Page 30 of The Boathouse By the Loch

Chapter 12

‘You want what?’

‘A sledgehammer.’

‘May I ask what you need the sledgehammer for?’

‘No, you may not,’ said Jake, opening his wallet and wondering how much the tourist rip-off premium was this season.

‘We don’t sell ’em.’

‘Excuse me?’ Jaked looked at the sledgehammer that Mr Gillespie had just deposited on the counter right in front of him.

‘That’s mine, from my workshop.’

Jake sighed heavily. ‘How much?’ He closed his fingers around a big wad of cash.

‘Put it away, son, for goodness’ sake.’

Jake looked up, perplexed.

‘You can borrow it; just as long as you remember to bring it back when you’re done doing whatever it is needs doing.’

Jake took his fingers out of his wallet. He didn’t know what had surprised him most – the fact that Mr Gillespie was going to lend him the thing, no questions asked, or the fact that he wasn’t charging for it.

Mr Gillespie handed Jake the tool. ‘And I’ll have you know Idon’t fleece tourists.’

Jake rolled his eyes. He was sick to death of being called a stranger in his hometown, the place of his birth, the place he had lived quite happily until an ill wind brought forced change. ‘And I’ll have you know I’m not a bloody tourist,’ Jake answered back.

Mr Gillespie raised his eyebrows. ‘You sure act like one.’

Jake blushed; it was true, he’d always breezed into town on vacation like a tourist, throwing money around, acting like he owned the place while doing his utmost to steer clear of the locals – and that went for local establishments too. Everything was catered for, ready for their arrival; good food and fine wines sent ahead from London. He never had reason to visit Mr Gillespie’s store, even though it was just a short ride or a reasonable walk from his house.

His mother may well have brought him to this store all those years earlier, but Jake had not stepped inside the place since. Mr Gillespie was right; although he had been born there, and he had property there, he was now just a stranger – one of many tourists visiting the town.

Perhaps it was time he got reacquainted.

‘I own The Lake House,’ said Jake by way of introducing his credentials as a fully paid-up member of the community.

‘Do you, now?’ Mr Gillespie nodded. ‘Vacation home, is it?’ His disapproval was glaringly obvious.

Jake blinked. He had assumed Mr Gillespie knew The Lake House was the Rosses’ holiday home. Maybe he did, and he was just making a point that it was of no consequence to him. Jake got the idea that Mr Gillespie was not someone he should underestimate. After all, he’d sublet part of his store to Robyn, and the shop was buzzing – not just in Robyn’s Interior Design, but inthe original grocery side of the business too.

Jake glanced over his shoulder at the interior design outlet and debated whether he should wander over to the other side of the store and talk to Robyn’s assistant, who was working there that day. He recalled Gayle mentioning that David had arranged with his sister-in-law, Annie, that she would work on Friday and over the weekend.

Perhaps he’d wait and see if Robyn arrived at the guesthouse first before he ventured over there.

Jake looked at the sledgehammer in his hand. Perhaps it wasn’t the right moment to introduce himself. Besides, he did have something much more pressing he wanted to do.

‘The house used to belong to a Royal Air Force officer. Nice fellow. His wife was born and raised here. Know what I’m saying?’

Jake turned back to Mr Gillespie, and nodded. Jake did know what he was saying, loud and clear; Mr Gillespie had mistaken him for one of the city-dwellers who were buying up local property as weekend homes, taking advantage of the scenery, the skiing, and giving little back in return, stripping away entire communities to leave them practically deserted ghost towns. He was guilty of that, it was true, but not through choice. Circumstance had dictated he had not been able to grow up in that house, in this community, but thanks to William, at least he had retained some links to his past, however tenuous.

‘I’m his son,’ said Jake.

‘Pardon me?’ Mr Gillespie was evidently surprised.

‘The RAF officer. I’m his son.’ Jake watched the man’s surprise turn to embarrassment at his obvious gaffe. ‘I was born here too, in Aviemore, but did not have the good fortune to grow up here.’ Jake’s voice was tight.

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