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‘Hmm. Can you cook? I mean, do you cook at home?’ Rory rolled back his sleeves, putting her resumé down.
Carrie couldn’t help but notice not only his brown muscular forearms, but also the tattoo of a rather sexy 1950s-style lady straddling a cannon on one arm, and one on the other forearm that looked like some kind of military crest.
‘A little. Not chef standard, but okay,’ Carrie admitted. Her days making jam and other things – pies, puddings, roasts – at Great-Aunt Maud’s elbow hadn’t been wasted. ‘We taught ourselves a lot after our mum passed away.’
She instantly regretted saying “we”, but it was second nature to talk about herself in relation to Claire. They’d been a team for so long; it was going to take an equally long time to get out of the habit.
Rory didn’t pick her up on it. ‘Okay. And you’re around for how long?’ He sat back in his chair and gave her an appraising look. ‘There’s no point me training you up and then you just disappearing after a month.’
‘I don’t know, honestly. But a few months, I guess. And then, I don’t know,’ Carrie said, truthfully. ‘I might stay for longer. I don’t really know what I’m doing with my life right now, if I’m honest.’
‘Can I ask why?’ Rory folded his arms over his chest, but his expression was kind. ‘And, if you think I’m being nosy… well, I guess I am. But I know how that feels. When I left the navy, I was at a loss. You come back to civilian life… it takes a lot of getting used to, let’s just say that.’
‘You were in the navy?’ Carrie leaned forward. Today she’d made a little more of an effort with her outfit and washed and styled her hair. She’d even put a bit of makeup on – she was applying for a job, after all. When she’d called Rory the day before to ask for more details about the job, he’d told her to come in to the restaurant to chat. She knew she had to look at least vaguely presentable, so she’d worn a light blue knitted dress that she knew looked nice with her reddish hair, and lace-up knee boots which were practical, but also not as clunky as her wellies. With her newly mended collarbone, she was slightly cautious about such a manual job that required her to be on her feet all day, but on the other hand, she thought it would be good to keep busy.
‘Yeah. Fifteen years. When I got out, I had to retrain, so I went to catering college. I always liked food, and it was something practical I could do. I couldn’t stand the thought of being stuck at a desk or something, and I like the discipline of running the kitchen. Everyone has a job, everything has a process. It’s like the navy in that way.’
‘I can understand that.’ Carrie watched him curiously. His previous flirtatiousness was absent; today Rory was all business. She didn’t know which Rory she preferred: the offhand guy from the bar at the Loch Cameron Inn who had seemed to ask her out, or the handsome, in control chef sitting opposite her.
‘You didn’t answer my question.’ He reached for the daisy that sat in its small vase by the menus on the table, and rolled its delicate stem between his fingers before replacing it carefully. ‘Why don’t you know what you’re doing with your life?’
‘I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind,’ Carrie replied, carefully. ‘I lost someone. That’s all I really want to say. I’m here to get some peace and quiet.’
‘Hmm. You’ll certainly get that.’ Rory let out a breath. ‘I get it. I don’t mean to upset you. I just need to know if you’ll be here for a while, or if you’re planning to disappear. I guess you’re here for as long as it takes, then.’
‘Yes. But I need a job. And I’ll do a good job for you, I promise.’ Carrie looked around at the cosy restaurant. She could see herself working here. And, although her rent at Gretchen Ross’s cottage was quite low, it would still eat up her savings pretty quickly without any more money coming in. Carrie had started to realise that, now that the mental fog of grief had started to lift and she was faced with the realities of life once again.
Rory tapped his fingers on the table and gave her an appraising look again. ‘Okay. Let’s give it a try. It’s twenty hours a week, so that’s Tuesday to Saturday, six till ten p.m. We’re closed Sunday and Monday. Suit you?’
‘I guess so.’ Carrie was taken aback. ‘So… that’s it? I got the job?’
‘You got the job.’ Rory gave her a weary smile. ‘To be honest, I only had two people apply. And the other one… let’s just say I had concerns about his personal hygiene. You, at least, seem to have washed this week.’
‘Wow. I’m so happy to have passed your high standard of recruitment,’ she chuckled.
‘Indeed. And I need someone as of yesterday, so time is of the essence. My previous assistant quit weeks ago and I’ve been short-handed ever since.’ Rory frowned. ‘Okay. No time like the present! Come on, I’ll show you the kitchen.’
Carrie followed him through a set of double doors into a spotless room with stainless steel worktops, trying not to notice his muscular behind and his wide, powerful shoulders. She could well imagine that he had seen active service in the navy with that physique, and she wondered what he’d done. Where he’d been. She’d always had a bit of a thing for uniforms, and for a brief second Carrie imagined Rory in a white navy dress uniform, clean shaven, his hair shorter. A shiver passed through her.
What are you thinking?Carrie berated herself.This is no time to be fantasising about your new boss. It’s completely inappropriate! And you’re not exactly in a place to be thinking about this kind of thing. You’re grieving, remember?
She could hardly forget. Her injuries from the accident were still healing, and her heart was still in pieces. She had heard that some people, when they were grieving, got incredibly horny. Maybe that was what this was. A kind of life-triumphs-over-death thing. An instinct, unexpected and unwelcome, but just her body reminding her that she was still alive.It’s just the grief, she thought as Rory started showing her around the kitchen.It’s not you, and it’s not him. Just forget about it.If Claire had been here, she would have probably laughed herself silly at Carrie’s ridiculous lust and made faces behind Rory’s back. And it probably would have helped.
But she wasn’t there, and today, Claire’s voice in Carrie’s head was silent. Carrie nodded, trying to look interested in the dishwasher that Rory was demonstrating. She swallowed down her feelings. She needed this job, so she needed to pay attention and repay Rory’s faith in her.
You probably would have felt this way around any youngish, reasonably attractive guy, she told herself.Don’t be too hard on yourself. Just focus. Your heart’s hurting, and you need a hug. That’s all.
But it was hard, when the tsunami of feelings inside her was making her feel so unbalanced.Come on, Carrie. You got this, she told herself, but she really wasn’t sure that she did. And the only thing that stopped her walking out of the restaurant kitchen altogether was the feeling that Claire would have wanted her to stay.
NINE
‘That’s Gretchen Ross.’ The care-home nurse pointed across a wide lawn at an elderly woman with a straight back and her grey hair in a bun; she wore a colourful, loose dress with a daisy pattern and a long yellow cardigan over the top of it, with loops of beaded necklaces. ‘Just go over and say hi. She’s expecting you.’
‘Thanks.’ Carrie walked over the grass, stepping around two ladies and a man who were playing a lively game of croquet, and past a number of benches and tables and chairs, many of which were occupied with care-home residents enjoying the sunny day, some with blankets tucked over their knees and cups of tea.
‘Hi, Gretchen? I’m Carrie Anderson.’ Carrie had driven over to the care home after Gretchen had messaged her and asked her over for tea. The message had been quite brief, but Gretchen had explained that although the cottage belonged to the Laird, since she’d lived in it for so long, she liked to meet each cottage guest at least once and make sure they had everything they needed.
The drive itself had been stressful. Though she’d made herself get in cars since she’d lost Claire and been injured herself, every time Carrie got in one her heart started racing. She knew it must be a kind of PTSD from the accident, but knowing something in your mind and understanding it in your body were two very different things. Carrie’s mind knew why she was nervous in cars, but it didn’t stop her body from panicking.
