Chapter 4
Alistair
The Kinleith Gazette – the Isle of Skye’s most popular online newspaper
CITY DOCTOR SPARKS OUTRAGE AFTER HAILING THE VILLAGE OF KINLEITH AS “PIT STOP TO NOWHERE WITH MORE SHEEP THAN PEOPLE”
Residents of Kinleith, one of Scotland’s most up-and-
coming travel destinations, were left devastated when homegrown talent Dr Alistair Macabe described the quaint harbour village as “A PIT STOP TO NOWHERE WITH MORE SHEEP THAN PEOPLE”.
The scathing comments were overheard at last month’s annual spring festival, where the doctor was also overheard mocking the results of the baking contest and later complaining about the village’s “LACK OF OAT MILK”.
No word yet on when our resident hotshot plans to return to the big city, let’s hope it’s soon—
“Did you really have to mention the oat milk?” Mal said the day after my call with Sarah. He winced as I transferred the three crates of whisky bottles from the back of his van into his burly arms, then grabbed the remaining crates and stepped aside so April could close the doors.
Six months of assisting his weekly delivery runs to the village and I could still only carry two. Working alongside Mal was like watching the World’s Strongest Man competition, minus all the shouting and grunting.
“I didn’t!” I bit out, still pissed that the article had been posted almost a month ago and not a single member of my family had thought to mention it.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with oat milk,” I continued, as we started walking toward the high street that stitched Kinleith village down the very centre.
“It’s better for the environment. And I don’t even remember saying that stuff about the baking contest; they probably made it up to make me sound like some dramatic city elitist.”
The high street looked a lot different than it had when I was a kid.
Back then it had been tired, worn thin from harsh winters and neglect.
All peeling paint and crooked shop signs and the smell of salt and peat in the air.
The scent was just about the only thing that had stayed the same.
Now the cobbled street boasted crooked multi-coloured shopfronts and flower baskets.
Zigzagged bunting that whipped in the wind.
I loved it. I also hated it.
I couldn’t explain it really . . . just that it felt like a pretty mask, hiding the dirt and grit beneath.
It was just after nine, and the sun was high in the sky, seagulls squawking and diving overhead, waiting for the tourists to meander out of their holiday lets for easy pickings.
Boy, Mal’s golden retriever, bounded out in front, bored of our slow pace.
Dudley, their dachshund, always remained at home for deliveries, as his wee legs couldn’t keep up.
We had one final delivery at the new seafood restaurant down by the dock, which was literally called The Seafood Restaurant. I wondered idly if it was the same restaurant Teddy had spoken of, the one where her dad worked, then quickly told myself it didn’t matter.
“You are a dramatic city elitist,” April chimed in from my other side, a little sourly. Clearly still pissed at Mal telling her that under no circumstances was she to do any heavy lifting.
“I’m not an invalid,” she’d hissed at him, while he all but lifted her from the front seat of the van just a few minutes earlier.
“No, but you’re nearly eight-months pregnant.” His voice had slipped into that gooey, melted-chocolate tenor he reserved solely for April and their unborn child. “Maybe we should take your blood pressure again.”
“If you bring that pressure monitor near me again, I’ll strangle you with it.”
“Light exercise is good for her and the baby,” I’d cut in, simply to save him from the storm I could already see brewing in her eyes. “But no heavy lifting.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
Now, Mal cut a sideways glance at April. “What about the ‘pit stop to nowhere’ part?”
“That I might have said—” They gasped in unison like schoolgirls with pigtails. “Oh, calm down,” I hissed. “I was just venting to Heather, I obviously didn’t think someone was going to overhear and run a bloody story on it, did I?”
“Still rude,” April said, rolling a hand over her rounded stomach. Her gait was around thirty per cent sass, seventy per cent survival strategy for not toppling over, at this point.
“Some of us don’t relish driving two hours just to get to a supermarket. And maybe I miss getting a cronut delivered straight to my door at three a.m.”
If there was anyone I’d expected to understand the mourning period required when giving up an inner-city food delivery system, it was April Sinclair.
April had hightailed it from this village the first chance she got, the same as I had.
She’d built a highly successful acting career for herself in London.
Then, two years ago, she’d inherited Kinleith Whisky Distillery on the death of her grandfather and returned home, planning to sell.
Instead, she and Mal had lived out the plot of a Hallmark movie and fallen madly in love. The rest was history.
“What’s a cronut?” Mal frowned.
Only my greatest weakness. “Jesus, we need to get you to Inverness for the day.” His lack of pastry knowledge deserved jail time.
“Why is the patient feedback so important?” April asked.
“Each surgery in Scotland has an overall score, and those with the lowest risk being denied funding.” The truth.
Still, I felt like a lying bastard. I hadn’t told a single member of my family about my plans to sell.
I knew they’d be upset, especially my mum – but, fuck, it was better this way.
Soon April and Mal’s baby would be here; they wouldn’t need my help anymore.
And Callum and I could stop dancing around each other, pretending things hadn’t been weird as hell between us ever since he started dating my ex-fiancée.
They could carry on with their lives and I’d be – fuck, I didn’t even know my next move.
I’d go anywhere that wasn’t here. Or Glasgow.
Maybe I should go to England. The thought alone was grotesque, but Scotland was starting to feel a little small.
“Dad would be turning in his grave if he knew,” I said. I doubt he’d ever scored below perfect in his entire life.
Mal scoffed, pausing to step around a group of backpackers who were attempting to squeeze into a group photo outside the kilt shop. “The living dead is more his style.”
April’s face scrunched in disgust. “Can we stop talking about dead bodies, specifically your dad’s? It’s making me queasy.”
Mal looked ready to drop the crates and run her back to the car, bridal style.
Mal had always been the most considerate of my siblings, and he’d grown into a tender-hearted giant of a man.
Ever since he and April had announced the pregnancy, those natural instincts were dialled up to a hundred.
From an outsider’s perspective, it was as adorable as it was funny to witness.
“It’s not a bad line of thought, though. What would your dad have done?” April asked, seemingly unaware of Mal’s concern.
“Nothing.” I laughed. “He’d have never been in this situation to begin with.”
“He was really big on community,” Mal said. “Remember he played Father Christmas for twenty years in a row.”
It was true. He could always be there for other people’s kids. “Pity I’m five months too early to take up that one.”
April laughed. “You aren’t jolly enough for that.”
“What? I’m jolly,” I deadpanned, and they both paused, staring at me.
“I can’t tell if you mean that.” Mal’s brows drew in.
“Christ, I can’t even convincingly pull off a joke. I’m fucked.”
“You’re not fucked. You just need to get people to like you, let them see how much you care about the community.” April shrugged, like it was that easy. Like I cared for the community.
For her, it probably was that easy. She was smiley. Sunshiny. Charismatic. One of the chosen ones.
A little like Isla Lang, if I was being honest. They were probably card-carrying members of the I’ll just phone you, it’ll be easier club.
“And how do I do that?” I’d never really put much thought into whether people liked me. I wanted people to respect me, that had always been enough.
She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “Be a little less . . . you.” I heard Mal choke. “I like you,” she assured me. “But I’m in love with a grumbly bear of a man, so my tolerance for occasional arseholery is a little higher than most.”
“Harsh,” Mal said, at the exact same time I asked, “You think I’m an arsehole?” An accurate assumption, but I had to admit it stung. Just a little. To have it confirmed that my family also saw the very worst of me.
“Not to me,” she replied delicately. “But you can be a little . . . caustic.”
I scowled. “That’s code for arsehole.”
“I’m just saying, you’re not exactly . .
. mellow.” Her eyes flicked to my freshly ironed shirt, to the smudge of grease I already knew stained the collar from the whisky crates.
It made me calculate if I had time to go home and change before heading to the surgery.
“And that’s fine, if that’s who you are. ”
“Try to appear more mellow, got it. What else?”
“You should probably pay a therapist for this,” she said.
“I’m asking you.”
“Fine. You can be a little . . . self-involved.”
I came to a dead stop. So did she. “Everyone is self-involved.” It was the greatest plague upon mankind.
“Duncan from the hardware store literally said hello a few minutes ago and you completely ignored him.”
“He did?” I glanced over my shoulder toward the bright-blue hardware store, as though he might still be there.
“Aye, he did,” Mal confirmed.
“He must have said it too quietly then.”
April’s smile was pitying. So was the pat on my shoulder. “This task might be too big for my skills alone. You should ask Callum; he makes sweet-talking an art form.”
“I’m not asking Callum,” I said quietly, continuing up the street.
An awkward silence hung between the three of us. It felt like an eternity. I was grateful when Mal finally ended it. “You could join the shinty team.”
“Or enter the Cairn & Crust pie-baking contest,” April suggested, pointing to a Summer Fair flyer taped to a shopfront window. “It would be the perfect display of personal growth.”
Join us for Skye’s most competitive baking contest. Stay for crafts, food and face-painting fun. “I’d rather schedule an enema.”
Mal laughed at least. April kept talking.
“Oh, I know what you should do! Get a live-in girlfriend, like Richard Gere, someone who can Pretty Woman you. That’s way more fun—” Her words were cut off by a sharp bark.
Still ahead of us, Boy’s tail entered helicopter mode as he gave chase to a swooping seagull he had zero chance of catching.
“Boy! Come back, buddy!” Mal strode after him. The wrong move. Boy barked excitedly, mistaking Mal’s shout as playful. Tongue flopping, he spun in a circle then barrelled forward on his too-long legs with a carefree yip.
“Oh my god,” April gasped, watching Boy race into the road. “Look out!”
My head whipped down the street. Time seemed to slow. Too focused on the seagull, Boy didn’t see the camper van taking the corner onto the high street too quickly, completely missing the Pedestrians only sign.
Mal bellowed a warning. April screamed, the sound muffled by the music blaring from the camper van’s open windows. The driver turned, laughing at something the girl in the passenger seat said.
Over the thud of my heart, I became aware of pounding footsteps, a shoulder jostling mine as someone barrelled past me, the end of a blonde braid I’d know anywhere because I spied it out my front window every morning.
What the fuck was she doing?
The ground seemed to tilt, my entire body turning numb.
Logically, I knew it was adrenaline. Blood vessels constricting as fight-or-flight instinct set in.
But I couldn’t explain it . . . I was trained for emergencies.
I’d learned how to press emotions flat, steady my hands and do what needed to be done.
Right then, all I could do was stand and watch as Isla raced into the road after Boy.
Through the camper van windscreen, I watched the passenger’s eyes widen and her mouth move. Shouting a warning to the driver.
He slammed the brakes, but it was too late.
Boy had already reached the other side, but Isla wouldn’t be quick enough. She was about to die rescuing a dog that didn’t even need saving.
Glass shattered around my feet. Whisky running between the cracks of the cobbles as I propelled myself forward, desperate to reach her in time.
This woman is going to irritate me to death had been my first thought when I found her on the other side of that door four months ago.
I hadn’t expected my estimation to be quite so accurate.