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Chapter 22
We left Cedric’s house just after four that afternoon. The skies were still heavy and dark. The rain had slowed to little more than a drizzle. My plan was to drive my rental car and follow Finley back to Portree. Unfortunately, when we went outside to load my things into the vehicle, we found it mired in mud. The force of the rain and the two thousand pounds of metal had not played nice with each other. Only a tow truck would be able to extract me from my predicament. I had no choice but to join man and dog in the rugged Jeep.
Even with four-wheel drive, the steep, ill-kept drive was treacherous. We bounced and rocked our way down to the main highway. Neither of us spoke during the trip. I sensed Finley had things on his mind.
The silence didn’t bother me. I was busy thinking and rethinking my situation. It would drive me crazy if I spent every waking moment trying to understand my host. The healthiest course of action would be to carry on with my vacation as I had planned.
What happened behind closed doors when the sun went down would begin spontaneously…organically…or not at all.
We found the town battered but not seriously damaged. Elsewhere in the Highlands had not been as fortunate. We heard of a major landslide and a road closure near Ullapool. The river in Inverness had overflowed its banks in several locations. Most worrisome was the news that a small village on the banks of Loch Ness had been hit hard with flooding.
I recognized the name. Drumnadrochit. It was the location my friend Hayley had chosen as her home base. Even though I was breaking our pact by not waiting until nine, I powered on my phone and left a message. I found that Willow had done the same, including me in the group text.
Sitting on the front steps of Finley’s house, with Cinnamon beside me, I felt a wave of homesickness wash over me. I missed Willow and Hayley. They would ground me and keep me from doing something stupid. Wouldn’t they?
Or perhaps I was all wrong. Maybe the two of them would tell me to jump into this thing with Finley as wholeheartedly as if it had a future…to throw caution to the wind. All those clichés about diving in headfirst and living a passionate life.
At the moment, I wasn’t passionate about much of anything. I’d let the storm and a one-night stand cloud my vision. If I were going to fall in love this month, it was going to be with the Scottish Highlands, and more specifically, the Isle of Skye.
We ended up in town for dinner. Hamish himself greeted us. “Plenty of tables to choose from,” he said with a grimace. “No’ much of a crowd tonight.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “Still goin’ around with this carnaptious auld devil?”
I grinned at him. “Carnaptious?”
“Aye.” Hamish translated without being asked. “Grumpy, bad-tempered. Irritable. Carnaptious.”
“Well, if that’s the definition, then yes.”
Hamish chuckled. “Have a seat then. I’ve some prawns so fresh, they’ll flirt with your mother.”
The proprietor must have been bored. He pulled up a chair and lingered at our table while we ate. The food, like last time, was astonishingly good. Hamish was a self-taught chef, no fancy culinary institutes in his pedigree. His mother and grandmother were both excellent cooks and had nurtured Hamish’s love of food and local dishes in particular.
Afterward, with our stomachs full, Finley and I made the climb back up the hill to his house. Tonight there was no urge to linger by the waterfront and enjoy a late summer evening. Everything was wet. Plus, I don’t think we were in the mood for chitchat.
It had been a long tiring day, and neither of us had slept well the night before. I was still mentally scrambling for what my answer would be when Finley invited me to his bed. He took the wind out of my sails when he made it clear that there was to be no repeat of our early morning tryst, at least not tonight.
When we reached the front porch, he unlocked the door and stepped aside so I could enter. “I’ll take Cinnamon out,” he said. “Then I’m going to work in the shop for a couple of hours. I’m in the middle of a big project, and I got behind this week.”
Though I was ridiculously hurt, I smiled. “Sounds good. I think I’ll have an early night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As I prepared for bed, I wondered if the sex this morning had spooked him as much as it had me. Surely not. Sex was just sex where guys were concerned.
At nine o’clock, I turned on my phone and was relieved to see a message from both my friends. Hayley assured us she was okay. Seeing tangible proof that Willow and Hayley were physically close to me, relatively speaking, was a huge comfort.
It occurred to me I could join either one of them for the three weeks I had left in Scotland. They were most likely well settled in at their respective lodgings. How would I choose?
* * * *
After a night of deep, restorative sleep, I was up and ready early. In the kitchen, I found an empty cup in the sink, but no other signs of Finley. I told myself I didn’t care. My itinerary was back on track. I was excited to see what the day had in store.
Finley had offered me the use of the Jeep until the Cedric’s rutted lane dried out enough to rescue my rental. I knew how to drive a stick, but maneuvering on the steep hills of Portree was a challenge.
Once out on the open road, I felt much more comfortable. The sun shone bright and warm again. I wished I had the top down on the Jeep. With my pale skin, it was probably for the best.
The first stop on my itinerary was a return visit to Mealt Falls. Taking new photographs of the dramatic cliff with its free-falling torrent of water would challenge my photography skills in terms of the brilliant light and harsh shadows. I didn’t let it deter me that a large bus had pulled up just before I arrived.
I was an island in a sea of chattering tourists. I didn’t mind. The day was spectacular. The brilliant blue of the ocean reminded me of Finley’s eyes.
When I was satisfied that I had captured what I needed, I drove on. At the northernmost end of the island, where the winds whipped across the open moor on the promontory, I paid the small entrance fee and visited the Museum of Island Life. Museum was a loose term. Someone had preserved half a dozen crofters’ cottages with traditional thatched roofs. I wandered among the various buildings, studying exhibits about farming implements and domestic life and the rigors of existing so very far away from what my contemporaries and I would call civilization.
