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Chapter 17
The next morning, I awoke to gray skies. I didn’t even care. The weather matched my mood. Suddenly, I was desperate to escape from Finley’s house without seeing him again.
I needn’t have worried. The man was nowhere to be found. I packed up my things haphazardly. I wasn’t going far. Part of me needed to make a big dramatic gesture and throw the black dress with the rhinestone clasp into the trash. Not only was it the single really dressy thing I’d brought with me on the trip, I didn’t want to give Finley the idea I was upset.
Let him think our time together was nothing more than a blip on my radar. He was nothing to me. Nothing at all. I cared more about his sweet, mischievous dog than I did about a closed off, emotionally stunted alpha male.
Sadly, even Cinnamon deserted me…no opportunity for goodbyes on that front either. She was probably in the workshop with her master. The same workshop that was off limits to me.
When I was ready, I took one last look at the room where I had spent my first nights on the Isle of Skye. I’d been careful to erase every evidence of my stay in Finley’s home. I felt as if I had lived a lifetime since my car went into a ditch. Certainly not what I had expected. Then again, life rarely went according to plan.
I fell into a weird sort of emotionless calm as I loaded the car and drove away. I was almost positive Finley was around somewhere. Clearly, he had no desire to bump into me. I wouldn’t let his indifference hurt me.
The drive to my new lodgings took longer than it should have. The rain had set in. I managed to find a radio station with a weather report. Apparently, the Scottish Highlands were being buffeted with the remains of Hurricane Mabel. It had made its way across the Atlantic, losing its hurricane-strength winds, but still powerful enough to stall out and dump almost unprecedented amounts of rain.
Mrs. Clark had hidden the house key under a rock. Hunched over beneath an umbrella that was barely able to keep the worst of the rain off my neck, I found the key and let myself in.
I’d prepared for disappointment. It was a raw, gloomy day, and the house would probably be damp and unwelcoming. I had underestimated the sturdy Scottish cleaning lady. As soon as I opened the front door and shrugged out of my wet rain jacket, the smell of lemon furniture polish surrounded me.
Even a cursory inspection told me the house had been totally overhauled. I was so grateful I wanted to sit down and weep. Instead, I wiped my nose, put my coat back on, and unloaded the car. It didn’t make any sense to wait. There would be no break in the weather anytime soon.
At her insistence, Mrs. Clark had also stocked the fridge and cabinets with staples. Even if the storm lasted several days, I wouldn’t starve. Soup and sandwiches, if nothing else, would sustain me.
I picked the larger of the two bedrooms and unpacked my bags and carry-on, putting things away in a rickety bureau and hanging a few items in the alcove that passed for a closet. Then I went back into the main room and put a match to the pile of kindling in the fireplace. Soon the smell of wood smoke mingled with the lemon scent.
After boiling a pot of water and brewing myself a cup of tea, I pulled a rocking chair close to the hearth and warmed my toes as I sipped my drink. I wondered what Hayley and Willow were up to. Had the rain impacted their plans? Though neither of my friends was all that far from me as the crow flies, I felt a million miles from them and from civilization. Here I was, tucked away in my pleasantly secluded rental house, and all I could think about was the faux Scotsman with brilliant blue eyes and a tendency to be a curmudgeon.
Dogs were good judges of character. If Cinnamon loved Finley, I should give the man the benefit of the doubt. We had let our hormones run away with us, and we had shared too much personal information too soon.
When I looked past my own hurt and disappointment, I couldn’t really fault Finley for speaking the blunt truth. I’d spun him a tale of three women crossing the ocean in search of adventure and romance fueled by a novel of time travel. It must have sounded far-fetched to say the least. I suppose it made sense that he didn’t want to give me the wrong idea.
At noon I opened the package of crusty bread and cobbled together a messy grilled cheese sandwich. Along with a cup of cocoa, the comfort food made me feel a little less hollow inside.
After reading for an hour, I found myself on my feet pacing the confines of the modest house. I’d fantasized for weeks about what it would be like to be alone with my thoughts…to have the freedom to do anything or nothing. In my dreams, though, I’d been ranging around the Scottish hillsides, soaking up the summer sun, and taking photos to my heart’s content.
It appeared that my camera was going to sit idle for quite some time. Unless of course I wanted to do still life portraits of ordinary fruit and artsy shots of raindrops on windowpanes.
Though it was pointless, I checked my cell phone again. No bars at all. I wasn’t going to be able to check in with Hayley and Willow every night at nine. I knew they were grown women and very competent women at that. Being cut off was an odd and worrisome feeling in this day of über-connectedness.
At least I had the landline. Though it seemed old-fashioned at best, the phone with the rotary dial was all that stood between me and complete isolation. That was a completely reassuring backup until midafternoon when I lifted the receiver and realized the phone lines were out of commission.
My imagination went haywire suddenly. What if my appendix burst? What if I cut my hand with a kitchen knife? What if a spark from the fireplace set the whole cottage ablaze?
In the end, none of it mattered. I was essentially helpless to change my situation in the short term. Unless I was prepared to make my way back to Portree and sleep in my car, this small house was my only shelter from the storm.
The hours passed with agonizing slowness. By late afternoon, the skies had darkened to the point it seemed almost like night. The rain thundered now, the roar a steady, menacing presence. I was usually a fan of rainy days. This was something else again.
When I peered out the front window, I could barely see my rental car. It seemed as if a river of mud surrounded the vehicle. I couldn’t be sure, and I definitely wasn’t going outside to check.
Dinner was a reprise of lunch. Only this time I opened a can of tomato soup and heated it to go along with the sandwich. Mrs. Clark had left a bouquet of wildflowers in a clear glass jar in the center of the kitchen table. The cheery yellow blossoms kept me company while I ate.
For someone who had logged many weeks and months as a world traveler, I had woefully underestimated my tolerance for solitude. It honestly never occurred to me that I could be trapped inside. I knew it was often cloudy and gray in Scotland, but a tropical storm? That twist seemed far-fetched.
Yet here I was…a victim of my own careful planning.
The little cottage creaked and groaned beneath the force of the wind and the rain. So far, no leaks in the roof. I didn’t know how long that would last. Cedric’s home was at least half a mile up the hillside. The rest of the small mountain loomed above me, obscured by the storm.
By eight o’clock I had drunk so many cups of tea I knew I was destined for a sleepless night. Still, tea or no tea, the storm would no doubt keep me awake. I took a shower and changed into the same cotton pajamas that had comforted me last night.
