Page 95 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

I couldn’t wait to get back to my real life, and as I drove out through the gates of my parents’ home, I wondered when Bailey McArthur, resident of Heather Moore and proud business owner, had become my “real” identity.

Chapter Twenty-Three

All too soon, I was on my way back to Bannock House. The journey was smooth, and the Flower Power van was filled with excited chatter from Amber and Rowan.

They were speculating about which celebrities might appear at Ezra’s book launch, and how they might get to meet their favourites. The radio was belting out Scottish reels and optimistic, hopeful songs about fresh starts. I let the joy of their chatter wash over me.

The beginning of a new year was hovering, waiting to be welcomed. I hoped the next year would bring better things for everyone. I wondered what Marcus would be doing tonight and hoped he was surrounded by friends.

As for Zach … well, he was in my past, I concluded with a painful lurch in my chest. I was determined that when I woke up tomorrow morning, I would look only ahead, not behind.

* * *

Excited squeals and gasps escaped from Amber and she shot forward in the passenger seat as we passed through the gates and the tyres scrunched and spun on the gravel.

“It’s even more gorgeous than in the photos you showed us, Bailey.”

“It’s like Cinderella’s castle,” Rowan chimed in.

“Hardly,” I laughed.

They fell into an almost reverent silence as I parked outside the entrance. Mum was going to have a fit! But there were half a dozen other trades vehicles there and what looked like a couple of security people, holding one finger to their ear. I didn’t see how my pink-and-white van was out of place.

We clambered out and fetched our three wheelie cases first, which landed on the gravel with a decisive crunch.

“Come on,” I said, once we draped our respective evening dresses with a flourish of plastic over our arms. “Let me introduce you to my parents, then we can grab a cuppa and get the flowers out from the back of the van.”

Dad bounded down the steps to greet us and proceeded to pump Amber and Rowan’s hands up and down in enthusiastic handshakes. Then he gave me a big bear hug and a kiss.

Mum sashayed her way towards them, revelling in their jaws dropping at the sight of her coiffed glamour.

Once introductions had been made, Mrs Bamber furnished the three of us with a pot of tea and slices of her gorgeous cherry and almond stollen, filled with marzipan and Jamaican rum. Then Mum insisted on showing Amber and Rowan their accommodation for the night.

“Rowan, this is your room,” announced my mother, sweeping like the grand dame that she was along the corridor and opening the door with a dramatic flourish. “I’ve allocated you the Rannoch Room.”

I mouthed the word “What?” at Mum. Since when did we have names for the guest rooms? Her response to me was a narrowed eye, daring me to question it in front of our guests.

Nevertheless, Rowan’s delight was evident as she stepped inside. Her room looked out onto a section of the walled garden.

The room interior was a mixture of duck-egg blue walls and mint-green furnishings, with a canopied double bed, small sofa, and an en suite bathroom to the right, fitted out with white and beige marble tiles.

I noticed Mum had replaced the flowery wallpaper that used to be in here.

“It’s gorgeous,” said Rowan, placing her wheelie case by the sofa and drifting towards the sash window, framed by a set of tie-back emerald-green curtains.

Outside, the walled garden was stippled with hard frost. There were pale pink clouds of heather and glossy ivy snaking up the trellis. In the far corner, sat an ornamental bird table, where a robin and a sparrow were jumping and flitting about for seed.

“I’m so pleased you like it,” glowed Mum. “Now, Amber, let’s show you to your room.”

Amber wobbled behind my mother like an excited baby deer in her platform trainers to the next-door room. Again, Mum placed her manicured hand on the brass handle and paused for dramatic effect. “This is the Katrine Room.”

This time, I didn’t bother making a questioning face at her. This was obviously a new thing of hers, naming the guest rooms after famous Scottish Lochs. Whatever floats her boat, I thought to myself.

Amber erupted in a fit of admiring giggles. She guided her leopard-print wheelie case into the room and was confronted by gold-embossed wallpaper and complimented by burnt-orange fixtures and fittings. The double bed possessed a brass headboard and amber scatter cushions and, similarly to Rowan’s room, there was an en suite bathroom, but this one featured biscuit and white tiles.

I recalled this room having previously had that same wallpaper, but the bedding and cushions were new. Poor Dad. Mum had clearly been on a serious spending spree. That must be why she kept steering me away from the guest rooms over Christmas.

The view from the sash window was the same as Rowan’s, though you could see more of the lawns and the woodland beyond the walled garden from here. The trees thrust their eager, bare branches up towards the sky. They looked as though they were on fire in the low sun of the late afternoon. Amber fingered the satin curtains.