things and how was Celeste?”

“She was on good form. Flirting like mad and telling me about the good old days.”

I paused, a fistful of crocheted bookmarks in my hand. “I don’t suppose she mentioned anything about this mysterious silver songbird thing to you?”

He shook his riot of curls. “No, she didn’t, but I asked.”

“What did she say?”

“She got all antsy and changed the subject. I didn’t want to upset her, so I didn’t push it.”

“That’s understandable.”

He wafted his hand down at his outfit. “Oh, don’t worry about my garb. I’m not going to be working here dressed like Picasso. I brought a change of clothes. They’re in the car.”

I shrugged. “You’re a grown man. You do what you like.”

Tobias frowned at me.

“Good weekend, was it?” Shit! The words galloped out of my mouth before I knew it.