Page 73 of Not Quite a Scot


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Chapter 29

The week following that first painful encounter at the hotel fell into a pattern of sorts. Finley worked in his shop every day until three or so. I spent the same hours playing tourist, searching out little gems I hadn’t yet explored, both in town and on the island.

After we cleaned up, we both met in the kitchen around four thirty each afternoon. Most days we walked to the hotel. If the weather was bad, we took the Jeep. We visited with Vanessa and Mr. Craig for an hour or so, shared dinner with them in their suite, and eventually made our way back to Finley’s house.

During those visits I learned a great deal about my host. He’d been a daredevil as a kid. Somehow that didn’t surprise me. He’d loved sports of all kinds and had broken three bones before finishing middle school.

He and Bella had grieved deeply for their mom when she died. Mr. Craig grieved also, but apparently he’d been unable to let his children see that deep emotion, so they thought he didn’t care.

Vanessa and I were mostly spectators. Occasionally she weighed in on subjects concerning Mr. Craig’s health crisis and what lay ahead. The specter of death sat in the room with us. Finley’s father appeared to have made peace with what was to come.

On what turned out to be our last night with them, Finley squatted beside his father’s chair so he could look the older man in the eye. “You need to go home, Dad. Back to your doctors. I’m very glad you came. We’ll let the past stay in the past.” He paused, and I saw his throat work. “I love you, Dad. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better son.”

Vanessa cried openly now. Tears stung my eyes, as well. It was hard to watch the sick old man stroke his grown son’s hair. Finley’s eyes were closed, a look of pained emotion on his face.

Finally, Finley stood. “I’m serious,” he said. “You need to go back to North Carolina.”

“And will you come to see me?” Mr. Craig straightened, his gnarled hands gripping the arms of the chair.

I think we all knew that making plans like those was an exercise in wishful thinking. I worried that Finley’s father might not even survive the trip home.

“Yes,” Finley said simply. “Bella and I will make plans. When you get back, you need to tell her the whole truth. You owe her that.”

* * * *

That night Finley made love to me only once. It was intense and satisfying, but bittersweet. I sensed the confusion in his soul. There was no way for me to help him. This thing with his father was a road he had to walk on his own.

I lay awake for several hours listening to him breathe. This man. This house. This town. This alluring Isle of Skye. They had conspired against me to steal my soul…my heart…my dreams.

When morning came, I must have been sleeping deeply. Finley was gone… off to work, most likely. Breakfast was out of the question. My stomach churned with nausea.

Carefully, I packed my bags. My rental car had long since been returned to me. It sat outside in the shade, ready for me to load my things. When that task was done, I looked around my bedroom.

Hayley and Willow would ask me about my romantic exploits…or if there had been any. It would hurt too much to open up about this precious time with Finley. Instead, I would be forced to talk mostly about the island itself. That wouldn’t be so bad. I had photos and memories aplenty to share with my friends.

At last I was satisfied that I had remembered everything I needed to take with me. I’d spent some time the day before photographing Cinnamon in all her moods. I think I would miss my canine friend almost as much as her master.

Feeling foolish and desperate, I sneaked into Finley’s bedroom and looked around for something to put in my silver snuffbox, some memento. On his dresser sat a small wooden bowl, the kind men used for loose change and ticket stubs. I picked up a button that had fallen off one of his shirts. Shoving it deep into my pocket, I scanned the room one last time and shut the door.

I couldn’t postpone the confrontation any longer. Wearing my white pantsuit and a smile that was suspect at best, I went to Finley’s workshop. When I knocked and entered, he didn’t look up. He had grease all over his hands and was finessing something in an engine.

“Hey, Duchess,” he said, still concentrating. “It’s hot as hell in here today. Would you mind to bring me a beer?”

My throat tightened. “I’ll do that before I go.”

His hands stilled. Finally, he looked up, and his eyes flashed. Clearly, I wasn’t dressed for a day of tromping around the island. “Go where?”

I shrugged. Maybe I had learned that move from him. “It’s time for me to go home, Finley.”

“I thought you had nine or ten more days.”

“Yes. I’m going to spend those in Inverness. It will be fun to explore the town.” I didn’t tell him I’d already done that once. “Hayley and Willow are going to rendezvous with me a week from Saturday at a little tea shop on Academy Street. I can’t believe the days have gone by so quickly.”

He wiped his hands on a rag and walked toward me. It took everything I had not to back up. “That’s it?” he asked.

His expression was impossible to read. What did he expect from me? The man had never once indicated the two of us were anything more than a pleasant interlude. “You knew when my flight was scheduled.” I tried not to sound defensive. I was about to go to pieces, and I didn’t want him to see me cry.

“Have I done something to upset you, Duchess?” He looked at me so intently, it felt as if he could see inside my soul.

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