Page 13 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

Guilt pricked at her as she thought of the physical distance between them – nearly seven hundred miles and at least a twelve-hour drive. She should have made more of an effort to visit him, especially since he’d sold his boat six years ago. Retirement didn’t seem to have agreed with him.

But she’d been so busy. She still was. Lecturing at the art college might mean long holidays, but she invariably spent those in her studio. It had taken hard work and determination to make a name for herself, and she rarely seemed to have any spare time.

Realising she was making excuses, Freya sipped her tea in silence.

Rhona said, ‘Let me know when he’s home and I’ll pop round. Oh, and if my cat bothers you, shoo him away. Anyone would think I don’t feed him.’ She got awkwardly to her feet. ‘Tell your dad I was asking after him.’

‘I will,’ Freya promised. ‘He’s being sent back to Broadford today, so I’ll visit him later.’

As she showed Rhona out, Freya’s thoughts turned to the jobs she needed to do, and her heart sank, as she realised she’d have to return to London shortly to fetch more clothes, because it looked like she was going to be here for a while.

Mack was pooped. Three trips a day throughout the summer months were enough for anyone, and he was looking forward to an afternoon off. Sea Serpent Boat Tours might be his business, but he was conscious of the need for downtime, both for his crew and himself, so he rostered time off for all of them. His crew took a full day once a fortnight. Mack allowed himself an afternoon, and even then, he often spent the time doing admin.

Although he was aware he needed to make enough money in the lucrative summer months to get him through the winter when decent days on the loch were fewer and there weren’t as many tourists on the island, he wasn’t intending to work this afternoon. He was going to go for a hike. The mountain behind his house was calling to him and, as much as he loved being on his boat, he was desperate to feel grass under his feet and to smell the heather.

After issuing instructions and reminders (which were met with shakes of the head, because his crew knew what they were doing), Mack took off just before the next trip went out.

Resisting the urge to go to the lock-up and do some paperwork, he jumped into his car and drove the short distance home. Once there, he didn’t linger. After putting on his hiking boots, he made himself a piece, stuffing the bread with cheese, ham and salad, and grabbed a packet of crisps and a chocolate bar, before filling a flask with instant coffee.

Checking that his rucksack had waterproofs, a torch and a thermal blanket (in case of emergency), he popped in his picnic, then slung the bag over his shoulders and set off.

Located no more than ten paces from his back door was a path that would take him to the top of the mountain.

The first part of his hike was through woodland, a mixture of pine and deciduous trees, and the air was full of birdsong. But it was swiftly left behind as the gradient grew steeper and trees gave way to low scrub, then finally heather and tussocky grass, with the odd clump of stubborn gorse.

As he climbed higher, the view opened up, and he paused for a moment, squinting and shading his eyes with his hand as he tried, without success, to make out theSea Serpenton the glittering water. Coorie Castle was clearly visible, though, and his gaze was drawn to the magnificent old building.

Perched on a hill above the loch, the castle rose out of the rock to tower over the landscape, although from here it looked like one of the doll’s houses that Tara made. Its stonework was white and shone in the afternoon light; its many windows glinted and glittered, and he could just make out a flag flying from the top of one of the turrets.

To the side of the castle lay the craft centre; it had once been the service buildings for the castle, built many years after the monument itself. They had fallen into disrepair until Mhairi Gray, the elderly lady who owned the estate, had converted them into studios and created a craft centre out of them.

The village was spread out below, following the contours of the loch, the buildings dotted along the main road, with some to either side. He could make out the kirk, with its pointed spire, and the post office-cum-shop. It was easy to spot the pub, and he could also see his mum’s house and his brother’s. It was as though his whole life was laid out before him, everything and everyone he loved visible from up here.

This was why he loved coming here so much, no matter the weather. It grounded him and made him more aware of his place in the world. And on a day like today, when the sun shone out of a cerulean sky, it was pure joy.

The warm breeze was scented with heather, meadowsweet, and the coconut and vanilla perfume of the yellow gorse flowers. He breathed deeply, letting the fragrance wash over and through him, and stayed there a moment, filling his lungs with the sweet, clean air.

Resuming his hike, Mack allowed his thoughts to wander, and they settled on the woman he’d spoken to in the pub last night. There’d been something familiar about her and he hoped he hadn’t hit on her before. Might she be a regular holidaymaker to the area?

Abruptly, it came to him, and the knowledge stopped him in his tracks: the woman had been none other than Freya Sinclair.

Freya hurried into Broadford Hospital on Saturday afternoon clutching a bag for life, and headed for the ward. Spying her father in the bed furthest from the door, she made a beeline for him, but her feet slowed when she grew close.

His eyes were closed, his cheeks sunken, and he suddenly looked older than when she’d last seen him.

She bit her lip in distress, and it took her a second to gather herself; the last thing her dad needed was to see her upset.

Placing the bag on the floor next to his bed, she decided to sit with him until he woke, and while she waited, she would try to make inroads into her to-do list. She’d already informed Sean Pickles that she wouldn’t be around during the summer (not that the college expected her to be) but she wanted to keep him abreast of what was happening, in case she didn’t make it back to London for the start of the new academic year in September. It was well over two months away, but since no one could tell her how long it would be before her dad would be back on his feet again, she had to make sure the vice chancellor was aware of the situation, in case a slightly longer absence was necessary. She sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be…

There was also Jocasta Black’s offer to consider, and the woman was going to need an answer soon, but with everything that had happened, Freya hadn’t had a chance to think about it properly.

Her thumb hovered over Hadrian’s name and she was about to message him, when she decided against it. She would speak to him later in the privacy of her dad’s house. Instead, she booked a flight back to London for tomorrow.

She needed to sort out her flat and, more importantly, her studio. Plus, she needed more clothes, and as she couldn’t afford to keep the hire car indefinitely, she would have to drive her little van back to Skye.

Freya wasn’t looking forward to the journey one bit, but it had to be done.

Feeling eyes on her, she glanced up to see her dad looking at her, and she got to her feet and bent over the bed to give him a kiss. His skin was dry and smelt of antiseptic. ‘You’re awake. How was the journey?’

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