Page 35 of The Secret Castle in the Highlands

‘Oh, by the way,’ he called over the thrum of his car engine, ‘if I’m not swinging from tall buildings or rescuing distressed maidens on Saturday, I’ll drop by your grand opening.’

My brows shot upwards. Mason was going to come along to the relaunch of the cottages. Why was he going to do that? I tried to disguise my mixture of surprise and delight. ‘We officially open at ten am,’ I said. ‘But don’t worry if you’re doing something more important.’

Part of me wanted him to come along and the other part wished he’d stay away, giving me an excuse to start disliking him for not showing any interest.

‘I want to come along.’ There was a charged pause. ‘Ten am,’ he repeated. ‘I should be able to squeeze that in, in between arresting criminals and stopping the odd volcanic eruption.’

Mason loitered for a moment before giving me a mock salute and disappearing out of the courtyard in his sporty car.

Saturday morning and the official opening of White Willow Cottages swung around with a duck-egg-blue May sky. I’d spent the previous night spread-eagled in bed, unable to switch off. Visions of Katie’s sweet ceramic bowls, pretty teaspoon rests and adorable heart-shaped earthenware jewellery boxes flashed through my mind, alongside images of my chalk drawings and watercolours, on a conveyor belt of worry.

What if the cottages flopped? Would I have to admit defeat and let Mum and Dad sell the business after all? What if Katie and I continued to produce our art, only for it to gather dust?

I pushed myself upwards, angling my pillow against my back. Through my curtains I could just make out the faint rush of sea foam.

My thoughts veered away for a moment, creeping towards Mason again.

Frustration nipped at me. What was I doing? Why was I thinking about him so much?

Annoyed at myself for becoming distracted, I gave my pillow another hard thump.

Finding that sleep was eluding me, I got up much earlier than expected. Breakfast was a somewhat nerve-racking affair, with me staring down into my bowl of cereal and swishing the spoon this way and that. After forcing myself to eat a few mouthfuls, I ditched the rest in the bin. I had to get a handle on these opening-day nerves.

Excitement and apprehension battled away inside of me as I brushed my teeth and slicked on some rose-pink lipstick. I snatched my velvet jacket from a peg in the hall. My startled reflection stared back at me from the wall mirror.

I’d washed my hair, allowing it to hang loose, but remembered to pop a band in my purse to tie it back later. And I’d chosen to wear my pale-cream shirt dress and strappy shoes to begin with, with a more practical pair of fitted black capri pants, my jewelled ballet pumps and a buttery broderie anglaise top to change into afterwards for working in for the rest of the day.

Dark thoughts decided to strike at that moment.

What if there was no work to be done? What if we didn’t get any enquiries or reservations? Okay, most of the cottages were occupied at the moment, but that might just be a novelty because we’re new. What if White Willow Cottages, all beautifully redecorated and rebranded, just sat there empty from next week?

I blinked a few times, trying to banish images of Katie, Caleb and me standing idly by, with only the greedy seagulls strutting about outside for company.

With another deep breath, I walked across the cobbles to the cottages. I was wearing a pair of my trainers, so I hoisted my strappy heels into my bag and congratulated myself on being sensible.

It was only just seven-thirty am, but I’d arranged to meet Katie and Caleb up here, so we could ensure everything was set for ten am.

The morning sky was just stirring from a deep slumber as I tapped across to the cottages. The four that were occupied still had their curtains drawn and the visitors’ vehicles slumbered outside. I clutched my cream bucket bag and the plastic carrier which contained my heels and change of clothes.

I walked past the row of cottages and hovered by the rail to stare across at the watery vision of the harbour. Fishing nets sparkled on the damp quay like silver-spun spiders’ webs, and there was the familiar creak of boats as they swayed and rocked on the whispering tide. Odd figures, swathed in chunky jumpers and plastic boots, stomped up and down the jetty.

We’d planned to set up one long trestle table further up the courtyard, with a small selection of Katie’s ceramics and some of my miniature pieces of artwork, to draw some interest, as well as copies of the new glossy brochure of White Willow Cottages I’d had printed. There was also a competition flyer, giving one couple a free weekend stay in the cottage of their choice, and free refreshments, glasses of champagne and a selection of canapes on offer.

I just hoped the weather held. At least the darkness of the morning was giving way to more vibrant bursts of blue sky.

Mum and Dad said they would FaceTime later and had sent me a text in the meantime, wishing me well and saying how proud they were of us all. We’d also been instructed to take three hundred photographs. A large part of me wished they were both here to see the cottages reborn.

A basket of butterflies threatened to escape from my stomach when I took my keys from my bag. Convincing myself that all was well, I unlocked the door of the first cottage, which was currently unoccupied and which I had called ‘Capercaillie’. It boasted a russet-and-cream-themed interior, with long, brown silky drapes framing each window.

I’d named the second cottage ‘Osprey’, and to reflect the colours of the bird itself, I’d gone for pale greys and lemon, with shorter satin curtains in a butter yellow. There were buttercup-coloured lampshades in the sitting room and a matching fringed throw slung casually over the back of the slate-grey fabric sofa. That had a young family from England occupying it.

The third cottage, which I’d decided to name ‘Falcon’, was a combination of toffee and vanilla, with touches of gold fixtures and fittings. The three-quarter-length curtains were of a rich caramel, complementing the shards of gold in two encrusted table lamps.

Cottage number four had been rebranded as ‘Puffin’ and was resplendent in all its monochrome glory. At the beginning, I had wondered whether going for a completely black-and-white theme had been wise, but after dotting the black furniture with flashes of amber cushions and lampshades and even opting for an orange kettle and mug tree in the predominantly white kitchen, I was converted. ‘Puffin’ carried an air of retro chic. We had an older American couple renting this one.

Cottage number five had been transformed into ‘Robin’, in honour of my favourite breed of bird, and reminded me of crisp, smoky autumn evenings, with its array of claret chairs, beige carpets and rose-gold touches. A middle-aged gay couple from France were staying in this one at the moment.

I’d named the last cottage ‘Heron’ and had asked Joe and the boys to decorate it in ice-blue and silvery-grey, to honour the bird’s plumage. I’d hung one of my chalk seascapes above the stone fireplace, the sky-blues echoing the powdery hues of the walls. This too had guests staying in it – an older couple from Glasgow and their twin granddaughters aged just four.