Chapter 6
Paislee woke with a start the next morning from strange noises downstairs. She sat up, her feet on the floor as she reached for her robe, before settling back with a sigh.
Angus Shaw was, no doubt, awake.
Her ears strained to hear. Was he going into the kitchen?
She hoped to put the kettle on, as she would need a large mug of Scottish Breakfast to get her through the day. A cold compress against her eyes after dinner yesterday had eased her headache before she went to bed.
She’d feared that Brody wouldn’t sleep well, so she’d been up half the night making sure he was okay—each time she peeked into his room down the hall from hers, he was sleeping on his side like an angel, auburn hair curled against the pillow and Wallace tucked in at the crook of his knees.
Isla’s ghost had kept her up the rest of the night, memories of her laughing at something that tickled her, or the rare glimpse of vulnerability in the girl’s eyes. She’d been the same age Paislee had been when she’d opened her specialty sweater and yarn shop. Thanks to Gran, she had a skill, unlike Isla, who hadn’t finished secondary school.
Paislee had started by selling scarves and knit caps at the church bazaar, and then she’d set up a website for Cashmere Crush. Selling sweaters to people all over the world brought in a wee bit more money than she’d make at the market.
She loved knitting, and could do it while minding the baby.
Granny challenged her to take an online business course, to think of having a brick-and-mortar place for community to gather, and support other businesses while making a decent living for her and Brody.
Paislee had started Cashmere Crush at twenty—the first year of the lease Granny had co-signed for her, but after that, the paperwork was in her name alone.
It was as if Gran had known she wouldn’t be around much longer, and she’d encouraged Paislee to be self-sufficient. Scots were known for their pride, and Paislee supposed she was no different.
Despite some wagging tongues and dark looks, Paislee had never taken a cent from the poor box or received benefits from the government for being an unwed single mum. Thank ye, Granny.
Now get up, lazybones!
She quickly brought her clothes down the hall to the upstairs bathroom she and Brody shared and showered to start her day. Fifteen minutes later, after she woke a groggy Brody, Wallace clicked at her heels, wanting out and then fed.
Grandpa Angus sat at the kitchen table, a steaming mug before him, the Brodies tea tin in the center of the round table. She opened the back door to the porch, which led to the fenced narrow garden, and Wallace woofed as he dashed out. “Morning.”
“Morning, lass. The bed was quite comfy, but I swear I heard yer gran’s ghostie yellin’ at me all night long. I might have tae sleep on the porch.”
The back porch was screened and maybe six feet wide. Brody’s old bicycle, the tire deflated, was stored there, along with gardening supplies. Who had time to garden, but they were Granny’s and she didn’t have the heart to toss them. There were also two wicker chairs and a skinny wicker bench she liked to sit and knit on when she passed the time.
“Suit yourself, but she’ll probably find you.”
From what she’d pieced together over the years, Grandpa and Gran had been happily married and had two children—her father, now dead, and a daughter, who had married and moved away, to Japan or something. Aunt Mora hadn’t even come home for Gran’s funeral.
Grandpa and Gran had been happily married until Gran found out about Craigh, Grandpa’s adult son with another woman. Paislee must have been fourteen at the time—everything was hushed up, but she remembered that her father had wanted to meet Craigh. She wondered now if her da had met his half brother before he’d died?
“Do you ever hear from Aunt Mora?” she asked.
He scratched at his thick silver beard. His brow furrowed, though it was hard to tell with the wrinkles. “She passed a few years back. Two of me children are gone, the other missin’. My wife—Agnes Shaw was me only wife, and the love of my bleak life—dead too. Makes you wonder why I’m still here,” he said.
His shadowed gaze found her. It did her heart good to know that he’d loved her gran, through it all—but how sad, that they couldn’t be together in the end.
“If you loved her, why’d ye cheat?”
“I didnae break me vows,” he said in a harsh tone, “but I had too wild of a time the night before. Being sloshed is no guid excuse, but I dinnae remember it at’all.”
Paislee would not point fingers about precaution. She knew all too well that youth and alcohol made you think yourself invincible.
Wallace barked to be let back in, so Paislee crossed the kitchen and opened the back door, closing it once the dog was inside. She gave the pooch an absent pat on the head.
“Did you try tae tell her?”
“Aye, but I dinnae know meself what happened.” Grandpa removed his glasses and positioned them next to his mug. “Mibbe I dinnae handle things as smoothly as I’d wished.”
Had Granny loved her husband so much that she couldn’t stand the pain of what she thought had happened? His intimacy with another woman had resulted in a child just months older than her firstborn.
Paislee had never loved like that and instead poured all of her devotion into raising Brody properly. Romance was not an option.
Grandpa slurped from his mug.
The idea of Grandpa “home” while she was gone didn’t sit right. Though she’d softened at his confession, Paislee didn’t trust him one hundred percent. She didn’t feel like he was dangerous to her or Brody or she wouldn’t have let him in—but this was her sanctuary.
“What are ye starin’ at?” Grandpa barked.
Paislee didn’t blink or back down. “I’d like your help in the shop today. I’ll train ye on the cash register and pay you hourly, as I planned tae do for Isla.” Fifteen hours. Her mind scrambled to form a plan that didn’t break the bank but allowed her to get to know him better—she hadn’t been serious about him working for room and board.
“I can handle a register,” he declared, fidgeting in his chair. Was he uncomfortable because of the conversation?
“I’ll show ye my way.” She liked to have a copy of her receipts and she kept tally of what sold on a spreadsheet at her shop computer.
“Bossy women,” he mumbled, crossing his arms over his thin stomach as he pushed back from the table. His flannel shirt had a frayed cuff, and he wore thick woolen socks.
“Get things done.” She would not put up with his whingeing much longer. “We leave at quarter till nine, so please be ready.”
She went to the pantry and pulled down a box of Weetabix, then grabbed some berries from the fridge, along with milk.
“Ye dinnae make the boy a hot breakfast?”
Her shoulders rose defensively. “Not every day, no. We usually save that for Sunday morning, which is our day off.” Yesterday had been the exception because neither of them had wanted it to be Monday morning. Maybe she’d had a bit of a premonition after all, for the day had been a tough one.
She poured dry kibble into Wallace’s dish and gave him fresh water.
“What hours do ye keep at the shop?” Grandpa Angus rose to add more hot water to his tea mug, then sat back down, his khakis faded at the knees.
“It depends on Brody’s schedule in the afternoon, but half past nine tae quarter past three Monday through Saturday is a typical day, and I bring him back tae the shop if I have work tae catch up on, then Thursday evenings, for a social hour where the ladies gather and work on a project.”
“Blether,” he said. “Like a bunch of hens.”
“Aye.” Paislee didn’t bother hiding her grin. “We gab about the most interesting things.” Anything from Widower Mann and his ladies to local politics.
He stirred his tea.
Paislee reached for her favorite mug—a birthday gift from Brody. She made her tea, adding a spoonful of sugar, then yelled up the stairs to her son.
The bathroom door slammed. Wallace barked from his position by her feet on the braided rug and then raced up the stairs, his short black terrier legs hidden behind a fringe of fur.
Half past eight—she sighed and went to make Brody’s lunch. He liked cheddar cheese on white bread with two slices of pickle. He didn’t care that the pickle made it soggy—and she didn’t complain, so long as he was eating.
His lunch bag was insulated and had a picture of Cawdor Castle on it. She added an apple and a packet of crisps.
He said he ate the apple, but she doubted it. Last to go in was a chocolate biscuit, only to be had after the rest of his lunch. She had little illusion that it was not eaten first.
Grandpa Angus watched her with hooded eyes. “Ye know he tosses all but the chocolate biscuit.”
“I cannae verra well sit with him each day and make sure he eats it all, now can I?” She challenged her grandfather to say more, annoyed because he was only voicing aloud what she thought in her head.
Grandpa buried his face in his tea mug.
“We see Doc Whyte for his physical tomorrow afternoon. If he’s healthy, then . . .” Paislee shrugged and let the sentence trail off.
Gran had said to pick her battles, and this wasn’t one she was willing to fight—at ten, Brody knew what a healthy meal was, and that he was lucky to get it. He preferred to bring his rather than eat the school lunch.
She checked the clock on the wall. Thirty-five minutes past eight. Where was he?
Paislee walked to the end of the stairs prepared to bellow his name when he appeared at the top, his hair sticking straight up from washing his face.
She opted not to say a word about it. “Cereal’s ready; lunch is packed. We have tae leave in ten minutes.”
Brody skipped down the stairs before her, swinging his hand on the bottom post to swivel toward the kitchen.
She followed, taking stock. Clean denims, clean T-shirt, runners. “I’ll go upstairs and get your backpack. You eat, and dinnae feed Wallace from the table.” Paislee looked to her grandfather. “That goes for you, too.”
His silver brow rose. “I would never.”
How many times had she heard that? She tapped her watch. “Ten minutes before we need tae be at this door, ready tae go.”
She climbed the stairs, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and chose a lightweight cardigan sweater she’d knit with Gran—she loved the ice-blue yarn, which matched her eyes. Jamming her feet into her brown leather half boots, she grabbed her purse, Brody’s backpack, and made it downstairs in five minutes.
“Hustle,” she said, out of habit. It didn’t actually create speed, but it felt proactive.
Brody eyed Grandpa warily across the table as he ate his cereal, pushing aside the blueberries to eat for last.
She settled Wallace out back for the day—with access to the screened porch if it rained—and tucked Brody’s lunch into his backpack.
“It’s a miracle, but I think we’re going tae be on time.” She crossed her fingers for luck.
“I dinnae want detention,” Brody said. “They should give it tae you, anyway, not me. I’m only ten.”
“You could walk,” Grandpa suggested.
Brody turned his back on Grandpa and the stranger’s unwanted opinion. “I’m ready, Mum.”
“Coat?”
“I dinnae need it.”
“Your sweatshirt, then. It’s still cool for recess.”
He grumbled but retrieved it from the hall closet.
Her grandfather shrugged into his trench coat, his hair neatly combed. He left his tam in his room.
She patted her pocket for her keys, then shook her purse, listening for the jingle. Nothing. In a panic, she dumped her bag upside down on the small table by the front door. Lip gloss, coffee receipt from yesterday. “Where are they?”
“Not again!” Brody dropped his backpack to the floor with a huff. Her keys fell from the side pocket of his bag and he looked at her with very round brown eyes. “Oops.” The rule was her keys belonged in her purse, so that she always knew where they were.
Her hand landed on her hip like a magnet. “How did that happen?”
“I dunno.” Brody smacked his forehead. “I forgot me reading assignment in the car and needed yer keys tae get it. I guess I didnae put them back.”
It was things like this that created tardiness, and whose fault was it? She brought out her mum tone. “Brody!”
“Sairy.” He slung his backpack over his shoulder and handed her the keys.
Her grandfather wisely kept his gob shut, waiting in the foyer.
Paislee herded them out the front door like errant lambs. “Hurry!”
They made it at nine on the dot with Headmaster McCall tapping his watch. He wore a dark brown suit jacket and a frown. Had he been waiting for her? Today was not starting off any better than yesterday, which didn’t bode well.
Brody darted out of the Juke and into the brick building without a backward wave. The headmaster followed Brody inside, the blue door closing behind them.
“Mibbe we need tae leave a few minutes earlier tomorrow?” Grandpa Angus suggested.
She pulled out of the drive to the main road. “You saw for yourself—I have the best of intentions, but things just . . . happen. Missing keys, Wallace gets out, Brody forgets his homework or, even worse, forgets tae do his homework—”
Grandpa made a harrumphing noise.
They arrived at Cashmere Crush, and she parked in the back. Jerry’s truck pulled up next to her as she got out.
“I’ve got the pink yarn, lass!” Jerry called. “With an extra, at no charge, since we were late.”
“Oh—thank you.” Paislee could knit a pair of booties to go with the blanket as an apology to Mary Beth.
She unlocked the back door and her grandfather and Jerry followed her inside. The smell of wool was both welcome and familiar and she switched on the light, illuminating the back of her shop. What would she do without it? It was her creation, her proof that she could thrive in their community.
She wrote a check to Jerry for her wholesale cost of the yarn, accepting the extra skein on Mary Beth’s behalf. She’d learned from Gran to charge fair retail prices and not discount for everyone or else she would be out of business. And who would take care of Brody then?
“Did yer day get any better after I left?” Jerry looked from her to her grandfather.
The two men hadn’t actually met yesterday. “Sairy—Angus Shaw, this is Jerry McFadden. My grandfather has come tae live with us.”
“For a time,” Grandpa interjected. “Only until me son is found.”
Jerry rocked back on the heels of his workman’s boots. “He’s missing?”
“Off an oil rig,” her grandpa said.
“Ach.” Jerry glanced at Paislee for confirmation.
She nodded. “We’ll look into that this week, Grandpa.”
“And then there was the dead girl,” Grandpa shared with a theatrical sigh as he removed his trench coat and slung it over the armchair by the small television.
“The dead girl?” Jerry tugged off his cap and twisted it as he looked from her to Grandpa.
She barely refrained from elbowing her grandfather as a reminder to keep his mouth closed. “Isla Campbell—she used tae work with me? Bonny blonde?”
Jerry settled the cap back on his head. “Sorry tae hear that. Didnae she move away tae Inverness?”
“ Aye. ”
“What happened?”
“We don’t know yet.” She thought of the prescription bottle on the table and goose bumps pricked down her spine.
“Poor lass. She was so young.” Jerry headed for the back door. “Well, I better finish the deliveries. Give me best tae Mary Beth?”
“Of course—thanks, Jerry.”
Jerry left and she whirled on her grandfather, who was studying the yarn in the box, oblivious to her annoyance. “Grandpa, do ye mind not being the town gossip?”
“What’s wrong with ye?” He shook his head.
She exhaled. “Isla was someone I cared about.”
“Sairy.” His mouth pursed and he paced to the front of the shop, suddenly interested in whatever was out her front window.
Paislee knelt down and opened the safe below the register, readying the till for the day. When she was through, Grandpa had returned.
“Can I help ye with the yarn?” He tapped the box that was still on the counter.
“Naw. Normally, I would price these at twelve pounds a skein, but because they’re for Mary Beth, who will be here any minute, we don’t have tae bother marking them with the label gun.”
“Twelve pounds?” he repeated, sounding as if she were robbing her customers blind. “Is the fleece made of gold?”
Picking up the light pink yarn, she smoothed her thumb over the silken strands. “This is high-quality pre-shrunk merino wool, specially dyed for Mary Beth to match her niece’s baby’s room.” She met his eyes. “It’s meant tae last a lifetime.”
“Waste of money, if ye ask me,” he pronounced. “The babe will outgrow it long before then.”
“I didnae ask you.” Baby blankets weren’t meant to grow with the bairn for heaven’s sake. “Why don’t ye go watch the news or something?” She made a motion of zipping her lips and looked up at the ceiling. I don’t blame ye for givin’ him the boot, Gran.
He huffed off behind the divider and switched on the telly. She scanned her incoming messages online but hadn’t gotten too far when Elspeth Booth entered at ten. Tall, slender, with iron-gray hair and few wrinkles, she’d had her seventieth birthday last week and created exquisite needlepoint. She was followed by Mary Beth, who literally cooed when she saw the pink yarn on the counter. “Thank ye, Paislee—this is perfect.”
“I’m glad, and Jerry was so sairy by the delay that he gave you another skein at no cost. I’d be happy tae knit a pair of booties.”
“Or a wee headband? I’ll do it. How wonderful.” Mary Beth lumbered toward a chair by a regular-height table rather than the long rectangular high-top and sank down.
Paislee brought the yarn over. “It’s lovely. Your niece will be thrilled.”
Elspeth joined them, sitting across from Mary Beth, who brought out the portion of her blanket already completed from the knitting bag at her side.
“The bubble stitch pattern is so pretty . . . what size needle is that again?” Elspeth noted the design with interest, her thumb the same size as the individual yarn bubble.
“UK eight,” Mary Beth replied, admiring the yarn. “It’s too precious. I’ll need tae finish it on Thursday night, during the Knit and Sip. Mibbe Arran can watch the bairns.” Mary Beth’s husband was mildly overbearing and treated time with his kids as if he were doing Mary Beth a favor. She rarely missed a Thursday but always acted as if she needed permission.
Thursdays mattered to each of Paislee’s ladies for various reasons. Elspeth, until last year, had worked at the church office with Father Dixon, but she was now retired and cared for her blind younger sister. The two argued constantly and it wasn’t an easy relationship. Cashmere Crush was Elspeth’s respite.
Flora used to come in, back before Donnan’s stroke, to escape his temper—which was worse after a few drinks. Flora refused to discuss it and had flat-out denied any wrongdoing, so they’d all learned to avoid the subject.
Amelia played computer games and drank her whisky neat. She had once shyly admitted she’d never had a boyfriend, and had discovered knitting when she’d given up smoking two years ago.
They were all very different, yet they had knitting in common.
Lydia, who never missed a Thursday, couldn’t knot thread but dropped by for the camaraderie and wine.
For a while, Paislee had completely forgotten about Grandpa, who sauntered from the back room as if he had nothing better to do. “Did ye tell the lasses that yer being evicted?”
Elspeth and Mary Beth gaped at her in horror.
Paislee shook her finger at her grandfather. He’d done that on purpose, she’d bet. “I’ll call ye when I need you.”
“What’s he talking aboot?” Mary Beth dropped the yarn to the box at her feet as if it had given her an electric shock.
“Who is that?” Elspeth asked.
“My grandfather.” She and Grandpa would have a heart-to-heart. He was a worse instigator than old Mrs. Peets at the church, constantly stirring up trouble. “I received a letter yesterday from the landlord, that’s all.”
“What did it say?” Mary Beth’s cheeks were the same shade of pink as the yarn. “Arran is a solicitor. He can read it for ye. He kens knitting keeps me sane.”
“With all that happened yesterday, I havenae even looked at it yet.” A large part of her didn’t want to acknowledge the eviction notice, but Grandpa wasn’t letting her forget. Paislee dragged her feet but took her purse from the shelf beneath the register. Inside was the letter.
“That doesnae seem verra responsible, Paislee, and not like ye at all,” Elspeth said. The older woman perched on a stool to stay awhile, taking out a lace square to work on while they caught up.
“Tell them about the dead girl,” Paislee’s grandpa shared before ducking into the back and out of her reach.
“Dead girl? What is happening around here?” Mary Beth’s chins jiggled with concern.
She couldn’t have him upsetting her customers!
“Isla Campbell. I was going tae hire her back tae work part-time, but I found her, dead, yesterday at her flat, with my grandfather.” He’d been mellower yesterday. Good food and a good night’s sleep had emboldened the man. There was something to be said for bread and a cold night in the park.
“Oh—I’m sairy, Paislee,” Mary Beth said, setting a skein of pink yarn in her lap. “I know how ye liked her.”
“She was a sly one.” Elspeth’s judgmental tone was exactly why Paislee felt the need to protect the girl. Sometimes there were extenuating circumstances, like a neglectful mother or frail health, that gave a person a rougher edge.
Those reasons weren’t hers to share, so Paislee bit her tongue, pulled out the paperwork from her landlord, and skimmed the legalese.
“Well?” Mary Beth dropped the yarn in the box and rose from her chair to join her at the counter.
The message hadn’t changed since the day before. “I have thirty days tae vacate—Mr. Marcus said the building had sold. Every one of the businesses on this strip will have tae move. They’re tearing all this down tae build a boutique hotel.”
“No!” Elspeth said, her mouth tight. “I’ll contact the historical society. This building is two hundred years old.”
Paislee hadn’t thought of that. “Can they help?”
“Mibbe.” Elspeth rested the lacework on her lap. “I dinnae mind making a few phone calls—we have tae protect the integrity of Nairn, no matter what the Earl of Cawdor wants,” she huffed, looking ready to take on all comers—lean and sharp as an iron blade.
The Earl of Cawdor had plans to bring Nairn back as a popular tourist destination, and had increased the population from nine thousand to twelve in the last few years. There were growing pains, as the seaside town had its heyday in the Victorian era a hundred years ago and now its residents were expected to make room for new roads and traffic circles.
How to embrace the modern, while respecting the old?
Paislee felt like that on a personal level in Nairn all the time but had learned to curb her too-modern ideas in order to fit in and make a home for herself and Brody.
Being a single mum meant that she needed to be able to trust her neighbor, and the idea of living in a big city, like Edinburgh, boggled her mind.
She would take growing pains any day over the hustle and bustle of city life.
Paislee faced her ladies, arms lifted at her sides. “We’ll figure this out—and no matter where I end up, we will have our Thursday nights, even if it’s on my back porch until the right place turns up.”
The ladies sighed with relief.
Her grandpa muttered something from the back room about moving out as soon as possible.
She completely agreed—the crotchety man kept stirring up trouble and sharing unwanted opinions. It was no wonder Granny couldn’t speak his name without looking like she’d sucked a lemon.