Chapter 9
Clementine
Betrayal in the Produce Aisle
I push open the door to MacTavish Grocery with every intention of buying three specific things, paying, and leaving without talking to anyone. A simple plan. Efficient. Realistic.
I should have known nothing is ever simple in Glenfield.
The little bell above the door chimes cheerfully, and Moira MacTavish immediately looks up from her newspaper. Her face lights up as if I'd just told her she'd won the lottery.
“Clementine! What a delight to see you!”
I offer her a polite smile and head straight for the produce section.
Maybe if I focus on my shopping, she'll take the hint that I'm not in the mood for conversation.
And when exactly did I give her permission to call me by my first name?
Not that I'm particularly formal about those things, but the way she says it, you'd think we'd known each other forever and were close friends.
“You look wonderful,” she continues, already coming around the counter to follow me. “I hear you've been doing a lot of cooking at the manor lately.”
I freeze with a leek in my hand.
I hear?
Who exactly is I hear?
Slowly, I turn toward her.
“Who told you that?”
Moira waves a dismissive hand.
“Oh, you know. People talk. Especially when such delicious smells are drifting out of the manor.”
I seriously doubt anyone can smell my cooking all the way from the village, but I let it go. Something tells me Mrs. MacTavish—or should I start calling her Moira too? No. Bad idea. That would probably encourage her—is allergic to any form of rational thinking.
I realize I'm gripping the leek harder than necessary and force my hand to relax.
“And Cameron McGregor stopped by yesterday, didn't he? It was so kind of you to cook for him.”
My stomach knots.
Of course she knows he came by. Everyone probably knows. They likely knew before it even happened.
“He stopped by, yes,” I say in what I hope is a neutral tone. “But I didn't cook for him—”
Moira nods with a knowing smile and an expression that makes it painfully clear she hasn't listened to a word I've said.
“I heard he stayed quite a while.”
I close my eyes for half a second.
Who exactly is spying on the manor? Old Angus with binoculars from the surrounding hills? Or maybe my landlady?
“We were discussing a project,” I say.
“Oh, a project!” Moira repeats as though I've entrusted her with a state secret. “What kind of project?”
I drop the leek into my basket and move toward the carrots.
“A work project.”
“Work-related,” she repeats.
She sounds unconvinced. Or maybe disappointed. It's hard to tell.
I focus on the vegetables instead.
Carrots. Onions. Celery.
I mentally check items off my list to avoid making eye contact.
“So you'll be staying in Glenfield for a while?”
“One week.”
“Only one? What a shame. The village is already getting used to having you around. Everyone likes you.”
I don't respond. I grab a few potatoes and add them to my basket.
Moira leans against a shelf with her arms crossed, clearly committed to continuing this entirely one-sided conversation.
“Cameron is such a charming young man. Hardworking. Intelligent. And single,” she adds with an exaggerated wink.
I nearly drop a potato.
“I'm not interested.”
“Oh, I wasn't suggesting that for you,” she protests with entirely fake innocence. “I'm merely saying he's quite a catch. If you happened to know someone who—”
“I don't know anyone,” I cut in.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Apparently the cell service works perfectly inside the grocery store.
I pull it out, grateful for the excuse to end this conversation.
Grandma.
My heart tightens.
My grandmother never calls without a reason. And when she calls, it's rarely to tell me everything is fine and I should enjoy myself. No, usually it's to order me to do something for her or conduct an interrogation into my life.
Generally both.
I glance at Moira, who's pretending to rearrange canned goods while very obviously listening.
Whatever.
I answer.
“Hi, Grandma.”
“Clementine, darling. How are you?”
Her voice is warm and affectionate.
But I know her well enough to understand she didn't call just to check in.
“I'm fine. I'm at the grocery store.”
“Perfect. You're still cooking at the manor, then?”
I close my eyes.
Even my grandmother knows.
Strangely, that doesn't even surprise me anymore. Ever since arriving in Glenfield, I seem to have entered some alternate dimension where logic and personal privacy no longer exist.
“Yes. It helps me relax.”
“That's wonderful. Your mother told me you've seemed stressed lately. I'm glad you're taking some time for yourself.”
A trap is closing around me.
I just haven't figured out which one yet.
“Thanks, Grandma.”
“I've been thinking about this manor situation,” she says lightly. “And I have a few small requests.”
A bitter smile tugs at my lips.
Small requests never lead anywhere good.
“What kind of requests?”
“Nothing complicated, I assure you. I simply need you to stay in Glenfield a little longer than planned.”
My stomach immediately knots.
“How much longer? I have a job, you know.”
“Only two little weeks. You haven't taken a vacation in ages. I've always said your boss works you too hard. If you'd like, I could call him and—”
“No!”
Mrs. MacTavish jumps and drops a can that rolls across the floor to my feet.
I bend automatically to pick it up.
Meanwhile, my brain produces horrifying images of my grandmother meeting my boss and explaining her views on employment.
Instant termination.
“Two weeks?” I repeat.
“You can't decide the future of a family property in a few days, Clementine. I want you to take the time to truly get to know the manor. To live there.”
“This isn't that simple. Grandma, I have work in Paris. I can't just announce that I'm taking time off and expect it to be approved. I can't stay two weeks.”
“Of course you can,” she replies with relentless gentleness.
“You'll stay two weeks. You'll live in the manor.
Not just spend a few hours there every day.
I want you to truly experience it. Then you'll be able to make an informed decision.
You wouldn't want to dispose of your ancestral heritage without giving it the attention it deserves, would you?”
“No, of course not, but—”
“That's exactly what I wanted to hear!” she interrupts brightly, as if I'd just declared my undying love for an old Highland manor.
I glance around, desperately searching for moral support.
Moira has stopped pretending to work altogether and is openly staring at me, her eyes shining with curiosity.
I realize I'm still holding the can and hand it back to her.
“And that's not all,” Catriona adds before I can protest.
“What else?” I ask weakly.
“I heard Maggie McGregor invited you for tea and that you declined.”
“How do you—”
“Never mind how I know. The point is, you need to accept that invitation.”
“Grandma, I don't see what that has to do with—”
“It's a matter of respect, Clementine,” she cuts in, her voice firmer now. “Fraser Manor is part of Glenfield's history. Maggie McGregor is an important woman in this village. You need to meet her and understand the social context surrounding this inheritance before making any decisions.”
A cold anger begins to rise inside me.
“You want me to meet people to understand the social context of a property I'm probably going to sell?”
“Exactly.”
“That's ridiculous.”
“No. It's called decency.”
I rub my face with my free hand.
Moira has completely abandoned the pretense of working and is watching me without the slightest embarrassment.
“And if I refuse?”
Silence stretches over the line.
Then Catriona speaks again, her voice soft but immovable.
“You won't. Because you're a Fraser. And we do not disrespect our family legacy out of laziness or impatience.”
I have no response.
Because she's right.
And she knows it.
“Two weeks,” she repeats. “And you'll accept Maggie's invitation. That's all I'm asking.”
That's all I'm asking.
As if it were nothing.
As if she hadn't just put my career in a very difficult position.
“Fine,” I finally say in a flat voice.
“Wonderful! I knew you'd understand. Give Ewan a kiss for me. And send me pictures of the manor when you move in. Of course, you may spend whatever you think necessary for the good of the manor and your own comfort.”
She hangs up before I can say another word.
I remain standing in the middle of the produce aisle, phone in hand, completely stunned.
Two weeks.
Living at the manor.
Accepting Maggie's invitation.
My life has just slipped completely out of my control.
“Everything all right, dear?” Moira asks with false concern.
I look at her.
She's smiling.
She heard every word.
Every single word.
And she'll take great pleasure in repeating it to the entire village before I even make it out the door.
“Just fine, thank you,” I reply sharply.
I head to the counter, set down my basket, and pull out my credit card.
Moira takes her sweet time scanning each item, as though she's waiting for me to crack and tell her everything.
I say nothing, but inside I'm beginning to boil with contained frustration.
Eventually she finishes, I pay, and she hands me the receipt with a radiant smile.
“Have a wonderful day, Clementine. And if you need anything at all during the next two weeks, don't hesitate!”
I leave the store without answering, arms loaded with grocery bags, my breathing tight.
The sidewalk is empty.
The sky is gray.
The wind is blowing.
Perfect. The weather matches my miserable mood.
I want to get in my car, drive straight to the airport, fly back to Paris, and return to my neatly organized life. It may be predictable and boring in some people's eyes, but at least it's mine.
But I can't.
Because I said yes.
Because I'm not someone who quits.
And because, as irritating as it is, a small part of me is starting to wonder whether Catriona might actually be right.
I set the bags on the ground and rummage through my purse for my car keys.
“You look like someone who needs a coffee. Or a whisky. Maybe both.”
I jump and spin around.
Cameron stands a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, amusement dancing in his eyes.
I look at him.
Then at my bags.
Then back at him.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was passing by. Saw your car. Then I saw you standing on the sidewalk looking torn between committing murder and running very far away.”
Despite myself, I smile.
“Is it really that obvious?”
“Let's just say you don't look like you're having your best day.”
I let out a long sigh.
“My grandmother just informed me that I'm trapped here for two weeks. And that I have to accept your grandmother's invitation.”
One of Cameron's eyebrows rises.
“Your grandmother knows about Maggie's invitation?”
I shake my head.
“Apparently everyone knows everything in this village. She told me it was a matter of respect. That I needed to understand the social significance of this inheritance before making any decisions.”
Cameron winces slightly.
“That sounds exactly like something Maggie would say.”
The cold irritation resurfaces.
“You think they've spoken?”
He shrugs.
“I don't know. But... Glenfield is a small village. News travels fast.”
“My grandmother lives in France.”
A grin tugs at his lips, and it's honestly unfair how attractive it makes him look.
“Maggie has a long reach. And she knows how to use a cellphone.”
I shake my head in frustration.
“I can't believe I'm stuck here for two weeks. I have work. Responsibilities. A life in France.”
Cameron studies me with an odd expression.
“And you don't want to stay?”
I stare at him.
“No. Why would I want to stay?”
“I don't know. Maybe because you seem more relaxed here than you do in Paris.”
For a second, I'm speechless.
“What makes you think that? You don't even know me.”
“That's true. Forget I said anything.”
I have no idea how to respond to that.
Without asking permission, Cameron bends down and picks up my grocery bags. I open the trunk of my car, and he places them inside before I slam it shut.
“Come on,” he says. “Let me buy you a coffee. Or a whisky. Or both, if you'd like.”
“I'm really not in the mood. And I'm afraid I won't be very good company.”
“Exactly. That's why you need it.”
I look at him.
He smiles.
It's not a flirtatious smile.
And yet something still reacts inside my chest.
I sigh.
“Fine. But not for long.”
We walk to the pub in silence.
Cameron holds the door open for me.
Behind the bar, Ewan glances up and gives us a nod.
Cameron leads me to a table in the corner, far from curious eyes. He orders two coffees from my cousin.
I sit down, prop my elbows on the table, and bury my face in my hands.
“Two weeks,” I mutter. “How am I supposed to survive two weeks here?”
“By accepting help, maybe?”
I lift my head.
“What kind of help?”
“I could accompany you to Maggie's. Help you avoid the worst social traps. Be your survival guide, so to speak.”
I study him skeptically.
“Why would you do that?”
“Because Maggie sent me to fetch you again. I think we're in the same boat this time.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely. I'll admit I wouldn't mind putting an end to the harassment campaign she's been running.”
Ewan brings over our coffees and sets them down without a word, though not without a smile, before walking away as if deliberately giving us privacy.
Against my will, I find myself wondering what a real one-on-one evening with Cameron would be like.
I stare into my cup and shake the thought away.
Cameron McGregor has simply offered to help me.
Nothing more.
“It's almost too good to be true,” I finally say.
Cameron looks up at me.
“You think so?”
“Who says you're not part of my grandmother's evil master plan? Because I know she's plotting something. Even if I don't know what it is yet.”
He smiles.
“I swear I'm not part of any evil master plan. Not intentionally, anyway.”
I take a sip of coffee.
It's hot, strong, and exactly what I need.
“I just want this nightmare to be over as quickly as possible.”
Cameron chuckles softly.
“It might not turn out to be a nightmare.”
I peer at him over the rim of my mug.
“You don't know my life.”
“No. But I know Glenfield. And this village might still surprise you.”
I don't answer.
Because honestly?
I don't believe that for a second.