Chapter 11
When Rocco opened the heavy drapes on Friday morning, the view made him pause. He was going to miss waking up to this. He was also going to miss having it as a backdrop to his laptop when he was working, although it did sometimes prove to be more of a distraction than he needed.
It was five thirty, and he wasn’t in the mood to do any work, despite knowing he should get a couple of hours in before the drive to Inverness airport. Instead, he decided to go for the run he’d been promising himself all week.
When he stepped outside, he took several deep breaths, stretching his calf and thigh muscles, then jumped up and down and jogged on the spot to warm up. As he did so, his gaze roamed over the craft centre, the woodland and the castle.
It still hadn’t totally sunk in that he was here because he owned it.
To him, the feeling was more akin to being on holiday, as though he’d had a pleasant mid-week break.
Rocco guessed he would look back on his time on Skye with a degree of surrealism.
Heck, it didn’t feel real now, when he was actually here!
He set off along the lane leading to the small beach and jetty but veered off down a dirt track before he reached the former boathouse. The track led to the village and he jogged down it at a comfortable pace, one he could keep up for an hour or so.
With his breathing deep and even, and his feet pounding out a regular rhythm, he soaked up the serenity of the morning. It felt strange not to run with buds in his ears, but birdsong was music enough, and it was rather liberating not to have his mobile with him.
It wasn’t long before the track ended and the rough ground under his feet changed to terraced pavement, but he kept on running, past the church where Mhairi was buried, past the little shop with the Post Office sign above it, past the pub where he assumed Giselle and the others would be gathering for a drink this evening.
Then on past a guest house, a restaurant, a shop selling fishing tackle and a handful of pretty whitewashed cottages, until he’d left Duncoorie behind.
A stone bridge over a burbling stream marked the far end of the loch, where the sea was corralled by the land, and he crossed it, the narrow road leading upwards.
Soon he was on the opposite side of the loch to the castle, and the early morning sun was in his eyes and the wind was in his hair.
Sweat trickled down his back and his chest, and his breathing became ragged as the gradient steepened.
Below him lay the calm water, edged by dark rocks and framed by heather, low bushes and gorse.
This side of the loch was wild and uninhabited, and the solitude was suddenly overwhelming.
Coming to an abrupt halt, he put his hands on his thighs above his knees and leant forward, gasping. The incline on the treadmill in the gym was no match for this hill, and it took him a moment or two to catch his breath.
When he straightened up, he was mesmerised by the view.
Duncoorie stretched along the loch on the opposite shore, the whitewashed buildings nestling in the hillside like pebbles in grass. And at the far end, on a rocky rise, sat the largest pebble of all – Coorie Castle.
It looked like part of the landscape, as though it had grown out of the rock, rather than being built on it, and although he knew it had changed significantly since its construction over eight hundred years ago, he could imagine the feelings of those medieval Scots when they saw it for the first time: awe, fear, envy.
It had been a fortification built for defence and warfare, and still held some of that majesty in its high walls and square turrets.
But now it was picturesque rather than brooding. And it was his.
Rocco sank into the springy heather, his behind on a tussock of soft grass, and gazed at it, drinking in every detail. He would never forget this magical sight.
Unwilling to return to the castle just yet, he sat there for a while, the sun on his face, and enjoyed the peace.
It was quite freeing not to think about emails or meetings, schedules or reports, and he found his mind drifting as his gaze roamed over the distant village.
Which house was Giselle’s, he wondered; he’d only been there once, and from where he was sitting it was hard to work out the route he’d taken to get to it.
Was she there, or on the beach? The distance was too great to tell if anyone was walking along the shoreline.
Then movement caught his eye, but it was much nearer, and it wasn’t a person.
Bounding through the tufts of heather, only twenty metres away, was a fox.
A russet-bodied, white-chested, bushy-tailed fox!
Rocco held his breath, willing the creature not to notice him, but when the fox turned its head, he realised the animal was well aware of his presence as it locked its pale amber eyes on his.
Unperturbed by the human’s nearness, the fox continued on its way, Rocco watching until it was out of sight.
‘Wow,’ he whispered, feeling privileged to have seen such a stunning animal so close.
Instinctively, he reached for his phone, before remembering he hadn’t brought it with him. Then he wondered who he would possibly call, if he had. Who would he tell who’d be interested? Not his mother, that’s for sure, nor any of his mates.
I would tell Giselle, though, he thought.
Sighing, he scrambled to his feet. He needed to have a shower, eat some breakfast then pack. And before he left, he wanted a quick word with Cal. Then it was back to real life.
Unfortunately, the thought failed to infuse him with joy.
Giselle pushed the poached eggs and salmon on sourdough around her plate in a desultory fashion. Unlike Avril, who was tackling her halloumi salad with enthusiasm.
‘Well, he’s gone, then,’ Avril declared around a mouthful of food. ‘Cal doesn’t seem to think we’ll see him again,’ she continued. ‘Aren’t you going to eat your salmon?’
They were in the cafe having brunch, since Giselle hadn’t had breakfast yet and Avril was on her break.
Giselle pulled a face. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Can I have it?’
‘Go ahead.’ She pushed her plate across the table.
‘How was your picnic yesterday?’ Avril arched her brows.
‘The sandwiches were cheese and pickle, my favourite.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘It was fine.’
‘Then why are you looking so glum? Rocco looked as pleased as—’ Avril gasped. ‘You didn’t! Did you?’
‘Didn’t what?’ Giselle reached for the iced coffee and sipped it as she stared through the cafe’s window. She’d watched him get in his car and leave earlier. Oddly, she’d felt melancholy.
‘Kiss him!’ Avril’s fierce whisper made her jump.
‘No, I did not,’ she replied hotly.
‘What then?’
‘Nothing. We had a nice walk and chatted a bit. That’s all.’
‘What about?’
‘Mhairi, places to visit on Skye, the pub… Just, stuff. Nothing exciting. Nothing personal.’
Avril looked crestfallen. ‘You spent God knows how many hours alone with a hot guy in one of the most beautiful places on earth, and all you did was chat about stuff?’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ she protested. ‘He wanted to know where I collect sea glass, so I— Why am I justifying myself to you?’
‘Because you still fancy him.’
Avril’s comment took the wind right out of Giselle’s sails. It was true; she did still fancy him. ‘You said yourself that he’s hot. I bet you fancy him as well,’ she countered. Wasn’t attack the best form of defence?
‘I do, but I’m not the one who has history with him.’
Giselle shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter whether or not I fancy him. He’s gone and you and Cal seem to think he’s not coming back, so I’ll probably never set eyes on him again.’
‘All the more reason to have snogged him yesterday. I bet you wish you had, now.’
‘Actually, I don’t.’ Giselle stuck her nose in the air. If she had, she wouldn’t have wanted to stop at kissing. The thought of what she would have liked to do with him made her face flame. Thank goodness he’d left, otherwise…
‘Will you be coming to the pub this evening?’ Avril asked.
Giselle didn’t really feel like it, but neither did she feel like sitting at home on her own. ‘Who started this silly Friday-night tradition, anyway? Don’t we see enough of each other during the day?’ she grumbled.
‘We hardly see you at all,’ Avril retorted. ‘You only emerge from your studio when you’re hungry, or you need more sea glass.’
‘Speaking of sea glass, I’d better get back to work, and so had you,’ Giselle advised. ‘The cat might be away, but Cal won’t let things slack.’
‘I know. Cal and Rocco were in the parlour having a tête-à-tête before Rocco left. I bet he’s given him a list of instructions.’
Giselle took her half-drunk coffee to the studio with her, trying not to think of Rocco, and sat at the worn, wooden table to work.
Sometimes an idea for a picture would come to her and she would source the pieces of sea glass in order to make it.
Other times, the glass itself would spark the inspiration.
Today was one of those times. The fragment of costume jewellery she’d found yesterday had been playing on her mind.
It comprised of three small blue stones, with another five oval stones down one side, and suddenly it came to her what she wanted to do with it.
Selecting a piece of card, she placed it on the table, then opened the drawers one by one, sifting through the colours and sizes of glass until she found suitable fragments.
The predominant colour was green, with a few pieces of pale blue, brown and white, and she also selected a small shell with a shimmer of pink on its shiny surface.
She wouldn’t use all the pieces of glass that she’d removed from the drawers, and she may well have to revisit them to find a different shape, size or colour, but the selection spread across the table was a good starting point.
Concentrating hard, she began with the scrap of costume jewellery, placing it towards the top of the card, making sure it was centred.
This would form the bodice of the mermaid she was about to make, then she began arranging the brown pieces so that they looked like hanks of flowing hair.
An oval of milky white formed a face, a more cylindrical one was the neck, others became a shoulder and an outstretched arm, and gradually the top part of a female form emerged.
With practised ease, Giselle sensed where a fragment of glass needed to be placed, where it would work best for maximum effect.
It was as though she was putting together a jigsaw puzzle only she could see.
Working deftly, mostly oblivious to the customers who wandered in to watch, she created a body and a tail, flamboyant fins echoing the mermaid’s flowing hair.
The finishing touch was the small shell on the outstretched hand.
Giselle sat up, straightening her spine, careful not to dislodge any of the pieces. She still had to glue them in place, but for all intents and purposes the picture was done, although she might tweak it a little later. The secret was knowing when to stop.
Now that her mind was no longer on her work, her thoughts turned to Rocco.
In her heart, she knew she probably wouldn’t see him again. He’d told her he’d arranged to have everything sent to him, so she guessed he’d have no reason to return now that he’d seen the place.
With her spirits heavier than ever, she looked at the rest of the sea glass she’d collected yesterday morning. It was sitting on the draining board, ready to be put away, but she was oddly reluctant to do that. It was silly, but it reminded her of him.
Yes, it was silly, she acknowledged irritably, especially since she had the red heart he’d given her all those years ago.
Feeling ridiculous, she scooped up the sea glass and put it into the relevant drawers where it immediately blended in with all the other fragments of glass of similar size and colour.
She had enough memories of Rocco; she didn’t need any more.
In fact, now that she’d met him again, she almost wished she hadn’t encountered him the first time, because the pedestal she’d put him on had been smashed to smithereens.
What was that saying about never meeting your heroes because you’ll be disappointed?
Giselle was disappointed all right, despite still being more attracted to him than was good for her.
Feeling even more depressed than she’d been on the day of Mhairi’s funeral and needing some advice but not wanting to worry her mum and dad, Giselle rang her sister.
‘Buongiorno, Zelle,’ Izzy chirped. ‘Actually, is it still morning? I’ve lost track of time.’
‘Just about.’
‘Is everything all right? You sound glum.’
‘I’m exceptionally glum,’ Giselle confirmed, and she took a deep breath. ‘I think I might have to sell the bothy.’
‘No! Why?’
‘Because if the craft centre closes, I won’t be able to pay the mortgage,’ she said, and went on to explain her worries.
‘Come live with me,’ Izzy suggested immediately.
‘Milan is miles away from the sea,’ Giselle pointed out. ‘But thank you, anyway.’
‘Do you have to live by the sea? Can’t you just visit it a couple of times a month?’
She could, but she didn’t want to. And neither did she want to live by any old seaside – she wanted to live by this one.
Skye and Duncoorie were her home; it was where she belonged.
This was where her heart was. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d told Rocco that she didn’t want to live anywhere else.
There was only one thing for it: she’d have to start looking for a job.