Chapter One A Box of Misfortune #2
His eyes were a piercing blue with laugh lines.
And his hair was a dark shade of bronze with tousled curls.
The stranger was dressed in a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves tucked into his black ironed pants.
There was a silver chain hanging from his belt loop and disappearing into his pocket. Isla assumed it to be a pocket watch.
Not bad, Isla admitted unbiasedly. Not bad at all. She fought back a smile, cautioning herself to let her thoughts wander.
The stranger suddenly stretched out his hands like a preacher to a congregation. “People of Lochraven,” he started, causing Isla to cringe. But she held her pitchfork, wanting to hear what he had to say. Isla knew her townspeople too well. They would vote against him no matter what he has to say.
The few that had come and tried had been voted out. Lochraven was known not to accept developers. This time wouldn’t be different. Whoever this braw stranger was—Findlay or Farlane—was wasting his time.
“I’m Finlay Fraser, and I’m a developer at Blackwell and Fraser Estates.” He grinned as if enjoying the curious murmuring that vibrated round the room. “Now dinnae fash.”
Isla chuckled. Dinnae fash, she mouthed, eyeing Finlay suspiciously.
Finlay continued, sliding his hands into his tailored pants. It was the fancy kind. Isla could tell. She let her eyes travel to his white button-down shirt. Three buttons were undone at the top, and peeking out was his tanned skin.
“Unlike other developers who will convince you to sell your properties for half the price, I don’t work like that. You see, my parents respect heritage. We value your properties at the current market price, and we buy them with a two percent interest compensation when you sell them to us.”
The subtle murmurs turned to gasps of amusement.
Isla’s head whipped around the hall. It was starting to look like he was gaining positive feedback from the crowd.
“Two percent interest?” Ailsa chuckled.
It can’t be true. Isla waved a hand dismissively.
“Don’t tell me you believe what he is saying?
” She scoffed, shaking her head. Isla tapped the woman sitting in front of her.
Her name was Griselda, and she ran a bakery at the town square close to The Binding Room.
Griselda had inherited a bakery from her mother.
“I mean, you don’t think he is serious, do you? ”
Griselda shrugged. “I think it’s something. Not everyone wants to live in Lochraven forever.”
Huh? Something? Isla sat back, biting her lips. Who is this sweet-mouth deceiver?
“They could still vote no,” Ailsa chipped in.
Isla sighed in relief but kept her fingers crossed. She was glad Ailsa wasn’t moved by the sweet mouth of Finlay Fraser. She returned her attention to Finlay, listening to more ‘good-to-be-true talk’ spill from his mouth.
“My parents were realtors, and one of the reasons why is because my grandfather lost his property to a greedy man, and my father vowed never to let that happen again.” He chuckled, taking a few steps forward.
“My father, he used to say to me, you have to respect the properties. You have to respect the owners. Son, it’s not always about money, but it’s about merging the future and the past.” He pressed his palms together.
“And I tell you, that’s all I want. Bring the future to Lochraven, and I cannot do that without you. ”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Heads turned toward Isla. For a second, she paused, realising she had said that out loud. She rose abruptly with Shakespeare in her arms. Even he, too, stared at her curiously.
Her eyes and Finlay’s locked but only briefly. “Do ye-you have something to say, Ms…”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” she huffed.
Finlay rolled his eyes at her. But that was the least of Isla’s worries.
She knew if she didn’t speak up now, it might be too late after.
“Greetings, I think we should slow down here. I mean, Lochraven has good tourist revenue because we have managed to preserve the town’s charm over these years.
And I don’t think we should allow a sweet talker.
” She paused, throwing a stink eye at Finlay before continuing, “… to come here and buy us.”
“Young lady, I never said I would buy anyone.” Finlay chuckled nervously, dragging his fingers through his tousled dark curls.
“Pfft! Two per cent?” She let out a dry laugh, ignoring Ailsa’s pull on the hem of her dress.
“That’s a little desperate, don’t you think…
I mean.” It was desperate, and above all, it was a lie.
Isla couldn’t tell if it was the biggest lie from the pit of hell, or the most ridiculous lie she had ever heard.
“It’s called respect,” Finlay retorted, folding his arms cross his chest.
“Then respect us by leaving our town alone,” she fought back, looking around for support.
There were a few ayes in the background, and that was enough for Isla.
“Woof,” Shakespeare barked at Finlay from Isla’s arms. She looked down proudly at her companion. Aside from Gran, Shakespeare had always had her back.
Finlay turned to Beatrice, who was quietly standing some distance away from him. “Some help?” he murmured softly.
Beatrice walked forward. “I believe it is time to vote. Shall we?” She beckoned on the ushering volunteers, and they came out with a transparent box, heading toward the front stage.
“Fingers crossed, Isla,” Ailsa whispered.
“Yeah, yeah,” Isla murmured. She felt the urge to look up only to catch Finlay staring at her. She narrowed her eyes at him, refusing to be intimidated. He shook his head slightly and broke their stare.
Chicken! That was what he was. He was a chicken at Mr. Rowan’s farm. Isla hissed. A sweet-mouthed chicken.
“Pfft!”
They had lost.
Isla had lost to the braw stranger. The drive back to the bookshop had been a quiet one. Finlay Fraser, the sweet-mouth developer, got a higher vote. Seventy to sixty-seven. And he had smirked at her when the numbers were called.
That bloody smirk. Isla hissed, recalling how elated he was. Moira had inquired about the meeting, and she gave the full details.
“Maybe… it’s for the best,” Moira said.
“How can it be? He talked about bringing the future here like we are some primitive cavemen. Just imagine…” Isla ranted, trying to focus on Mr. Hamish’s book, but she couldn’t. Even her hobby couldn’t distract her from her predicament.
“I’m going for a walk,” she said, grabbing Shakespeare’s leash.
“Isla, come on. Ye did yer best. Don’t beat yerself too much about it,” Moira said, taking Isla’s hand and giving it a squeeze.
It was reassuring, but Isla’s nostalgia was building.
She knew it was silly, given the fact that the developers were yet to start working, but she already missed Lochraven.
Wanting to preserve these memories, she pulled her hand away from Moira’s. “I just need to clear my head,” she insisted.
Shakespeare howled at her. He was a very emotional companion and could pick up on body language and emotion. “Come on, Shakes.” Isla tugged lightly at his leash.
“Don’t wait for me,” Isla said, heading out of the bookshop.
Isla stood by the entrance, letting her eyes scan the area, taking one last look at the town square.
A lingering look at the place she had called home her whole life.
The evening sun cast a warm, golden light over the familiar streets and buildings, making everything feel even more precious and fragile.
She felt a pang of nostalgia as she gazed at the old stone cottages, their roofs a patchwork of slate and tile. She had walked past them countless times, but now she noticed the way the light danced through the leaded windows, casting tiny rainbows on the pavement.
The sound of laughter drifted from the pub, where she had spent countless evenings with Dr Ailsa. She could almost smell the familiar scent of whisky and wood smoke wafting from the doorway.
Her eyes wandered to the ice cream shop.
She remembered the countless times she had been taken there by Gran as a child.
But now, it was all about to change. The majority had voted to let the developers in, and Isla knew that this charming, quirky town would be transformed into something sleek and modern.
She felt a lump form in her throat as she took one last look around, trying to commit every detail to memory.
She knew she would miss this place, this sense of community and history that seemed to seep from every stone.
She would miss the way the light fell, the sound of the river flowing through the town, and the smell of the Griseda’s bakery on a cold winter morning.
She frowned, recalling seeing Griseda casting her vote for the developers.
“Come on, Shakespeare.”
Isla lost track of time as she strolled down the road.
Shakespeare’s jaunty steps had slowed. He, too, was tired.
The sun that had cleared the gloomy, drizzling rain earlier was sluggishly departing the sky.
Isla decided to take a shortcut home. She pulled her phone from her pocket to check the time—ten minutes past five.
“Let’s go home, Shakes.”
Boom.
Boom.
Isla tilted her head toward the direction of the loud noise. It sounded like two boulders colliding.
She skidded to a stop. No way. She grabbed Shakespeare from the ground and ran toward the sound. It was coming from the next street, which was a right turn away.
Her own street. Where she lived.
She dashed into the turn, and horror etched across her face. There stood Finlay with a mustard yellow helmet directing a crane like a conductor in an orchestra.
“What!?” Her eyes travelled from the debris of blocks to the crane and to a few men with helmets and reflective jackets.
So soon? It can’t be. Without thinking, she stormed toward the scene, marching past Finlay to the front of the crane.
“Hey. Hey!” Finlay called after her.
Woof! Shakespeare barked at the wrecking ball of the crane freezing in the air upon their arrival. The driver’s lips parted as he saw Isla.
“How dare you?” she bit out in a petulant tone, pointing a finger at the ruin of Mrs Keith’s home. “You talk about respect, and in hours, you are already bringing down houses. I know your type.”
Finlay chuckled, glaring at her. “And what’s my type?”
“Greedy ass, sweet-mouthed developer with a hidden agenda.”
Finlay laughed and turned to his crew. “She is a funny one, isn’t she?” His smile disappeared, and his face became serious. “Look, I don’t know what your problem is, young lady, but the people voted for this. So, get a grip.”
“And you couldn’t even wait for a second.”
Shrugging, Finlay replied, “It’s not my fault that I’m not some jobless lazybones meddling into other people’s business.” He signalled his men to continue working.
Isla gasped, running out of the crane’s way. “You… you, bamport!”
“Hey, boss, come look at this!” a man from Finlay’s crew called out.
Finlay’s eyes flickered to his crew. He gave Isla a tight smile, clasping his palms together.
“May you find happiness.” He walked away from her.
Isla clenched her hands into fists underneath Shakespeare.
He barked a few times, squirming in her arms. He wanted to be let down, but she was concerned about the sharp debris and broken blocks.
Woof. He attempted to jump.
Giving up, she set him down. He ran off before she could get a grip on his leash. He galloped toward Finlay and his crew, barking.
Aye, go give them hell, Shakespeare, she silently encouraged. Finlay gave her a disapproving look. Deciding to leave the fight for another day, she marched towards Shakespeare and saw what had captured his attention. He wasn’t fighting the crew—he was following his dog instincts.
It was a wooden box, polished with reddish brown paint but covered in cement and dust.
“A treasure chest. You shouldn’t open it,” she warned, running towards the box. “It doesn’t belong to you.” The box was unorthodoxly longer than a treasure chest. And old, given the rusted bolt and lock.
Finlay ignored her warning, taking a bolt cutter from one of his crew members. “Out of my way,” he demanded sternly.
Shakespeare continued to bark at the box.
Woo–
He fell to his side, fainting. Isla rushed to pick up Shakespeare. He had a knack for fainting at certain things. Finlay stared at the duo with concern, but Isla glowered at him, so he proceeded to break the lock.
Anger coursed through Isla. She didn’t like him. He was going to ruin this town.
The box creaked open. Gasps erupted among the crew members, and they all stepped backwards.
Isla pushed forward and peered into the box. Her heart skipped a beat.
It wasn’t a treasure chest.
It was a coffin containing a skeleton and a bunch of papers rolled into a scroll.
Bad luck. It had to be. She turned to Finlay. He was staring at the contents of the box.
There and then, Isla knew she couldn’t let him win.