Chapter 6
If Rocco had ever imagined meeting Giselle again (which he hadn’t), it wouldn’t have been at the funeral of a distant relative whom he’d never met, while he was planning on selling the property she’d left him, which would have a direct effect on Giselle herself.
Honestly, he thought, you couldn’t write this stuff.
Feeling aggrieved, he strolled back to the castle and immediately went to his room.
He should have stuck to his original plan of not attending the wake, but he hadn’t been able to resist the lure of speaking to her.
He’d felt as though the spirit of their carefree youth had come back to him at the sight of her.
But you can’t go back, can you? And it would be a fool’s errand to try…
Taking off his jacket, he loosened his tie, flopped onto the bed and took out his phone, eyeing the laptop on the small desk under the window with disgruntlement.
He wasn’t in the mood to work, but he knew he should.
It was also lunchtime, and he was hungry, so he phoned reception and asked for room service.
But apparently such a thing didn’t exist.
‘Are there any staff in the kitchen today?’ he asked, reining in his irritation.
‘They’re at the wake, Mr Moore.’ Was it his imagination or was there an unspoken censure to the man’s answer – that’s where you should be…
‘Can you find someone to rustle me up a spot of lunch?’ Then he added, as an afterthought, ‘Please.’
‘I suppose I could ask Cook?’
‘Good idea. Something light, a salad perhaps. And bring it to my room.’ As he was replacing the receiver he heard the receptionist say, ‘Certainly, sir,’ and Rocco felt a little guilty at dragging Cook (who, he’d now discovered, had once been Mhairi’s cook for as long as anyone could remember, and Cook wasn’t her surname but her title) away from the wake, but he could hardly be expected to sort out his own lunch.
According to Cal, guests were booked into the hotel from tomorrow, so normal service should hopefully be resumed.
Which reminded him: he needed to ask Cal about the occupancy situation with a view to agreeing on a date beyond which no new bookings would take place.
Or should he instruct the man to operate the estate as normal until the castle had a confirmed buyer?
At least the paying guests and tourists visiting the craft centre would continue to provide a steady income, which would ensure the estate wouldn’t fall into a state of disrepair.
It could pay its own way while it was up for sale. Decisions, decisions…
His instinct was to wind things up as quickly as possible, to get rid of the estate so he could bank the money, but he didn’t want to let it go for a song simply because he couldn’t be bothered with the inconvenience of having to deal with it until such time as a buyer was found.
Rocco was at the window admiring the view again when a knock on the door informed him that his lunch had arrived. Instructing the guy to put the tray on the table next to his laptop, he decided he’d better make some inroads into his undoubtedly overflowing inbox while he ate.
The ever-efficient Nora had deleted the irrelevant, forwarded that which could be forwarded and starred those emails needing his attention. She’d also sent him several emails of her own, each with a succinct subject line.
Pleased to see there was nothing time critical, Rocco worked his way through them, responding where necessary, and he’d just eaten a final mouthful of Caesar salad when he realised it was time for the tour of his property so he could take a look at what he’d inherited.
And as he changed into something less formal, he hoped he might see Giselle, for no other reason than she reminded him of a time when he’d been free to just be.
As Cal showed him around the estate, Rocco learnt that the castle specialised in crafting breaks and that most people who stayed in one of its sixteen guest bedrooms enjoyed making pots or blowing glass or other such arty stuff, and that it catered to the upmarket crowd who were happy to pay for exclusivity.
The rest of the estate’s inventory was impressive: as well as Mhairi’s private suite, there was a dining room and a guest lounge, a drawing room, a parlour (aka Mhairi’s office), a staircase inside a turret, a great hall (where the wake had been held), a library…
And that was just the castle itself. Rocco also owned a converted boathouse, the cottage Cal and his partner lived in, the jetty where he’d stood with Giselle earlier, a maze, a duck pond, gardens, woodland – and the craft centre.
Rocco didn’t ask Cal to show him around each studio (he wasn’t overly interested, to be honest) but he took a keener interest in one of them when Cal told him it was rented by Giselle.
Well, well, well… Sea glass, eh?
He had a flashback of scorching sun, the smell of seawater and coffee, waves lapping at the rocks at the base of a gleaming white lighthouse and a beautiful girl lounging on the steps of it, like a silver-haired siren.
And a heart-shaped piece of frosted red glass.
When he’d given it to her, her eyes had lit up, and he’d kissed her under the hot Venetian sun until he hadn’t been able to kiss her anymore.
So she found her vocation, he mused, peering through the window at the display.
‘Would you like to see the gift shop?’ Cal asked.
Rocco would have liked to see Giselle instead, but the studio’s lights were off, and as there was no one inside, he agreed. He was quietly impressed with the items for sale in the shop. Clearly the crafters were a talented bunch of people.
He skirted past a display of three doll’s houses, remarkable for their attention to miniature detail, and came to a halt in front of a sizeable picture of the loch, the castle and the mountains flanking it.
It was skilfully done, if a tad twee for his taste, the scene captured in various shades of sea glass, tiny pebbles and small shells.
It looked good hanging on the white wall of the shop.
The price tag made him raise an eyebrow.
It didn’t seem nearly enough for the amount of work that must have gone into it.
He would have paid double that, if he liked that kind of thing.
He could see the appeal to tourists, though, and taking something like this home as a memento of a Scottish holiday was better than a tea towel printed with ‘I??Skye’.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ he declared, and didn’t miss the expression of relief that flickered across Cal’s face before he masked it.
Feeling a little wicked, Rocco said, ‘How long will it take to clear Mhairi’s suite of her personal possessions? I’m thinking of moving in there for the duration.’
‘The duration?’
‘I’ll be staying a little longer than planned. I won’t be leaving tomorrow after all. Will that be a problem?’ He hadn’t realised the estate was so large, and it would take more than today to get to grips with it.
He could sense the man itching to ask how much longer, but all Cal said was, ‘Not at all. I’ll get someone on it straight away. What would you like me to do with her things?’ He swallowed, and Rocco felt a dart of remorse.
‘Actually, never mind. My current room is fine, as long as it’s not needed. But her personal effects will have to be gone through and disposed of at some point.’
‘Charity shops?’
‘If you like. But let me take a look first.’ Rocco wasn’t bothered about what happened to her clothes.
He’d only had a glance at the bedroom, sitting room and bathroom which made up Mhairi’s private rooms, but he was confident there would be some things that shouldn’t be given away, like her jewellery, for instance. And the photos he’d glimpsed.
He had to admit to being curious about this particular branch of his family tree.
His great-great-grandfather, Tandy Gray, had produced two children: Mhairi’s father, who had inherited the Scottish estate from Tandy, and Rocco’s great-grandmother, who’d been married off to a man by the name of Moore.
Mhairi had never married, and the Moores hadn’t been particularly fecund, only producing Rocco’s grandfather, who had married an Italian woman.
Rocco had his nonna to thank for his Mediterranean colouring and his grandfather to thank for his smoke-grey eyes.
Rocco’s father had been an only child too.
However, Rocco did vaguely remember being told stories of a relation who lived in a castle in Scotland, but he’d taken little notice.
Until his mother had called him into her office.
And now here he was, for the first time in possibly forever, contemplating his roots.
Did he feel any connection to this land, this castle, where he presumed his great-grandmother had been born and raised?
None whatsoever, but if there were private papers and photos, he thought it best to keep them for posterity, so to speak, and also because he was interested in history, which was one of the reasons he’d wanted to visit Venice all those years ago.
He and his mate had also trailed around Paris, Rome, Prague, Vienna and numerous other places, until one historic building had begun to look like another, and the cities had blended into one.
Apart from Venice. Venice had stood out in his memory because of Giselle.
As Rocco climbed the staircase to his room, he smiled to himself. An erotic and passionate night with a gorgeous girl was bound to stick in any guy’s memory. How ironic he should meet her again here, of all places.
As he reached his door, he changed his mind about doing some work and turned on his heel, heading to the south-west turret and Mhairi’s rooms instead.
He may as well get started, and there was no time like the present.
After all, that was the reason he was here, to sort things out, not take a trip down memory lane or immerse himself in Mhairi Gray’s past.
But as he pushed open the door, his phone rang, startling him.
‘How is the mouldering old pile?’ his mother asked.
‘Old but not mouldering.’ He was surprised to discover he felt a little defensive about it being called mouldering. ‘It’s quite impressive, actually.’
He glanced out of the window, his gaze drawn to the boathouse and jetty, and the white-tipped waves.
The wind had picked up, he noticed. It looked choppy out there, and he didn’t envy anyone out on it.
He wasn’t the best of sailors; the ferry from Venice to the town of Pore? in Croatia was the last time he’d been on a boat, and he’d been sick for the whole of the three-and-a-half-hour crossing.
He much preferred planes as a mode of transport, but cars were his passion, especially his Aston Martin DB9 in midnight blue.
Beverly asked, ‘What are your thoughts?’
He assumed she was referring to the estate’s value. ‘Several million, but exactly how much is yet to be determined.’
‘You should have let Claire come with you. Or you could have handed it over to Jermyns. I’m sure they can find a rich American with Scottish heritage who would kill to own a piece of history. You needn’t have bothered going all that way.’
‘I wanted to see it for myself.’ He hadn’t wanted to hand it over to the estate agent to sell sight unseen, and he definitely hadn’t wanted Claire to accompany him.
This was his issue to deal with and nothing whatsoever to do with the business, although he may well ask her advice if he needed to.
He’d speak to Jermyns soon, though, because their reputation for selling upmarket property was second to none, and besides, he would need it valued for probate.
Anyway, it wasn’t every day one came into possession of a castle, and part of him (the little boy who’d once owned a wooden fort and a boxful of toy soldiers) wanted to revel in its ownership, even if it was only for a short while.
Changing the subject, Rocco filled her in on a development with one of their clients, but as he spoke, his mind was only half on the job.
The other half was bubbling with increasing excitement.
It had been easy to be objective and clinical about this unexpected inheritance when he’d been the best part of seven hundred miles away, but now he was within its walls, the reality of owning it was beginning to sink in.
Thank you, Mhairi, he thought.
‘When are you due back?’ Beverly asked.
‘Not sure. I’d originally planned to fly back tomorrow, but I might stay a little longer. There’s a lot to get through. If that’s all right with you?’
He could sense her exasperation as she asked, ‘How much longer?’
‘Three days?’ He wished he didn’t sound as though he was asking her permission. ‘Don’t worry; I can work from here.’
Her voice was sharp. ‘This really is quite inconvenient, Rocco.’
He wanted to retort that it wasn’t his fault Mhairi had popped her clogs and left him a bloody great big castle at the other end of the country, but there was no mileage in annoying her.
All he said was, ‘I appreciate that, but there’s a significant amount of money involved. My money.’ Or it would be his money once the property was sold.
She said shortly, ‘Let the professionals handle it – that’s what we pay them for.’
‘Don’t worry, I will. But you’re the one who says to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. That’s what I’m doing.’ She could hardly argue against her own advice, could she?
She didn’t. ‘Very well. Keep me appraised.’
‘Don’t I always, Mother?’ he teased, hoping to lighten her mood and vowing to do his best to ensure his absence had minimal impact. As long as the internet connection remained fast and stable, he shouldn’t have any problems maintaining his usual work schedule.
‘Don’t let the staff hear you call me that or they’ll think we’re related,’ she shot back, and he chuckled.
Mission accomplished – her mood had been suitably lightened.
‘Am I going to have to call you my laird when I next see you?’ Her laugh tinkled in his ear.
It was something he’d not heard often since his dad died and Beverly had been forced to run the business by herself.
‘I don’t believe a title came with my inheritance,’ he told her.
‘That’s a pity.’ Then she was all business once more. ‘Keep me updated,’ she reminded him, and he heaved a sigh of relief when she ended the call.
He enjoyed what he did – keeping his father’s company alive and thriving – but sometimes he could do with a break.
Like now, for instance. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on holiday, had taken some time purely for himself.
As he turned his attention back to the room that had once belonged to Mhairi Gray, Rocco felt a frisson of something. He just hoped it was curiosity, and not her ghost coming to remonstrate with him for selling off her home.