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I thought of my three siblings, my oldest brother Callum mainly, and the unfaltering ease with which he moved through life. He wanted to join the military? He joined the military. He wanted to go to University in Edinburgh? He went to University in Edinburgh. He wanted to move back to Skye and open his own veterinary practice? He returned to Skye and opened his own veterinary practice. He wanted to settle down with a nice, local girl? The only question left to ask was, which one?
Anice, local girl.
I didn’t know why my mind immediately conjured up April.
April Sinclair back in Kinleith. I almost wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t driven past the mud-stained Mini Cooper parked out front of the manor this morning. I pictured her the night before, blurry, but that mass of red curls instantly recognisable. Bare limbs starfished on the old sofa after I’d tossed her like a sack of barley. The lacy article I’d hidden deep in my sock drawer. I shook my head, wincing at the memory.
April Sinclair was bad news.
Murphy, I reminded myself, hands curling around the steering wheel. April Murphy.
I never thought I’d see the day that she’d lower herself enough to return to the island, and if I had my way, she’d go right back to where she came from.
The tight ball in my chest eased entirely the moment Iclosed the door to the small workman’s cottage attached to Kinleith Distillery.
Boy trotted straight to his bowl, gave a sniff at finding it empty, then collapsed into his oversized basket. From his usual spot beside the fireplace, he pitifully watched me heap oats into a bowl, add milk, and heat it in the microwave.
“You know the rules, wee man. I eat, then you do,” I reminded him, setting the timer. I only had a handful of minutes to waste on eating if I planned to get the vat filled with barley before sundown and load the empty whisky casks. I still needed to replace the hinges to the Dunnage door—my tool kit had been sitting ready and untouched for at least a week. Now it was just me, the number of chores was mounting higher than there were minutes in the day. Callum came by to offer a hand when he could, but even that wasn’t enough to keep me afloat. I needed another full-time employee but had no means to pay one. Right now, I was scraping by with part-timers and favours.
Pulling the steaming bowl from the microwave, I sat at the dining table that only just squeezed into the open-plan space, so long as I pushed it right up against the window. Boy gave another little moan I pretended not to hear.
I could clearly recall the night Callum had showed up at my door, a scraggly golden retriever in hand, announcing the pup needed a home. My“absolutely not” had fallen on deaf ears and he’d promptly thrust the dog into my arms and strolled right back to his car without a backward glance. I didn’t have the room, the time, or the affection to give to a dog. Yet, here we were two years later, making it work.
The entire cottage was crossable in ten strides. The kitchenette only contained a compact fridge, sink, microwave, and hot plate, which was the reason Iusuallypreferred to eat at the manor. In the centre was a living area, television, two-seater sofa—though I never had guests—and the armchair I favoured. The only things I refused to scale down were the king-sized bed in the furthest corner and the rows of reclaimed-wood shelving that housed my film and book collection.
Small but perfect, and entirely mine.
It’s not yours though, is it.
My hand went reflexively to the pile of papers on the table, to the letter I’d reread countless times in the last month, picking over the words I’d memorised at this point.
Reference to the last will and testament of Kier Angus Murphy.
Request denied by the beneficiary.
No legal standing.
Then there was the second letter, a response from the bank regarding my application for a business loan. Again,denied.
Denied.
Denied.
Denied.
I slammed my fist down, feeling no satisfaction when the heavy paper crumpled beneath the force. This place was mine, the cottage, the distillery. Itshouldhave been mine. For years I’d been in the process of purchasing Kinleith Distillery from Kier, making monthly instalments with the promise of legal ownership transferring to me. Then he’d grown sick and all thoughts of legal documents and land titles had flown into the ether.
I wasn’t a cold bastard; I missed my friend, the man who’d been more of a father to me than my own dad. But he was gone, and everything I’d worked toward had gone with him. And now, AprilMurphyhad the cheek to show up here, smiling that princess smile, giggling over the amusing circumstances of our reunion when she had single-handedly benefited from my ruination.
No, she wasn’t anice, local girl.She may have been, at one point, but I’d witnessed the contempt in her eyes as she gazed around the manor last night, like it wasn’t the prize she’d been promised to inherit. To her, this life was small,Kierhad been small. She’d been too busy with her fancy London life and her celebrity friends to see that Kier had busted his balls to keep the manor in good nick. To keep the distillery running while his health had begun to fail him. She couldn’t be bothered to come back for his funeral, but was quick to return to cash in on something she hadn’t earned.
I’d understood her absence in the beginning, when her career had rocketed out of the realm of understanding for mere mortals. Even the island had placed her on a pedestal; you couldn’t walk down the street without hearing the nameApril Sinclairwhispered with reverence. But those film roles dried up and as rumours circled in the press, the ridiculous reality shows began, and we all watched her claw at every opportunity to remain in the limelight.
I’d spoken to Kier once, encouraged him to reach out and offer her a place to stay for a while, knowing it wasn’t my place. Maybe all she’d needed was an outstretched hand, and by default, they could take care of one another. She’d refused. Even when he’d grown sick, she’d refused.
I didn’t understand. How could remaining on the fringes of an industry that had chewed you up and spit you out be a better alternative to here? Was she that addicted to the money and the fame?
Well, my home—the place I’d poured my sweat and blood into—would not be her meal ticket. April Murphy/Sinclair, whatever the hell she called herself these days, would have to take this place from my cold, dead hands.
