Chapter 20
Cameron
Unexpected Emotional Clause
I’m early for my appointment.
That isn’t surprising, because I’m always early.
It’s one of the few things in my professional life that functions exactly as planned, and I decided a long time ago not to question it.
I park near the cottage, switch off the engine, and take thirty seconds to study the property through the windshield.
It’s a classic village cottage: gray stone walls, small-paned windows, and a front garden with a rosebush waiting for spring with a patience I envy.
The property isn’t spectacular.
It isn’t problematic, either.
It’s the kind of place I could sell in my sleep.
I get out of the car, walk around the property, and mentally note my photography angles.
The light is good this afternoon.
Golden, softened by the low clouds that are part of the Highland landscape in every season. I stopped complaining about them around the age of sixteen.
Stone chimney visible from the street.
Carved lintel above the front door.
Open views of the hills from the east side.
All usable.
The Drummonds are due to arrive in twenty minutes.
A couple from the city in their fifties who have been searching for a second home for quite some time.
Mrs. Drummond sent an enthusiastic email filled with words like authentic and escape.
Mr. Drummond attached a highly technical list of questions about the plumbing.
I already like him.
He’s exactly the kind of client who convinces himself to buy as long as nobody interrupts him.
I check my notes one last time, slide my phone into my pocket, and begin mentally drafting my introduction.
Something about the character of the place.
The history of the village.
The feeling of belonging to a community.
What always tips undecided buyers over the edge isn’t square footage.
It isn’t energy ratings, either.
No.
It’s the story.
People always buy a story.
Inevitably, my mind drifts back to Fraser Manor.
Selling that property would be both a personal and professional victory.
In some ways, its story is so marketable that I’m not even sure the sale would be as satisfying as I imagine.
Absentmindedly, I unlock my phone.
I still have dozens of raw videos of Fraser Manor.
I also have a few unfinished social media drafts.
Acting on impulse, I post two of them.
Then I lock my phone again.
I turn, looking for the manor.
Instead, I find its occupant.
Clementine is walking toward me from the direction of the grocery store, a brown paper bag in each hand, her hair slightly tousled by the wind.
She sees me too.
Her pace slows for a moment, like someone recalculating a route halfway through a journey.
Then she resumes walking and stops in front of me.
“Hey, Cameron.”
“Hey.”
It’s strange to stand face-to-face and feel awkward.
“I have a showing in twenty minutes,” I say, gesturing toward the cottage behind me.
“You’re trying to sell the cottage with the broken green shutter?”
I nod.
“The Dunbar Cottage. The shutter’s been repaired. It’s now a fully functional green shutter.”
She nods as though that’s genuinely useful information.
Then she sets one of her bags on the stone wall and rubs her wrist.
“Moira MacTavish kept me for twenty-five minutes. She needed my opinion on three different kinds of jam.”
“And?”
“I gave her my opinion. She did the exact opposite.”
I want to talk about the market.
About Saturday.
About everything.
“We need to talk about the plan.”
Clementine lifts her eyes to mine.
“I know.”
“The entire village is talking about us, and this morning Old Angus winked at me while walking past the butcher shop. Old Angus never winks. He’s a man who has communicated exclusively through one-syllable grunts since birth.”
“Maybe you’re just irresistible to him.”
“Clementine.”
“Cameron.”
She looks at me with that expression that means she has already analyzed the problem and is merely waiting for me to arrive at the same conclusion.
“We didn’t do anything intentional at the market,” she says. “We were just there.”
“That’s exactly the problem. The plan keeps working even when we do nothing. It’s like a fire we started that’s now burning on its own.”
“Nice metaphor. Very reassuring.”
“Thank you. I have talent.”
“But it isn’t really a problem, is it? It’s exactly what we wanted.”
I’m about to answer when the sound of an engine rises from the road.
A few moments later, a car pulls up beside us.
The Drummonds are early.
They step out.
Robert is wearing a casual suit and has the wary expression of a man inspecting the property before he even thinks about greeting me.
Former engineer.
I can tell immediately.
The kind of man who checks the foundation before allowing himself to appreciate the charm.
Susan is wrapped in a burgundy cashmere scarf.
Her smile is warm.
And it brightens noticeably when she spots the front garden.
So far, everything is shaping up to be a standard viewing.
Then Susan Drummond turns toward Clementine.
Her smile changes.
“Oh my goodness... you’re the French woman from Fraser Manor, aren’t you?”
Somewhere in the corner of my professional brain, a bright red warning light labeled caution starts flashing.
Clementine smiles politely.
“That’s me, yes.”
“Robert!” Susan exclaims, grabbing her husband’s arm. “It’s her!”
Robert turns toward his wife with the expression of a man who has spent several decades calmly managing her enthusiasm.
“I can see that it’s her, Susan.”
“We’ve heard all about Fraser Manor,” Susan continues, with the kind of excitement that tells me she has thoroughly researched Glenfield. “The legend. The couple. The spirits. And someone in our circle showed us the photograph.”
I don’t need to ask which photograph.
I know that photograph.
Everyone knows that photograph.
Old Angus appears determined to launch an entirely new career as a paparazzo.
“We heard you’re both... how should I put it...”
“Possessed,” Robert offers in a tone suggesting he finds the word mildly excessive but has given up arguing about it.
“Possessed!” Susan repeats. “Exactly! By the spirits of Brodie and Mairenn Fraser.”
I glance sideways at Clementine.
She’s staring straight ahead with the focused expression of someone preparing to cross a minefield without a map.
“That’s... one way of describing it,” I say with what I hope is a professional smile.
“Oh, don’t be modest!” Susan exclaims. “The Highlands are full of stories like that. We’re from Edinburgh—we don’t have things like this there. Well, except the Royal Mile, but that’s mostly for tourists.”
Robert Drummond apparently decides it’s time to intervene.
“What Susan means is that the region’s reputation attracted us. And your... situation... is part of what gives the place authenticity.”
Your situation.
That’s a phrase I’ll be conducting a thorough analysis of later, when I’m alone.
“Why don’t we start the tour?” I suggest.
I head toward the front door while Clementine picks up her bags.
She’s about to leave when Susan addresses her.
“Please join us, Clementine. I’m sure it’ll help us make our decision.”
A hesitant expression flickers across Clementine’s face.
Her gaze finds mine.
“You’re welcome to,” I say. “If you have a few minutes.”
She glances toward the manor.
I’m almost certain every instinct in her body is screaming at her to run.
But unexpectedly, she agrees.
“All right. But fair warning, Mrs. Drummond—”
“Please, call me Susan.”
Clementine smiles.
My heart reacts.
“Susan,” she continues, “I’m completely unqualified when it comes to real estate.”
Mrs. Drummond gives her a smile so wide I’m genuinely concerned about her jaw.
I redirect my attention to the cottage I’m trying to sell.
It’s exactly what it appears to be from the outside.
Clean.
Solid.
A fireplace that draws well.
Exposed beams doing their very best work in the seduction department.
I launch into my pitch, emphasizing the character of the property, the thickness of the stone walls, the southeast exposure, and the hills visible from the primary bedroom.
I know this cottage by heart.
I’ve toured it twice this week while preparing my presentation.
For ten minutes, everything proceeds exactly as planned.
Then Robert’s inner engineer takes over.
He crouches in front of the fireplace and begins firing technical questions at me with the systematic precision of a man who has never purchased anything impulsively.
“When was the chimney last inspected?”
“Eighteen months ago. I have the documentation.”
“And the flue is cleaned regularly?”
“Every fall. I can provide all the invoices.”
“Good.”
Meanwhile, Susan has stopped in the middle of the living room and is gazing at the exposed beams like someone already decorating the place in her head.
The problems begin in the kitchen.
I’m describing the appliances, the room orientation, and the recently installed double glazing.
Clementine is standing slightly apart, arms crossed, perfectly embodying her I’m only here by accident mode.
Susan Drummond opens one cabinet.
Closes another.
Stops in front of the window.
“That’s a beautiful view.”
“The hills are only a five-minute walk away,” Clementine says. “There’s a trail that starts from the street behind the house.”
Everyone turns toward her.
She doesn’t seem to notice the effect she’s having.
“You know the area?” Robert asks.
“A little. I walk toward the hills from the manor quite often. The trail passes very close to here.”
Susan positively beams, as though someone has just confirmed a suspicion she’s held since the beginning of the drive.
“You see, Robert? That’s exactly the kind of life we’re looking for. People who know their village.”
Robert straightens and looks out the window.
“And have you lived at Fraser Manor for a long time?” he asks Clementine, still facing the glass.
“Actually, only a few days. It’s a family inheritance.”
“And do you plan to stay permanently?”
The question lands in the kitchen like a guillotine blade.
Robert asks it innocently.
Almost politely.
He has no idea he just touched the one subject neither Clementine nor I have been able to address directly for days.
A silence passes.