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‘Ach, no,’ Dotty said, and without warning, she gathered Carrie to her in a firm embrace. ‘I cannae believe it. I’m glad yer poor mother’s in her grave, and yer great-aunt too. Isnae a thing any mother should have tae experience. But ye still had tae, an’ that’s a great shame.’
Carrie didn’t have the energy to resist Dotty’s hug and, she realised, she didn’t want to. Instead, she let herself rest her head on Dotty’s warm, firm shoulder. She might have stayed there longer, breathing in Dotty’s comforting lavender smell, but the door to the inn opened and Dotty released her gently with a pat on the back, as if to say,Let’s preserve your dignity, dear.
And Carrie was grateful that she did, because when she looked up, surreptitiously wiping a tear from her eye, she saw that the person who had entered the bar was Rory McCrae.
SIX
‘Oh, hello, Rory,’ Dotty trilled, adjusting the frilly white cuffs on her blouse and acting for all the world like she hadn’t just been hugging Carrie, a more or less perfect stranger. ‘How’s tricks, dear?’
Rory nodded politely to Carrie, clearly not remembering her from their run-in at the village shop a few days ago. ‘Hi, Dotty. All right, thanks. Just wondered if I could put one of these on your noticeboard.’ He handed Dotty a paper sign, and placed the rest of the small stack of them in his hand on the bar. ‘Eric, I’ll take a flat white, if you have a minute.’
‘Aye, nae bother.’ Eric nodded, and headed back out to the kitchenette.
Carrie cast an eye over the sheaf of papers Rory had put on the bar.
wanted
kitchen assistant, the fat hen
20 hours per week/negotiable
experience preferred but not essential
start immediately
Rory’s name and a phone number followed at the end of the page.
‘Aye, I’ll put one up for ye, of course. I was just headin’ back out to the desk for a bit anyway, to do some admin, so I’ll pin it up for ye.’ Dotty took the sign and looked at it. ‘Oh. Need a hand in the kitchen?’
‘Yes. It’s harder than you’d think, finding anyone who wants to do it.’ He sighed, and sat down next to Carrie at the bar. He turned to her. ‘You’re not looking for a part-time job, I suppose? Preparing vegetables, washing up, that kind of thing?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Carrie demurred, and looked away. She wasn’t overly keen on engaging with the guy who had been rude to her in the shop.
‘Oh. Well, tell your friends,’ he said, taking the coffee that Eric placed on the bar in front of him. ‘Thanks, Eric.’
‘I don’t have any here,’ Carrie found herself replying. She hadn’t meant to, and she felt herself blushing. Why had she said anything at all?
‘Sorry?’ He looked up, sipping his coffee.
‘Forget it.’ She looked away.
‘You don’t have any friends?’ he repeated part of what she’d said, frowning.
‘No, I said, I don’t have anyhere.’ Carrie looked down at her soup. ‘There’s a difference.’
‘Sorry for the misunderstanding. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m half deaf in one ear.’ Rory smiled surprisingly warmly, turning to her. ‘I was going to say, I’d be very surprised if someone like you didn’t have any friends.’
‘Someone like me?’ Carrie frowned, looking up. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Well. You’re very pretty,’ he said, a playful expression lurking around the edge of his mouth. ‘And you clearly love soup. Never underestimate that.’
‘Underestimate… the power of soup?’ Carrie’s eyebrows knitted together.
‘Never. That’s my advice.’ He grinned suddenly, and Carrie was struck by how different this Rory was to the distracted, sarcastic man she’d run into at the village shop. This Rory had a smile like a beam of sunlight which lit up his handsome face.
And he was definitely handsome, Carrie had to admit that.
Before, when they’d met, Carrie had noticed his longish dark brown hair and short beard. He wasn’t that much taller than her, but Carrie had observed in the shop that day that he was powerfully built. Today, now that she had more time to look at his face, Carrie noticed other things. Rory had deep brown eyes with long, thick lashes: the kind of lashes that women envied and which lent a softness to his eyes she hadn’t noticed before. There were a few laughter lines around his eyes – she estimated he was probably in his early forties – and today his beard wasn’t as thick as before; she guessed he’d trimmed it. It meant that she could see the shape of his chin underneath, and a strong, square jaw. He wore jeans and hiking boots, but no jacket: instead, just a light blue jumper with a slightly loose collar that led her eyes to the bottom of his neck, where a suggestion of dark hair sat atop what looked like a very toned chest.
