Page 7 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

Ernie was very much into his Scottish history and persuaded my parents to grow flowering medicinal plants in the gardens, just like at Holyrood Abbey. Housed beside crocuses, tulips and dusky roses were daisies for coughs and wounds, sorrel for ulcers, and fennel for eye conditions, snake bites, and mad dogs (don’t ask). Ernie would arrange them in a geometric pattern to reflect the style and fashion of a seventeenth-century garden.

The myriad scents, from sweet, tangy lemon balm to dense, musky lavender, enchanted me, and when Ernie offered to show me how to plant seeds and deadhead roses, I was smitten.

“And you seem to have a real talent for it, going by your stunning displays.” Ezra cut into my thoughts and chuckled. “Oh, that reminds me of the time Jack Nicholson asked me to help him choose a bouquet for Angelica Houston.”

“Gosh.” I blinked away memories of Ernie’s kind, leathery face watching nine-year-old me dancing under the cherry blossom trees, spinning and whirling amongst the soft pink confetti. I focused back on Ezra.

He glanced at his chunky watch. “I’d better go. I’ve taken up far too much of your time already and I’ve got a decorator due to give me a quote. Thank you again.”

I smiled back at him and extended my hand.

He shook it warmly. “Thank you, Bailey.’

“Not at all,’ I said. ‘And your secret is safe with me.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Jackson pushed himself away from the wall. “I’ll arrange for your car to be collected later,” he said to Ezra.

“Thank you. It’s parked round the back of this shop.”

As he got ready to slip away through the shop door, Ezra put his disguise back on – hat tugged over his brow, sunglasses, and the scarf covering the bottom half of his face.

“I promise to return as a proper paying customer next time.”

“Thanks for taking care of him,” whispered Jackson to me, as he hung back to allow Ezra to move ahead. “He’s a stubborn old bugger at the best of times.”

I laughed, locked the shop door behind them and made my way back to the counter, my mind still trying to reconcile the events of that afternoon.

It was rather ironic. There was me, panicking that Ezra might know who I was. Another wave of relief flooded through me because he hadn’t seemed to recognise me. I’m sure he would’ve said if he had. Perhaps he wasn’t a fan of the gossip magazines.

I grinned to myself. It felt odd to find myself rubbing shoulders with a celebrity again after all I had done to leave that life behind.

Chapter Two

I spent the next couple of evenings throwing around ideas for Christmas promotions I could introduce into the shop.

Business had been good, but it could be even better. At least the locals seemed to be slowly embracing my new business, but there was always room for improvement. Even Joan Webber, a local farm owner and renowned recluse, had briefly dropped by to purchase some potted heather. I knew it would take time to build up a reputation, but there was no way I was about to rest on my laurels. I had to keep going and come up with bigger and brighter ideas.

Perhaps with the approach of the festive season, trade might pick up. I’d been very careful with expenditure and only recruited a couple of local girls as trainee florists. Amber McCabe and Rowan Moffat were studying floristry at college and their shifts helped me out when it was busy as well as providing them with the hands-on experience they needed.

If things picked up, I would advertise for another full-time florist, but I didn’t want to get ahead of myself.

The weather had been sunny but icy cold the last couple of days, which meant the surrounding hills were peppered with frost. I looked up for a minute and sighed with pleasure at the view from the shop windows over the King Angus woodland. It looked like it had been draped in spun sugar.

While I served customers, my mind replayed the phone conversation I’d had with my brother on Monday evening.

“You can’t hide away in the back of beyond forever, little sister.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“Yeah, right.”

My brother had sighed down the line. “Declan Rooney’s a hateful bastard who’ll get his comeuppance. You shouldn’t punish yourself for what he did to you.”

I had rolled my eyes and gazed around my flat.

Declan had had something of the air of River Phoenix about him – the same pretty boy features, the same petulant mouth and intense gaze. When we met, he’d been flirting with Lizzie McKinnon, the daughter of my mum’s personal stylist. I’d glowed when he switched his attentions to me, which at the time felt immensely flattering. Only in retrospect was I able to admit that his interest had shifted when he found out whose daughter I was.