The House on the Shore

Chapter One

Anna MacDonald never felt so betrayed.

Not only had Mark, the Head of the English Department, given the job he’d promised her to someone else, but he hadn’t had the nerve to tell her himself. But that was just like him. He’d do anything to avoid confrontation.

What should she do? Everyone in the department knew they’d been seeing each other outside of work, and would hear on the university grapevine that she’d been passed over for promotion. How could she face the humiliation and the knowing stares? And how could she work with Mark each day knowing he’d betrayed her?

Anna leaned back in her chair and considered her options. Could she continue to work with someone she couldn’t trust? The answer had to be no. But lecturing posts in Scotland where hard to come by, especially in creative writing the subject she taught. And then there was their personal relationship. By this move Mark had destroyed her trust in him, not only as a colleague, but as her lover too. Did she really want to carry on dating someone she couldn’t trust? Again the answer had to be no.

The more Anna thought about her situation, the more she realised she had only one option. She crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it into the waste paper bin.

Straightening her shoulders she marched down the university’s wide corridor to Mark’s office and pushed open the door. Mark sat at his desk, a pile of term papers in front of him. He must have sensed her presence because he looked up—and paled when he saw her.

“Anna—”

“A letter, Mark? After telling me the job was as good as mine, you send me a letter saying you’ve given it to someone else. Couldn’t you have told me face to face? I’m not just your work colleague, I’m your girlfriend. Or have you conveniently forgotten that fact?”

Mark held out his hands as if offering an apology. “I was only following procedure.” A lock of blond hair fell into his blue eyes and he brushed it away without thinking.

“I see.” Anna swallowed her hurt. And rage. She didn’t want to leave on a sour note. “Well, you can’t complain about my letter of resignation, can you? Either you accept it, or I go over your head and give it to the vice chancellor.”

“Anna, darling, I thought you enjoyed your job. Sit down and let’s discuss this.”

“I don’t want to sit down, thank you, and I did enjoy my job.”

“Then I don’t understand why you want to leave. Don’t you think you’re being impulsive?”

“I think I’m being very reasonable under the circumstances. You expect me to carry on working in the department while…while your new blonde bimbo sits in what should have been my office, doing what should have been my job!” Anna felt her blood pressure rising. She took a deep breath.

“We only went to dinner…” Mark shuffled the papers on his desk.

“Don’t lie to me, Mark.”

“I’m not.”

“Think again. And while you’re doing that you’d better start advertising for a new lecturer because I’m leaving at the end of the term whether you like it or not!”

“But term finishes on Thursday—”

“So it does. That gives you three days and all of the summer vacation to find a replacement for me. I’ve marked and returned all the end of term papers to my students. I have no more classes scheduled, so this is my last working day.”

“Look, can we talk about this tonight? I’ve a mountain of paperwork to get through. I’ll stop at the supermarket on my way home pick up a bottle of that red wine you like and a take-a-way.”

“Are you serious? You don’t really expect us to continue our relationship, do you?”

Mark stepped out from behind his desk and rested his hands on her shoulders, his face devoid of expression. “Anna, please, this is business. Just because you were passed over for promotion, doesn’t mean our relationship is over. You love me.”

Anna stared at him and wondered why she had ever considered him husband material.

“No, Mark, I don’t. I’ve realised that I don’t trust you. And without trust there can be no love.”

“I see. Have you found another job?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Let me guess. You’re going to write a book. Lecturers who give up academia usually pick that vocation because they love books but lack the talent to write them.”

The arrow hit its mark, but she wasn’t going to allow Mark’s derisive comments dissuade her. “Look, I’ve made my decision. I’m handing in my notice. There’s nothing more to be said on the subject.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to accept your resignation. But would you mind if I dropped by your flat now and again to see how you’re getting on? For old times’ sake?”

“I doubt very much if the new tenant would appreciate that.”

“New tenant? You’re not giving up your apartment too, are you?”

Anna ignored the question. “Goodbye, Mark.” Without saying another word she turned, and left his office.

It was only later that week as she boxed up the contents of her home that she began to wonder if she’d made the right decision.
Her doubt started with the picture.

It was taken at the university picnic. She and Mark knelt in the grass by a gigantic oak tree, side by side, heads slanted toward each other, arms around shoulders, clearly and disgustingly in love. When was it taken? A year ago? No, two. Had they been together that long? She swallowed the pain as she took the photograph out of the silver frame. The frame she would keep. The photo… she held it in both hands and struggled to tear it, but couldn’t see it through the tears. She settled for balling it up and letting it fall to the floor.

There was no denying Mark was a complete bastard. Thank God she’d never asked him to move in with her. And it was clear that he had no intention of marrying her. He’d been adamant that he’d never stoop to such old fashioned sensibilities. For a time she’d agreed with him. What was marriage anyway, but a contract that didn’t just bind two parties, but frequently strangled them?

Damn. She could have been a good wife. Would have been a good wife. But now?

Was she doing the right thing? While she could never forgive his infidelity, she would miss her job and her friends. She scrubbed a tear away with the back of her hand.

It was too late now to change her mind, she thought, folding a pair of jeans into her suitcase. She’d already surrendered the lease on her fashionable Morningside apartment. The rent, barely manageable on her salary, ate into her savings quicker than a ravenous hyena.

“It’s all for the best,” she told her two border collies. Their tails wagged as if they understood. “Besides, I’ve been breaking the lease with you here anyway. No pets allowed, remember?” The younger collie, bright eyed with dappled paws, edged over and gave her hand a quick lick. Anna ruffled the black and white head. “You’re a good dog, and I’m doing all of us a favour anyway. We’re off to the country, my girls. Peace, quiet, and who the hell knows what else.”
Anna locked the suitcase and placed it next to the door with the others ready to carry down to the old beat-up Land Rover. She took one last look around the room. The place looked huge now, emptied of its contents. She couldn’t take her furniture with her, and had arranged to put it into storage. All that remained of her life—seven years of it—was a carpet that needed shampooing and places on the wall where lighter paint called attention to where her paintings had hung.
She picked up her handbag. This phase of her life was over now. She had a book to write. Apart from her clothes, laptop, printer, and the few books she intended to take with her, the things she most wanted to leave behind were the raw sores of an aching heart.

She knew she’d be taking them too.

Five hours later she coaxed the elderly Land Rover the last few yards down the potholed track toward Tigh na Cladach, her late grandmother’s remote croft on the shore of Loch Hourn, in the rugged northwest Highlands. She couldn’t afford to breakdown now, not when she was so close to reaching her destination. There had been times during the drive from Edinburgh when she thought she would get no further than the city limits, but despite the vehicle’s faded green paintwork and battered appearance, the engine seemed sound.

With a sigh of relief she yanked on the handbrake, climbed down out of the driver’s seat, and stood for a moment savouring the silence. After the bright lights and noise of the city, it felt strange to be so far from civilisation. She glanced at her watch—ten o’clock on a summer evening—yet she could see every rock and bush clearly, for it never became truly dark this far north. Indeed, night itself became no more than deep dusk.

Ensay and Rhona, her two, black and white Border collies, relieved to be released from the confines of the rear seat, chased each other on the lawn in front of the small stone cottage.

The old squat house was small, about forty or fifty feet long, and of traditional one and a half storey height. A chimney rose at either end. The walls were at least three feet thick and built of rough, white-washed granite. The building stood some thirty yards from the water’s edge, nestled in the natural curve of the hillside, as if seeking protection from some invisible force. Whoever had originally built it had chosen the location well, for it fitted into its surroundings perfectly, its stone walls standing the test of time and weather.

Either side of the bright green door were two small quartered windows, set deep into the stonework. The one on the right belonged to the kitchen, and the other to the sitting room. It wasn’t much, but it had been her grandparents’ home. True, it was miles from civilisation, but it was mortgage-free. And now hers.

Collecting her handbag, laptop, and a box of groceries from the passenger seat, she locked the Land Rover and made her way over the cobbled path to the croft. All she needed now was a hot drink and a good nights’ sleep. The rest of her unpacking could wait until morning.

Inserting her key in the lock, she pushed open the door, flicked on the hall light, and walked into the kitchen. The scent of lavender hung in the air. Not only had her dear friend, Morag McInnes, dusted and aired the croft in time for her arrival, she’d also left a bowl of her favourite potpourri on the oak dresser.

Anna filled the electric kettle, put it on to boil, and opened the mail sitting on the table where Morag had left it. There were two letters. The first turned out to be a demand for taxes from the local council. The second envelope was made of heavy parchment, the top left hand corner of which advertised the name and address of a firm of Glasgow solicitors. Curious, as to why they would be writing to her, Anna slipped a neatly manicured fingernail under the corner of the flap, tore it open, and scanned the contents in disbelief. It contained an offer—a very generous offer—on behalf of their unnamed client, to purchase Tigh na Cladach.

“Well, of all the nerve,” she said out loud. She read the letter again to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood. Well, their client could go to Hell, thought Anna, as she stuffed the letter back into the envelope and propped it up against the pepper pot. Too tired to deal with it now, she’d write in the morning and tell the solicitors the croft wasn’t for sale now, nor would it be at any time in the future.
Stretching to ease the stiffness in her shoulders and neck, she made herself a cup of tea, and carried it to the table. She fed and watered the dogs, then made her way up the narrow wooden staircase to the bedroom she’d slept in ever since she was a teenager.

Situated directly above the kitchen, the room nestled under the eaves of the roof. Light, airy and warmed by the heat of the range below, it was painted a delicate shade of pink. The window, which overlooked the loch, was bordered by rose-coloured chintz curtains. A large, brass four poster bed, covered by a hand-stitched patchwork quilt in shades of red, rose, pink and green, stood opposite the door. Her grandmother’s music box, the key long ago lost, stood on the chest of drawers in the corner.

With a long exhausted sigh, Anna quickly undressed and climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up to her chin.

Something woke her. The digital clock on the bedside table flashed 2.00a.m. She’d only been asleep for a couple of hours. Her hands twisted nervously in the blankets, she held her breath as she listened for the slightest sound. Apart from the gentle snoring of the two dogs curled up on the rug at the foot of her bed, there was silence. She felt uneasy, but told herself it was foolish to feel afraid. Nevertheless, her hand trembled as she fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp. A shaft of light struck her pillow, making her squint but leaving the rest of the room in eerie darkness.

She sat up, let out a long, shuddering breath, and ran a hand down her bare arm; it was cold, clammy and covered in goose-bumps. The hairs on her neck prickled, as if touched by some invisible hand. There wasn’t a sound; not even the pitter-patter of the mice that inhabited the roof space of the old croft. Yet something had wakened her. She shivered, and chewed on her lower lip, as she stole a look at the dogs. Odd—they were her early warning system and reacted to the slightest noise, but neither seemed alarmed.

She sighed and rubbed her forehead wearily. Had she been dreaming? She thought not and yet the feeling something was wrong persisted.
Unable to settle, she pulled back the blankets, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and went barefoot to the window. She drew back the curtain and peered into the twilight. A ghostly silhouette moved across the lawn in the moonlight. The curtain slipped from her fingers as sheer black fright swept through her. For once she wished the croft wasn’t quite so isolated and that her grandparents had installed a telephone. But they hadn’t, and even if they had, it would take the police the best part of an hour to reach her.
She tried to ignore the creaking and settling of the old house, but the strange sounds only added to her nervousness. She shook her head in an attempt to clear the fog of sleep from her brain and searched for a plausible explanation.

Had she seen a figure? Or had it been a shadow simply caused by a cloud crossing the moon? Summoning all her courage she parted the curtain once more. To her relief there was no one there. Her heart still pounding, she tugged on her green candlewick dressing gown, tying the belt tightly around her slim waist, and crept downstairs.
The front door was locked and bolted.

Still fearful, she padded into the kitchen, starting when the floorboards creaked beneath her feet. Her hand shook as she made a cup of cocoa and crawled into the old oak rocking chair next to the Aga. Tucking her feet beneath her for warmth, she let the steam from the cup warm her face and thought about what she’d seen.

Was her imagination working overtime? Had living in the city made her so soft, she wondered, that she jumped at every foreign sound? Even the floor scared her, for God’s sake! In town, the only noises she heard at night were ambulance sirens and traffic, while here in the glen only the occasional bark of a fox or hoot of an owl broke the silence.

Few people bothered to drive this far, even in daylight, so the chances of someone doing so in the early hours of the morning were slim. It couldn’t have been a man, she reasoned. It must have been the shadow of a roe deer crossing the lawn. They often came down off the hill to drink in the loch at night.

Anna swallowed the last of her cocoa, rinsed her mug, and left it on the draining board. Stifling a yawn, she pulled the cotton blind back from the window and looked out on to the hill behind the croft. Nothing moved. Not even the leaves of the rhododendrons that surrounded the croft. She tucked a strand of her tousled, copper-coloured hair behind her ear and went back to bed, pausing to give the dogs a gentle pat. Sleep was a long time coming, and when she finally succumbed, it was into a restless and fitful slumber.
It was a little after eight when she woke the next morning, and after showering she dressed in her usual well-worn jeans, check shirt and nutmeg-coloured Aran sweater. She made her way down the narrow wooden staircase, to the kitchen.

After breakfast, she left the dogs playing on the front lawn, and retrieved the first of two suitcases from the rear of the Land Rover, and half carried, half dragged it into the croft.

On her way back for the second case, she noticed a boat had moored in the loch. Strange; it was still a little early in the season for tourists. She shaded her eyes and appraised its size. It wasn’t just a boat; but a large yacht. And was that an American flag flapping in the breeze?

Only a few intrepid sailors ventured this far down the loch. The channel was narrow, twisting, and sheltered by high, steep, rugged mountains, with few places to land. Well, if the crew were looking for hot showers and breakfast, they were way off course and should have sailed west to the Isle of Skye instead.

Two hours later, hot, tired, and thirsty, she finished her unpacking and helped herself to a can of soda from the fridge. She sat down at the kitchen table and picked up the solicitor’s letter from where it rested against the pepper pot. While it was common to receive offers on a property following a death, she couldn’t understand why anyone would want to buy the croft when it was so far from the modern conveniences of life.

The money being offered for Tigh na Cladach far exceeded its true market value. And would certainly be sufficient for a deposit on a small house in Edinburgh, but she couldn’t understand why anyone would want to pay that much for a piece of infertile land and a tumbledown cottage.

The croft had been in her family for years, and Anna had no intention of selling it. She pulled her laptop towards her, switched it on, and started to draft a suitable reply.

Her concentration was broken by the shriek of frantic barking. She tore her gaze away from the screen and looked out of the kitchen window. A tall, dark-haired man was making his way up the crescent-shaped beach, doing a weird twisting dance, holding his right arm above his head. With his left he pushed off the two boisterous, snapping collies.

“Oh hell,” she groaned. She threw open the door and shouted. “Ensay! Rhona! Heel!”

The dogs instantly stopped snapping at the stranger’s ankles and ran to their mistress. Anna leaned against the door frame and waited while the figure strode confidently across the grass towards her, his well-muscled body covering the rough ground with long, purposeful strides. His jet black hair was turning grey at the temples, the cut slightly longer than was considered acceptable for a man she judged to be in his forties. But somehow it suited him.

He stopped a foot from her door, close enough for her to smell the lemon spice of his cologne. Now that she could see him more clearly, she noticed the laughter lines around his eyes and mouth, hinting at a softer side to his character. His body was lean, the outline of his muscles visible through the shirt he wore. A faint white scar creased his right cheek, and she thought it gave his face a handsome rugged look. He gazed at her with dark brown eyes and smiled, slow and warm, and for some reason her breathing quickened.

She took one look and knew he was trouble.

“Hi, there. I know I’m trespassing, but do you think you could ask your dogs not to rip off my thigh?”

Anna drew herself up to her full height, which was barely up to his shoulder. “They’re guard dogs and only doing their duty,” she said stiffly. The dogs sat at her silent signal, but their eyes remained fixed on the stranger.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m having engine trouble and I can’t get a signal.” He indicated his mobile phone.

“That’s because there are no transmitters.”

“Oh. Well, could I borrow your phone? I need to contact the nearest boatyard for some advice.”

“I don’t have a phone.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Look, I haven’t slept for twenty-four hours and I’m beat. Sandpiper, that’s my yacht, developed a problem soon after I left Stornaway.” He paused as her words registered. “Did I hear right? You don’t have a phone?”

“No, I don’t, so I’m afraid I can’t help you. I suggest you weigh anchor, turn your boat around, and head west out of the loch.”

“Perhaps I should’ve introduced myself. I’m Luke Tallantyre, from Cape Cod, Massachusetts.” He offered his hand. She didn’t take it.
“Anna, Anna MacDonald. Yachts are always straying into the loch at this time of year. Their crews seem to think this is some sort of hostel. Well, it’s not, and I still don’t have a phone.”

“Okay, where do I catch the bus to town?” His eyes lingered on her face. “Oh, no. You're about to tell me there isn't a bus either. Aren't you?”

Anna nodded. The motion sent sunlight gliding through her auburn hair. “That’s right. Welcome to Kinloch Hourn, otherwise known as the Loch of Hell.”

“The name fits,” Luke muttered. “What sort of place doesn’t have a phone or a bus service in this day and age?”

“How about the remotest glen in the Highlands? Up here, one man and his dog constitute a crowd. And before you ask, there are no shops either, unless you count Mrs McCloud in the village, but she only opens on alternate days. The butcher’s van calls every Thursday afternoon, and the library service visits once a month. I think that about covers all the local amenities. Oh yes, there’s a mobile bank too, but that only comes once a fortnight. The school closed last year. But you’re in luck… there’s a hotel and it has a phone.”
“So there’s a God after all.”

“However, its twelve miles down the road in that direction,” she replied, pointing vaguely to some distant place.

The line of Luke’s mouth tightened a fraction. “How do I get there? Walk?”

“Well, you could, but it might rain. And then again it might not. You can never tell for sure. The glen has its own eco-system because the mountains are high, and the valley floor is narrow or something like that. I don’t fully understand the reasoning behind it…” Anna’s words trailed off. She felt herself blush. What on earth was she rambling on about? The guy didn’t need a science lesson, especially from her, but he was so good-looking that every time he gazed at her with those compelling brown eyes, she lost control of her tongue. Distractions of his type she could do without, especially when she was getting over a disastrous love affair, but the way Luke looked at her made her feel uneasy in a pleasant sort of way.

“I suppose I could offer to take you…”

“You don’t have to. You’ve been kind enough. I’ll just walk.”

“You could just pull up anchor as I suggested, and sail round to Fort William. There’s a boatyard there with facilities for visiting yachts and their crews.”

“Which I could call if I had a phone. Thanks again,” he said turning to leave.

She shifted her feet. She wasn’t normally unhelpful, but there was something about his attitude which put her on the defensive. “Wait!"

He stopped in midstride and turned. The dogs looked at him, then at their mistress, as if waiting for some clue as to what they should do with this stranger who was invading their space.