Chapter 12 #2
But rather than the sense of duty that had hung over him since his arrival on Sunday, he now felt as though he was on holiday.
This time, he wasn’t here to sort out the castle: he was here to explore the island.
He would have to do some work, but wherever he vacationed, he invariably ended up working – that was a given.
But with little to do in the evenings, he would fire up his laptop then.
As far as possible, the days would be for fun.
He had no intention of working this evening, though.
He was going to go to the pub and eat there.
He hadn’t been to a proper British pub since he was a student.
Trendy bars, clubs and restaurants had been his thing, not traditional pubs, and he was intrigued.
And he was going to walk to it, so he could have a pint or two.
Real ale, preferably. If they had it. Or cider.
He hadn’t had cider in years. And sod cordon bleu cooking – he wanted pie and mash, or steak and chips.
Not haggis, though, assuming the pub served that kind of thing, as he didn’t like the sound of it.
Rocco had a quick shower, changed into one of the new T-shirts and with his recently purchased hiking boots on his feet to break them in, he set off.
The early evening was pleasant, and he enjoyed his stroll, the path already familiar from his run this morning (had it only been this morning?), and soon he was in the beer garden with its picnic benches and view of the loch.
Deeming it too nice an evening to sit indoors to eat, he grabbed a bench and perused the menu. Gammon and chips, he decided, and ordered a pint of Feral Fox to go with it, only because it reminded him of his foxy encounter earlier.
Unsurprisingly, the pub was busy, and he people-watched as he ate. Most customers appeared to be tourists, he surmised from the snippets of conversation he overheard, as they chatted about where they’d been and where they were planning to go next.
And then he spied a familiar face heading for the pub’s open door.
It was Jinny, accompanied by a man he didn’t recognise.
Shortly after, the two glass brothers (as he thought of Fergus and Shane) arrived and went inside, then the woman who made silver jewellery, followed by Cal and his fiancée, Tara.
None of them noticed him as he sat there nursing his pint, but Giselle did.
As soon as she came into view, her gaze locked onto his and his heart faltered, missing a beat before catching up with itself in a double thud that reverberated through his chest.
Her eyes were guarded as she walked towards him.
‘Care to join me?’ he asked.
‘No. Would you care to join me? Us, I mean. A group of us meet for a drink most Friday evenings.’
‘Did Mhairi ever—?’
‘God, no!’
Her shock at his question made him laugh, but he quickly sobered. ‘Perhaps I’d better not. If she didn’t…’
‘You’re not Mhairi.’
‘I’m pretty sure that’s not meant kindly,’ he teased.
‘You can take it whichever way you like.’ She glanced at the open door, then her gaze settled on him again. ‘Why have you come back, Rocco? Have you forgotten something?’
‘Unfinished business.’
‘Have you got a buyer for the castle already?’
He was dismayed by the worry on her face.
‘No, it isn’t on the market yet.’ It would be soon, but he’d wait until he returned home to start the ball rolling.
Besides, he needed to speak to his solicitor and accountant before that could happen, because there was the little matter of probate to sort out.
However, he didn’t want to think about such weighty matters right now.
‘It’ll be a while yet,’ he added, hoping to reassure her. ‘If I can’t persuade you to join me, can I at least buy you a drink?’
‘Not unless you’re prepared to buy the rest of your workforce a drink as well.’
Rocco knew a challenge when he saw one. ‘OK, I’ll go to the bar and—’
‘You should have a drink with us. It’ll do a lot for employee relations, even though us crafters aren’t actually employed by you. You’re more like our landlord.’
‘I don’t want to intrude,’ Rocco protested, unsure whether he’d be welcome.
Beverly didn’t go in for attending staff events, claiming that you can’t socialise with the people you might have to discipline at some point.
Or even sack. He could appreciate her reasoning, but this wasn’t the same, was it?
‘They’ll be fine,’ Giselle said, and he guessed she was correctly interpreting his reluctance. ‘In fact, they’ll appreciate it.’ From her mischievous twinkle, he assumed his presence would give them something to talk about for a while.
He didn’t begrudge them that. Anyway, he was curious about this ‘one big family’ thing that Giselle had mentioned at least twice. The staff at Moore Asset Management definitely couldn’t be described as a family.
Cal’s eyes widened when he saw Rocco enter the pub, Giselle by his side, and Rocco noticed several nudges and more than a few comments behind hands held up to mouths.
‘Look who I found,’ Giselle announced, and Rocco dredged up an awkward smile.
He was rapidly having second thoughts. He should’ve simply spoken to the bar staff and paid for a round, rather than endure this. For a man who was the owner of the establishment where they all worked, he felt like the outsider he so clearly was.
There was some shuffling and rearranging of chairs, but eventually two empty seats appeared.
Jinny, the woman who managed the gift shop, pointed to one of them.
‘That’s yours,’ she said, ‘but before you sit down, mine’s a Pimm’s.
This lout—’ she placed a hand on the knee of the man sitting next to her ‘—is Carter, my worse half, and he’ll have a pale ale.
What?’ she demanded, scanning the rest of the people sitting around the tables that had been pushed together.
Their faces bore expressions ranging from incredulity to concern.
Giselle told them, ‘Rocco has already said he’ll get a round in, so don’t be shy.’
‘And no taking advantage,’ Jinny warned. ‘I’m looking at you, Fergus.’
‘Would I?’
‘Yes.’ She addressed Rocco. ‘If he asks for a double whisky, tell him to go boil his head. He’s on lager.’
Rocco wasn’t going to remember everyone’s preferences, so he was relieved when Cal got to his feet, saying, ‘I’ll give you a hand. This lot mostly have the same drinks, week in and week out.’
As they stood at the bar waiting to be served, Cal said, ‘I didn’t expect to see you in the pub.’
‘I thought I’d get out and about a bit, since I’m here.’
The man turned to face him. ‘Why are you here?’ His gaze bored into Rocco.
‘I’m not totally sure,’ he admitted. ‘I was driving over Skye Bridge, listening to the “Skye Boat Song”, and I realised I didn’t want to go home just yet.’
‘Aye, that’ll do it. My heart always sinks when I go over that bridge. Skye gets under your skin and you don’t want to leave her. Mind you, I can’t say I’ve had my head turned by a song.’
‘It depends who’s singing it,’ was Rocco’s unthinking reply as his eyes flashed to Giselle before he hastily glanced away, earning himself a curious look from Cal. ‘No karaoke on this evening?’ Rocco asked, to distract him.
‘Not in the summer. Karaoke is reserved for the quieter winter months.’ Cal picked up a tray of drinks, leaving Rocco to grab the other.
Praying he didn’t slop them everywhere – or worse, drop the damn tray – Rocco carefully trailed behind him. As the drinks were distributed, accompanied by a chorus of cheers and thank yous, he was aware of the tension his presence was causing.
He could understand that; he was an unknown quantity, a stranger in their midst, and crucially, by putting the castle on the market, he could be affecting their livelihoods. No wonder they weren’t comfortable with him around. Apart from Jinny, who didn’t seem to give a rat’s arse.
Rocco made a decision. ‘Cheers, everyone,’ he said, taking his own drink – a small dram of whisky, because when in Rome… or should he say Scotland? – and downing it in one. He’d remained standing, and he placed the empty glass firmly on the table and said, ‘I’ll be off. Enjoy your evening.’
Then he was striding through the door into the evening air, the whisky heating its way to his stomach, embarrassment heating his face. He should never have allowed Giselle to persuade him to join her and her ‘family’.
It was rare he had such poor judgement. Those people weren’t his friends, and the power disparity between him and them meant they never would be.
Giselle’s voice stopped him in his tracks. ‘Rocco! Wait up.’
He waited.
‘Why are you leaving?’ she asked when she caught up with him. ‘I thought you were joining us for a drink?’
‘I did. I had a wee dram.’ The assumed Scottish accent felt alien on his tongue.
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I know, but it’s for the best. They don’t want me there.’
‘I do.’ Her eyes widened and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
He guessed she hadn’t meant to say that. It warmed him more than the whisky. It warmed him more than it should, considering… and Rocco did some blurting of his own. ‘Show me Skye.’
‘Why?’
Because I want to spend time with you, he almost replied. ‘Because you love it.’
‘So do they.’ She waved an arm at the pub.
When he automatically glanced behind, he saw several curious faces gawking out the window. ‘I’m not asking them. I’m asking you.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow? The next day?’ He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay before Beverly demanded his return.
Not for the first time, Rocco wished his boss wasn’t his mother.
It was an uncomfortable dynamic, but he supposed anyone going into a firm run by their parents must feel the same way.
And what he was feeling now was conflicted, on more levels than he could count.
Giselle was hesitating.
He said, ‘Sorry, I forgot that tomorrow is Saturday. It’ll be your busiest trading day. And Sunday won’t be far behind.’
‘Not necessarily. Weekdays are equally busy.’
He blinked, disarmed. He knew that: he’d seen the figures from the cafe and the gift shop.
Although he wasn’t an accountant like Claire, it was easy to see that there were only minor fluctuations in the daily takings from both establishments over the course of a week during the more lucrative summer months.
He expected her to tell him she couldn’t spare the time, but instead she said, ‘Pick me up at eight,’ as she turned on her heel and walked away. He stared after her in surprise and a considerable amount of pleasure.