Page 5 of A Scottish Christmas Hideaway
He walked through to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water at the sink. As he sipped it, he looked out at the garden which was dusted with frost. The wee summer house that hisfriend and local tradesman Brodie had put up looked great, and he hoped Lexi would like it and maybe get a chance to play in the garden if the weather stayed dry. He should also really get a tree for the front room if he was going to do things properly this year and make the cottage festive for his guests.
Reuben didn’t particularly like Christmas. Not any more. It was a time for kids who believed in Santa and had dreams and hopes. However, getting the cottage ready and painted in time had given him a project to focus on. He might evenbegrudginglyadmit that he had quite enjoyed it. The painting was almost finished and, after that, he just needed to get the curtains and blinds hung. He checked himself. Organising the soft furnishings for a cottage wasn’t something he had ever needed to think about. He was an architect, all about the light and maximising space. His apartment in Glasgow was very much a bachelor pad with a few bits of statement furniture, wooden shutters on the windows and polished floors. He laughed, wondering what his friends would make of him if they could see him now fretting about fabrics and finishing touches. At this rate he would be buying scented candles.
The late morning sunshine was now streaming through the windows and he decided he would go and grab a coffee from the village bakery and get some fresh air away from the paint fumes. He pulled on his old jacket over his overalls and grabbed his hat, his stomach growling at the thought of a hot coffee and a bacon roll. As he pulled the front door closed, he stepped out onto the lane and then turned back to admire the cottage from afar. He was pleased that he had painted the front door in sage green. It looked good against the brown stone of the house, and when spring came again, he knew the daffodil bulbs he had put in his dad’s miniature wooden wheelbarrow planters by the door would look great.
Reuben sighed and smiled, watching his warm breath float away like cigarette smoke in the cold air. Then he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and made his way up the lane, stepping out the way and smiling when he saw Angus and Catriona Stewart, who had just turned into the lane to drive up to Thistle Cottage two doors away.
Walking down the road and towards the main street, he looked at the view of the loch, framed by hills behind. It was a view he would never tire of. Loch Lomond was a freshwater loch and the largest inland stretch of water in the UK. When he was growing up, he’d loved playing on the beach and paddling during the summer though he was told repeatedly to be careful. The water was freezing and extremely deep. He still found it hard to believe that people would willingly go swimming there all year round, but wild swimming was increasingly popular.
Rowan Bay wasn’t perhaps as picture postcard beautiful as Luss, the village on the west side of the loch, but Reuben thought that made it even more appealing, as the tour buses packed with tourists keen to see most of Scotland in a day would quickly stop at Luss so people could pile off and have their picture taken at the picturesque pier. Rowan Bay tended to get overlooked, which suited him just fine as it felt more private and less of a tourist trap. It still had more than its fair share of beautiful old properties and it was no coincidence that Reuben now specialised in period homes. He loved the challenge of using his architectural skills to preserve the timeless charm of a building while also giving it a fresh look. For him it was about respecting the history of a building while making it suitable for modern living. He was always intrigued by the craftsmanship that went into original features like sash windows and ornate fireplaces. But he also liked to incorporate modern twists to his designs, such as skylights that flooded the space with natural light and underfloor heating under flagstone floors. His motto had alwaysbeen quality over quantity as he wanted to ensure that each home and client got the attention they deserved.
Looking around now, as he made his way to the bakery, he never tired of looking at the different architecture in Rowan Bay. There was a mixture of houses and many of the cottages, including Primrose Cottage, were built in the nineteenth century as accommodation for workers from nearby slate quarries. There were flats above the shops on the main street and old crofters’ cottages and byres for livestock which had been renovated and transformed into modern homes with minimalist décor. There were also new-builds which had been discreetly added to the outskirts of the village. As he approached the bakery, situated near the small square by the village clock, he could see that thewindows were steamed up and he pushed the door open, inhaling the delicious scent of warm pastries and bread as he entered.
‘Hey, you,’ said the friendly woman serving behind the counter. She grinned and pointed at his hair as he pulled off his hat and raked his hands through it.
‘Don’t tell me. I’ve got the white effect?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Though only you can get away with it. Makes you look distinguished.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ he said with a laugh. ‘It’s warm in here, isn’t it?’
Her cheeks were flushed. ‘Tell me about it. Try working back here. I’m pure sweating. Do you want your usual? Or can I tempt you with a gingerbread latte?’
‘Aye, go on then, I’ll try the fancy latte. How are you today, Gillian?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Och, okay. Though I was up half the night with Millie. She had a bad dream.’
He tipped his head sympathetically and tried to think of something helpful to say. ‘That must be tough.’
She shrugged. ‘All part of the fun and games of being a mum. I wouldn’t change it for the world though.’
‘You do a great job,’ he said, meaning every word. Gillian was a single parent and quietly got on with things even though there was a lot she could complain about given half the chance.
‘Here you go,’ she said handing him a steaming cup and a paper bag with his usual roll and bacon. ‘Are you rushing back to paint?’
‘Nah, I think I’ll sit for a minute and enjoy this before I start again.’
‘You enjoy it, Reuben. Same time tomorrow?’
He nodded and grinned. ‘Most probably.’ He sat at the stool in the far corner of the window and wiped a bit of the window clear with a handful of napkins. With his back pressed against the wall, he could just make out a wee sliver of water. Taking a sip of coffee, he closed his eyes. It tasted amazing. Then he took a bite from his bacon roll. At that moment, his life couldn’t have felt any better. He reminded himself to enjoy it while he could. He was getting better at appreciating things in the moment. For Reuben knew more than most how quickly life could change. One minute you could think that you’re winning at life and everything is going your way . . . He shuddered slightly when he thought back to how smugandarrogant he’d been when he was on top of the world and thought he had smashed it. He’d always been slightly dismissive of those who constantly seemed to have challenges or moans. He always believed you were in control of your destiny. Until he wasn’t.
Finishing the roll, he crunched the paper bag into a ball. He had been rudely reminded that anyone could be chucked a curveball and he was no different. He waved at Gillian, opened the door and headed out, realising that his late granny was right. She always said that life sent lessons to teach us and he had learned the hard way. He could still see her sitting in her chairby the window of her little house near the loch. Her eyes were always twinkling with kindness and her smile lit up her whole face — he often wondered if she had the same beam for all her grandchildren. When he was a boy, he used to think she kept her biggest smiles for him. He shook his head. God, he was a conceited wee knob.
Now he kept himself to himself, lived a quiet life and understood what his granny meant. He unlocked the door of Primrose Cottage feeling happy to be back.
Chapter Four
Jessica had nodded off in the back seat of the car on the way back from the airport and woke up to the sound of her mum calling. ‘We’re here. That’s us home, love.’ Jessica rubbed her eyes, surprised she had fallen into such a deep sleep in the car. Especially when she couldn’t quite remember when she had last slept through the night in her own bed in London.
‘Come on, Jess,’ said her dad, opening the car door for her.
Yawning, she climbed out the car and immediately noticed the huge wreath on the front door of Thistle Cottage, studded with gold stars, pinecones and red baubles. ‘I made it at a craft session in the village hall,’ said her mum, looking at it proudly.
‘Well done. It looks great, Mum. Very shabby chic.’
‘That wasexactlythe look I was going for.’ Her mum grinned in delight. ‘See, Gus. At leastsomeoneappreciates my artistic talent.’
Her dad shook his head in confusion and tilted his head towards the house. ‘I’ll just put your things in your room, Jess,’ he said, unlocking the door.
