Chapter 40
Finlay was hiding in the bathroom, looking at his grizzled face in the rusted old mirror that had been hanging on the wall when he moved in, like most of the furnishings had just been here too.
He needed a few minutes to compose himself.
He had to figure out what it all meant: the electric buzz at his scalp this morning when Murray had run his fingers through his hair; the way he had practically begged the man to stay a little longer; how he’d managed to put up with his annoying dog around the place. And now he’d let Murray nap on his bed.
He hadn’t been about to deny his guest the only home comfort he had to offer him.
Murray probably had such a nice room down in the mill house. He tried not to picture himself sleeping there, and how that would feel. It was probably all white and soft and carpeted and warm and clean. The idea made him sigh and shudder too.
What was he torturing himself like this for? Murray had a life of his own that he couldn’t ever hope to fit into. He had contracts to look at, options for travel and sunshine and adventure, and there was his puppies to get back to, and the repair shop.
‘You OK in there?’ Murray called, with a rap at the door.
They’d both woken up from their nap at the same time, just a few moments ago.
‘I’ll be oot in a minute,’ Finlay shouted back, far too gruffly. He pictured Murray drawing his neck back, affronted, walking away, shaking his head at Finlay’s rough manners after he’d opened up to him earlier.
He’d always been like this though. No good in company. No good with men. He shook his head at his reflection and attempted, one handed, to apply the lip salve and moisturiser that Murray had forced upon him. Who carried these things around with them except Murray McIntyre?
He smoothed the cocoa butter goop over his weather-roughened lips. It turned out he’d do anything Murray told him to, not something he’d have done for any other man, not that he knew many other men these days.
He’d spent time with men, of course. Back when he lived down at sea level, when he’d been in the city, before he knew the perfect solitude of the hills.
He’d even been on the apps, scrolled profiles, chatted some, reached out, responded.
Back then, he would shower and dress as well as he could – for a man disinterested in fashion – and he’d go out to meet braw-looking men in bars or at their front doors, and sometimes he’d let them drag him inside their flat and they’d kiss and conspire and give away little bits and pieces about themselves until the night buses were running and it was time to go home.
The thought of those nights dizzied him now. The way he’d been accepted, desired, cared for. Yes, Finlay had known a lot of good men, but that had been a long time ago.
He examined his jawline, patted his tummy, dismayed with himself. What was he doing, keeping Murray here like this?
He swiped some of the honey butter stuff over his face, surprised at it melting in so quickly, and he tried the door. The handle wouldn’t turn.
‘Murray? The handle’s slipping with this stuff on my hand. Can you…?’
Murray pulled the door open, a towel over his arm, gesturing for him to step into the kitchen where he’d set a table for lunch.
‘Welcome, sir,’ he was saying, bowing like a ma?tre d’.
Finlay stepped into the room, his reservations from a moment ago dissolving all over again. Murray was one big salve, one huge soothing presence. Finlay had never been so hungry for more of something in his life.
Murray flapped a napkin, which turned out to be a tea towel, and placed it over Finlay’s lap as he sat at the low table right before the fireplace.
‘That’s one of my emergency candles,’ Finlay told him, seeing the fresh white taper flickering in the middle of the small table.
Murray ignored him, whisking around the room, presenting him with a steaming dish. ‘Soup d’tomate,’ he said.
‘What language is that?’
‘French?’ Murray tried, not giving a monkey’s. ‘And there’s salad de canned tuna and boildy ?ufs for mains.’
‘Oh aye, boildy’s just how I like them.’ Smiling, Finlay lifted his spoon, mirroring Murray, now seated opposite.
‘None of your cutlery matches,’ Murray told him.
‘Does it need to?’ Finlay tasted the soup.
Murray seemed to accept this answer, and he tried the soup too.
There were big wedges of bread which Murray was about to reach for when Finlay stopped him. ‘Hold on,’ he said, pointing to the toasting fork hanging on its fireside hook. ‘It’ll want freshening up a bit.’
Murray got the message, spearing two of the thickest slices on the prongs and holding them close to the fire.
‘You look like a garden gnome with his fishing rod, sittin’ like that,’ Finlay told him, from behind their low table out of scale with the two mismatched dining chairs, decades old and creaky.
Murray laughed and turned the fork near the flames.
Their lunch passed in companionable, happy ease until all the bread was toasted, slathered with good Scottish butter, dunked and devoured, and the tuna and egg salad was gone too.
Finlay had taken pains to make sure Nell was slipped as many scraps as he could manage without Murray telling him he was spoiling her.
After the dishes were washed, not easy with one arm in a sling, but still Finlay did his best to help, and Murray had swept up the crumbs and stood the broom back in the corner, the inevitable moment came.
Frantic, Finlay thought of ways to detain him.
‘Do you think you could return my books, please?’ he asked, pointing to the book tote hanging on the hook on the back of the door.
‘Oh, aye,’ Murray said, bubbling with intrigue. ‘To your pals down at the library?’
‘I dinnae like getting a fine.’
‘Do you want me to pick you up any new books?’ The question was innocent enough.
Finlay considered this. ‘Judy knows the kind of books I like. She said she’d put aside a few for me, actually. You could bring those, if you like?’
He tried to say it like it was no big deal, but there were two or three volumes he’d been looking forward to ever since Judy had described them to him.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Murray, reaching for the book bag. He looked inside, just as Finlay had feared.
‘An Unmannerly Affair? In Love With His Mistress’s Master? You read romances?’
‘Aye.’ Finlay raised his jaw. ‘And what of it?’
‘Well, nothing really. It’s just surprising, that’s all.’ Murray’s eyes had a wicked gleam. ‘What’s this one? Catch and Release?’
‘That’s about a pair of fishermen who… look, what does it matter? I enjoy them, OK?’ Finlay snapped, snatching the book from his hand and shoving it back into the tote.
‘You are nothing like I thought you’d be.’ Murray grinned, observing him. ‘I mean that in the nicest possible way.’
Finlay let the mocking wash over him. Insult or compliment, it didn’t really matter because they’d shared these last twenty-four hours of solitude and it had been wonderful.
‘Where’s your library card?’ Murray was asking.
‘You don’t need it to return books,’ Finlay snapped. ‘And Judy can issue the new ones to me on her computer.’
Murray’s eyes gleamed at this. ‘Is there something you don’t want me to see?’
‘Och!’ Finlay reached for his wallet by the door and, struggling with only one working arm, freed the card and handed it over. ‘Satisfied?’
Murray’s laugh made the air crackle. ‘Finlay Wayward Morlich? You’re joking! Your parents named you Finlay Wayward?’
Finlay snatched the card back. ‘Aye, well, naebody needs to know.’
Murray straightened his face. ‘Right enough, let’s keep it between us and Highland library services.’
‘The name was supposed to be a reminder,’ Finlay went on, smiling in spite of the smarting embarrassment.
‘Of what?’
‘To be good, I suppose.’ Finlay forgot his injury and tried to shrug, flinching when the pain shot like a thunderbolt through him. ‘Jeez-o!’ He sucked air sharply through his teeth, and Murray stopped his teasing to steady him, two warm hands clasping his arms.
‘Careful, careful,’ he warned. ‘Your shoulder.’
The two stayed like this for a beat, adjusting to the closeness. No one felt much like laughing all of a sudden.
‘Well,’ Murray said, bringing his forehead down to rest on Finlay’s, which felt as miraculous as it did natural. ‘I’ll stick to calling you Finlay, if you don’t mind? There’s nothing that seems wayward or even the tiniest bit bad about you, to me.’
Finlay heard Murray swallow through the thrum of tension between them.
‘Will you visit again soon?’ Finlay said, his eyelids growing heavy, wanting to close them.
‘I will. How about next week? By the time I sort out these contracts, and my travel and accommodation arrangements, visas, maybe? And there’s the pups to look after.
I’ve really left Mum and Dad to deal with them, and there’s the adoptions to sort out, and there’ll be repair Saturday to endure, and the garden project on Sunday, I suppose? ’
‘Lots to do,’ Finlay said.
‘Lots.’
Finlay nodded, letting his forehead rub against Murray’s, still neither of them wanting to pull apart.
He risked moving his arm to Murray’s waist, before spreading his palm flat against the shallow of his spine.
Murray’s breathing faltered.
Finlay pressed all the firmer and Murray closed the gap between their bodies.
‘I’ll bring you back some sweets,’ Murray promised on an outward breath.
Finlay summoned all his courage to look into Murray’s eyes, finding them heavy-lidded and soft. ‘You don’t need to. I’m feeling sweet enough,’ he replied, barely thinking what he was saying, and with one shared breath between them, their lips met in the softest way possible.
Once Finlay got the message that this was all right, he kissed a little harder, a creature sound escaping from his chest.
Murray scooped his arm around his back, holding him fast, the other, above Finlay’s bruised shoulder, cupped his face; a sensation Finlay had thought he’d never experience again in his lifetime.
A thumb brushed at his cheekbone as Murray kissed into him, deeper, better, all thoughts suspended until they were breathless and gaping at one another, open-eyed on the doormat, wondering at what had just happened.
‘Are you OK?’ Murray was asking through the fog.
‘You kissed me,’ Finlay told him stupidly.
Murray’s mouth, still so close, broke into a hazy smile. ‘And I’ll come back and kiss you again, if you’ll let me.’
Finlay nodded, stepping reluctantly away, keeping Murray’s hand in his until the last moment, when the bolt was slipped, the door prised open, and the pair of them stood blinking at the early-afternoon light, amazed there was still a world outside their bubble.
Murray shouldered Finlay’s book bag. ‘See you after the weekend, yeah?’
Finlay could only nod, speechless. He watched as Murray walked down the little path to the gap in the low stone wall, turning right for the long path to town.
Suddenly, Murray stopped and looked back with a huge grin.
The muscles in Finlay’s core ached at the sight, hoping he’d come running back, changing his mind, shouting to hell with town.
Murray whistled once, and Nell, who’d been sleeping on the hearthrug, sprang up and ran out of the door after her master.
Every fibre in Finlay’s body had answered that whistle too, like iron filings yanked to attention by the magnetic Murray McIntyre, and yet he closed the door, having watched the two head down the path together.
He took himself back to the table where they’d eaten lunch, astonished at how a tiny cottage cruive, barely bigger than a shepherd’s hut, could suddenly feel so utterly vast and empty.