Chapter Five

In the dying light of evening, Megan’s living room looked as gloomy as she felt. Surrounded by books and scribbled notes, she sat staring bleary-eyed at the blank computer screen with its flashing cursor. Her head thumped with a painful pulse. There was a ton of research to be done. She wondered why on earth she was forcing herself to even try to read or write after such a busy day.

The scrumptious Sunday meal with its chocolate torte had been devoured by hotel guests, including the aloof but ever polite Ben who preferred the company of Archie and Jean to hers it seemed. He’d even helped again, this time with clean-up, never a truly pleasant task, made almost unbearable by the war zone Francois and Charlotte created. Eventually Charlotte had slammed the kitchen door, taking her pay packet with her, and Francois holed himself up in his room. At least, thank goodness, the money in the till had balanced. Amelia had tried to make Megan stay, to socialize with her and Gordon, but she’d refused, pleading her newest assignment as cause for her departure.

An hour later, her mind and her screen were still blank. She knew the recently published articles she needed to read on the Rock Of Ages would not yet be available on the island, although the local newspaper would have them soon. She didn’t want to go to the mainland and leave Amelia alone, surrounded by virtually unknown men. Megan wouldn’t be the least surprised if she returned from Glasgow only to find that Amelia had happily given away what was left of her life savings to a bereft Francois so he could start a cooking school, or her Rock Of Ages to Gordon solely on the basis of his stating he liked it while whispering sweet nothings in her ear, or the combination to the safe to Ben Scofield.

Megan shivered as she tried to make sense out of why she was becoming increasingly nervous and suspicious of everybody. Her life seemed out of alignment. Not quite in order? As though there was something she was overlooking.

She had a strong instinct to protect Amelia. Stop her from wrecking a perfectly fine life in the beautiful Monk’s Hood by one reckless action. If they went belly-up, their futures would be uncertain and very bleak. They might even have to leave Arran. Find work somewhere else. The mere thought sent cascades of apprehension shooting through Megan’s heart. No! That couldn’t happen. She wouldn’t allow it. She’d have to keep a close watch, on Amelia, on Gordon, on Francois, on Ben, on any other good looking man who may wander through, on everything.

Ben! She squeezed her eyes tightly together. Why did he continue to invade her thoughts? She’d never cared particularly about any of her previous male guests. Why should she care now?

And yet, there was something so appealing about him. Such as the moments when he dropped his guard and the bright laughter escaped. Or when he concentrated his gaze across the sea as though he was a sentinel, or a landmark rock formation. She had to admit, as she opened her eyes again, that she could do with some of that concentration herself. Get some decent work done.

Unable to sit still any longer, Megan pushed herself up off her chair, and went to the window. The last rays of the sun had disappeared, leaving the Firth of Clyde a navy blue ribbon beneath a dark grey sky. The lights of two passing ships twinkled in the distance.

Not for the first time, she wished she had a dog. Maybe a golden retriever or some sort of mixed breed that would romp with her over the hills or lie at her feet in the cold winter nights or fetch sticks down by the water on pleasant Spring evenings. She could envision it, just like she had when she’d been little and played with those stuffed dogs that protected her old bed in Lochranza.

Well, she didn’t have a puppy, but she could still enjoy the evening, maybe blow out some mental cobwebs. She pulled on an ancient cable-knit sweater which had once belonged to her father. He and her mother had been in South Africa for almost a year, and before that it had been New Zealand with only a short one month’s return to Lochranza in between.

She burrowed into the woolly sweater, imagining she could still hear his voice. She was overcome be a sense of longing for her father and his advice. He’d know what to do about Amelia. And most likely he’d have some opinion of Ben, too.

The night breeze brushed gently past her cheek as she started down towards the sea, the salty seaweed smell enveloping her nostrils as she breathed, slowly, deeply. Her feet crunched over the pebbly sand. Unhurried, she bent down, picked up a handful of small stones and threw them, one at a time, listening in the way had father had taught her, to the different pitch levels of each plop, plip, or plunk as they broke through the waves.

"Technically speaking," he’d told her on one of their rare strolls, "the water alone is silent and the rock alone is silent. The sound happens when the solid meets liquid, at the moment the rock realizes its destiny and the water realizes its surface is broken. Then, after the initial pain of that meeting, the resulting ripples roll out, their rings unbroken."

He’d asked her, "Where do you think the ripples really end?" She could still hear his chuckles of delight as she struggled to find a satisfactory answer. His eyes, a slightly darker hazel than her own would soften. "You’ll figure it out one day, my girl," he’d say, tousling her hair. "I hope you’ll let me know when."

Her mother would shake her head at such nonsense. Megan sighed when she thought about her mother. Ever the career woman, Anthropology professor Chrissy Cameron had precious little time for sentiment. She was always too busy "getting things done" or "preparing for the next step", whatever it might have been, answering correspondence, keeping track of the finances. And in the meantime, always making sure—even from a great distance—her daughter had the best schooling, the best toys, and the best clothes available within their modest salaries. The holidays, weekends and the gentle side of her child’s upbringing she turned over to her longtime friend, Amelia.

I am a product of my three parents, Megan thought. Amelia’s kind and generous nature. Dad’s funny, inside out view of life. Mum’s business head. She paused to gaze down at the water’s edge where nothing was left of the waves but a continually changing thin line of foam. Nearby, row boats bobbed and rubbed against their wooden moorings. Inside one of the houses a little farther along someone snapped on a light and a rectangle of yellow brightness appeared on the pebbles.

But it illuminated more than just the pebbles. Startled, Megan sucked in her breath. There, with his back to the light stood Ben Scofield, his hands by his sides, his face to the sea. She decided to back away as quickly and quietly as possible. The last thing she needed was another confrontation.

"Hi there, Megan," he said, surprising her before she had moved more than three feet. "Nice night."

She continued her retreat but said, "It’s the Gulf Stream you know."

"Ah, the Gulf Stream," he repeated, coming to stand beside her. "Well, that would account for the palm trees up on that hill back there."

"In another month or two we’ll have beautiful gardens all over the island." The gravelly sand crunched under her heel as she turned, unwilling to interrupt his reverie.

"A dog would be nice," he said wistfully. "You know, a dog to chase after sticks and rocks."

"Pardon me?" She stopped. Had she heard him right? Or was it an echo of her own thoughts?

"You live here. How come you don’t have a dog?"

"I...I was just thinking about that very thing before...before I came down to the beach," she stammered, amazed yet again at his perceptive comments.

"What would it be?" he asked. "What kind? Maybe a spaniel. No! A collie, a border collie. That’s what you should have. A border collie."

Completely disarmed, she laughed. "Yes, a collie would be nice. And you should have a black lab or Chesapeake."

"Yes. But that would require a certain kind of lifestyle. A lifestyle I don’t have. Settled. Staying put." He kicked a rock into the foam. She listened but there was no cry of pain as it met the water.

Megan glanced around at the hills and cottages of her beloved Whiting Bay. "I am settled here. But I travel. And may be traveling even more now that I’m getting my foot in the door with my writing."

He sat on the sea wall. "I think you aren’t any more settled than I am. And I’m not talking about travel."

"You’re beginning to sound like my father," she said, folding her arms against Ben’s direct approach to psychoanalyzing her character. And to form a barrier between her head and the surge of emotion created in Ben’s similarity to her father.

"Your dad is a brilliant man, I take it," he said, with a throaty chuckle.

Without hesitation, she took the arm he had extended and he hoisted her up beside him.

"You’re in a good mood," she said. "Much better than this afternoon."

He looked away. "The sea is incredible. Even when it’s quiet. Like now. But I’d love to be around when there’s a big storm. When we were at Lochranza I thought maybe there’d be one but it blew over I guess. I love storms. Thunder and lightning and wind."

Once again he reminded Megan of a young child, full of delight, this time in discovering nature. And perhaps it was a direct result of that, or of her ruminations about her own family that a question leapt unbidden to her lips. "Tell me about your childhood."

"I’m not sure that’s a good idea," he said quietly. "What purpose would it serve?"

"None I suppose. Just making small talk."

"If I do tell you about my childhood, in the spirit of small talk, do you promise not to push me for anything else?"

She nodded.

He took a deep, slow breath. "I was born in Manitoba, right in my parents’ farmhouse, in the middle of a July thunderstorm. Apparently it was a pretty bad one. Crops flattened, roofs blown off silos. I have three brothers. Two younger, one older. All blondes. I’m the odd one as far as looks go. But I reckon we were a pretty ordinary family. School, hockey, piano lessons, chores. Mostly chores. We had dairy cows as well as crops. Dad kept all us kids hopping. Even my sister."

Megan sat motionless, gripped by the memory pictures he painted with such a minimum of words. After a while he continued wistfully. "I guess I was an okay kid. We all were. Gramps Maclean saw to that. He’s my mom’s father. And I’m told I take after him in his young days. Looks, build, and temperament. He came from Loch Lomond and he always talked about it like he’d just been there the day before. Dad’s ancestors emigrated at the end of the eighteen hundreds. They settled first in Ontario but moved west eventually. Been farmers forever so I’m told. We all worked pretty hard but being a farmer is tough."

He fell silent, gathering his thoughts. "Had a dog back then. Some mangy mutt called Ringo. Good dog though. I had a horse, too. Nothing I liked better than to saddle up good old Crackle. We had three. Snap, Crackle and Pop. Not their real names, you understand, but that’s what we called them. I’d ride out into the pasture, all alone, first thing in the morning. Of course, then I’d be in trouble when I got back. Dad would be waiting for me with some job to do."

"Sounds wonderful," breathed Megan, thinking how different Ben’s life had been from hers, with his family around him all the time.

He leaned back and lifted his face to the sky. "Yeah, I suppose it was kinda nice. Good clean living. No extra money for fancy things though. No big holidays. Dad figured throwing us all in the back of the van and heading to Grand Forks, North Dakota was more than enough. But Mom was different. Loved to travel but couldn’t. She got a little grumpy more than once about it, too. No money. Every time an airplane went overhead, she’d stop what she was doing and watch its vapor trail. She really wanted to see Grampa’s home but she also wanted to go to Holland. To see the tulips. She grew flowers. Asters to zinnias. You name it. Mostly roses. Made some extra cash doing wedding arrangements, funerals, whatever. Had a shop in the nearest little town. Sometimes she’d drag me along to help out. And we all had to weed. Not fun in the blazing hot sun, masses of mosquitoes."

Megan’s eyes widened. Visions of Ben with arm loads of roses and baby’s breath danced in her imagination. Ben weeding row after colorful row of blossoms. Ben riding Crackle along the edge of a country road.

He cleared his throat. "Nothing too exciting. Just your regular kid." He jumped nimbly off the wall. "So, now you know. Now I’ve answered your question. Hope you weren’t too disappointed."

"Are you kidding?" Megan landed close to him. "It’s like another planet. Or a movie."

He scoffed. "Hardly!"

"I take it you’re here to visit your Grandfather’s homeland?" she said.

"Something like that. Would you mind if we walked for a while before I have to go in?"

"Have to?"

"No more questions, please."

"Let’s walk then."

They didn’t rush at all as they walked past the little boats and around the bend in the shoreline. They commented on the different shapes and sizes of the driftwood, the visible constellations, the coastline of the mainland and all it had to offer. They joked and talked about everything and nothing. And Megan couldn’t remember when she’d last had as pleasant a time in anyone’s company. He made her feel very knowledgeable and valuable. He made her every sense leap to life as they responded to his movements, his occasional light laughter, the sight of his profile against the sea, his very nearness. It was extremely difficult for her to remain true to her vow to never again fall under his spell when with each word he spoke he managed to find his way deeper into her heart. Her feet were much heavier on their return to Whiting Bay which signified the end of their time together.

He wanted to walk her to her cottage but she persuaded him to part company where they’d met earlier.

"I enjoyed that," he said as they stopped in the rectangle of light.

"So did I," she replied, taking in the wave of his hair as it fell slightly forward and the curve of his lips as he smiled. If her heart didn’t stop pounding so hard, she feared it might explode, or worse yet, he’d hear it. She controlled herself and said, "I tend to walk alone. Gives me time to think."

"No boyfriend or significant other to go out with?" he asked.

She felt herself blush. "No. And I like it that way. No complications, especially now that I’ll likely be traveling so much."

"Right, traveling. That’s why you can’t have a dog."

"Don’t you be making fun of me," she cried. "I’m deadly serious."

"I’m sorry. Of course you are!" He draped an arm casually across her shoulders and turned her towards the sea. "And believe me, I take you very seriously. Probably too seriously for my own good."

Megan dared not move as she frantically tried to rationalize what he had said, what he had meant. His arm rested easily behind her neck. She closed her eyes.

Oh why do I feel this way? she cried silently. I’ve only known him a few days. I wasn’t supposed to get emotionally involved. Oh what am I going to do? She knew he probably didn’t intend for her to interpret his actions as anything more than friendly, or brotherly, an extension of his apology for teasing her.

"I could get used to this," he said. She did not reply.

His hand squeezed her shoulder sending her nerves into spasms and she shivered.

"You’re cold," he said, his voice low and soft in her ear. "You should go inside."

"No! I’m not cold. Honest!" Her words sounded high-pitched and nervous. She groaned inwardly and chided herself to stop acting as though she’d never been so close to a man before. But every single fibre of her being screamed, ‘you’ve never been so close to this man before’. He shifted slightly and she opened her eyes to find him peering anxiously at her.

"Are you okay? You’re not feeling sick or anything?"

She wanted to say that because of him she’d never felt more alive in her whole entire life but instead she straightened her spine and said, "I’m quite fine, thank you."

He put his index finger under her chin. "You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?"

"No more than you would lie to me." Despite her quiet tone, he pulled back as if she had slapped him, and she instantly wished she could cut out her tongue. Another few seconds and who knows...he might well have kissed her. But now the night air seemed cold on the skin which had been shielded by Ben’s arm only moments before, and he’d taken several steps away from her.

"I guess I deserve that," he said, bending to scoop pebbles into his hand. In one mighty throw he sent them showering into the water. Their cries resounded in Megan’s ears. He picked a much larger stone and hurled it into the waves. Kaploonk! And then nothing.

He took up his unmoving stance for a very long while, silent and unmoving. Megan, not knowing what to do or say next, wrestled down the urge to fling herself into his arms.

Finally, he looked at her over his shoulder, and said, "I wonder what sound the Rock Of Ages would make. What do you think? A kerplunk or a ploop or a splash?" He came back up the beach. "It would make a sploosh, a really, really big sploosh. The whole world would hear it. And the ripples, well, they’d go on for eternity. Don’t mind me. I get a bit strange around large bodies of water. Must be all my years on the prairies or the Canadian Shield."

Stunned at his reference to the sound of rocks and effects of ripples, she could only stare at him. He didn’t wait for a reply. "I’d best be going," he said. "I had a real nice time. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow. Take care." He leapt over the wall and jogged down the road.

Megan didn’t snap out of her trance until she heard the front door of The Monk’s Hood bang shut. At the same time, the rectangle of yellow went black. A dog barked until silenced by a sharp piercing whistle. Megan knew the time must be getting late but she also knew she’d never get to sleep, tired though she was. Too many reactions and emotions weighed on her mind for her to get any rest. Amazing coincidences she’d discovered from Ben’s conversation. An obvious fondness for dogs, for starters. His appreciation of the sea and the sound the rocks make when they hit the water. His uncanny ability to share her unspoken thoughts. Her body’s response to his presence, his touch.

"This is not good," she said to the stars. "Not good at all."

She decided to take the footpath which led around the back of The Monk’s Hood and some of the cottages, including her own. The small circular walk would take only about ten minutes to complete and possibly would help her file what she’d experienced tonight into the best mind slot. Then she would go home and heat up some milk, read a few chapters from the battered paperback she’d bought at the church sale last week, and fall into bed.

She started past The Monk’s Hood, noting most of the guests’ rooms were in darkness. Lucky souls, all nicely asleep. Through the drawn curtains, Ben’s light in his upper floor corner room glowed brightly from its table in front of the window. What would he be doing now? Cleaning his teeth? Slipping into heavy flannel pyjamas? Or did he sleep in the nude? What would his skin be like to touch? How would it feel to lay her cheek on his broad chest, his breath on her forehead, his fingers in her hair?

Megan gasped at the power of her imagination and the longings stirring deep inside her. Despite knowing she was alone and unseen, a furious heat blooded her face. She turned from the window and quickened her step, rushing to get beyond the trees at the bottom of the back garden before there was any chance of Ben seeing her.

Just as she thought she could breathe easier, her ears picked up the sounds of harsh whisperings. Francois?

"Shut up and listen to me."

A female voice hissed, "Let me go and maybe I’ll listen to you. I came down here for a smoke and because you asked me. Not to be roughed up."

That was definitely Charlotte. Megan held her breath, wishing she had Ben’s sentinel ability. What was going on? They obviously hadn’t heard her approach. Should she make herself known? Go back the way she had come? Her conscience pricked her. First staring at windows, now eavesdropping. But before Megan could decide, there was the zip-snap of a match being struck, and a flare of orange as Charlotte lit a cigarette.

She blew the smoke in Francois’s face. "And I’m warning you. You ever lay your slimy hands on me again, it’s game over."

Francois cursed and started to pace up and down. "I want you gone on the first ferry in the morning. First thing, you hear me."

Charlotte sneered. "I don’t think so, Francois. I’m not going anywhere, mate. Just think of me as like I’m your shadow."

Francois advanced toward her but she stood her ground until, a few paralyzing moments later, he snorted in disgust and stalked back to the hotel.

Megan remained as motionless as possible. Charlotte continued to puff leisurely on her cigarette while Megan’s brain swirled with questions she most definitely wanted answers for. Immediately! Obviously they knew each other. Why were they pretending not to? And not to forget that these two, Francois and Charlotte, were employees of The Monk’s Hood. And Monk’s Hood employees did not treat each other in such a high-handed manner if Megan had anything to say about it. Charlotte wasn’t even permanent. Probably wouldn’t be needed tomorrow, if Rory recovered quickly.

But it was late and Megan was alone. She wasn’t about to deal with the acrimony between Francois and Charlotte at that time and certainly not when they were so openly hostile. Had their one and only day together in the kitchen been such a disaster that they couldn’t stand the sight of each other? So bad that Francois felt he must resort to physical methods? And what was with Charlotte’s sneering at the chef, her superior, who for all intents and purposes had proven his worth as a valuable and valued addition to The Monk’s Hood staff? And what did she mean she’d be his shadow?

The idea of going to Ben with this flittered across Megan’s mind. But then, she rationalized, it was a business problem. None of his concern whatsoever.

Charlotte drew a couple of quick deep puffs. "You’d better not mess this up. Stupid bastard," she muttered to the retreating figure of Francois. With a flick of her fingers, she sent her cigarette to the ground in an arc of glowing embers.

When Charlotte had disappeared from her view, Megan hurried towards her cottage. With her thoughts severely strained as a result of the last few hours, she would need to add a large dose of something pacifying to that hot milk if she wanted to get any sleep at all.