500 Miles from You (Scottish Bookshop #3)(16)

Here on Kirrinfief’s pretty, open cobbled square, she could feel the full force of its chill and pulled her new puffer jacket closer around her. The houses were higgledy-piggledy, in gray stone, with doors that led right out onto the pavement; there wasn’t a straight roof to be found. Smoke puffed out of several chimneys. There was a cozy old pub on the corner, with hanging baskets outside, and a bright red-painted grocers with mops and brooms propped up against the window. A pale blue bus was parked in the corner, selling books. Lissa tried to imagine sitting and reading a book again. It seemed incredibly unlikely, managing to slow her brain down, managing to concentrate for long enough without breaking the spell. And she couldn’t read anything triggering or upsetting . . .

Something else lost.

She looked at her watch. The local GP was supposed to be meeting her, talking her through the job. Bit of a jack-of-all-trades, by the sound of things, provisions being so patchy and far apart. In London it sometimes felt like there was a hospital every hundred yards. It didn’t seem like that was the case here.

She looked around again, up the hill, where long streets of narrow terraced houses weaved their way upward, backed against the deep green of the mountains. To her left she could catch the sun glinting off Loch Ness. That was a bit mad. She wondered if it was rude to ask about the monster. She could see it was a pretty spot. But what did people do here? What on earth . . . How did you pass your days without restaurants and theaters and nightclubs and shopping and exhibitions and cocktail bars?

Suddenly, the oldest, dirtiest car Lissa had ever seen charged around the square at top speed. It was a big old Volvo in a very unappetizing shade of brown, and the back of it appeared to be full of straw and dogs. It screeched to a halt before her and a tall, imposing woman stepped out, wearing a tweed skirt and a dark green polo. She had fine features and her skin was weather-beaten, but she wore no makeup, her hair gray and cut into a bob, more or less. Lissa had the oddest sense looking at her that she hadn’t changed her style since her first day at primary school. As premonitions go, she was spot-on. The dogs, meanwhile, were going berserk.

“Hello!” barked Dr. Joan Davenport.

Lissa frowned slightly and felt her heart rate jump up and her nerves pile in. “Um,” said Lissa.

“Are you Alyssa Westcott?”

“Um, Lissa?”

Joan looked like she couldn’t care less about that. “Well, you’re my charge, it appears. I did ask for a boy.”

Lissa was confused.

“Just my little joke! Never mind! Nobody reads, I get it, I get it.”

“Are you the GP?” said Lissa, as Joan started around the vehicle.

“Huh? Well, of course. Did Cormac not explain?”

Lissa didn’t know how to tell Joan that she’d been too anxious and full of worry to contact Cormac to ask the questions she needed to; she’d barely replied to his email at all, as if ignoring what was coming would somehow make it go away.

She shook her head, and Joan looked at her keenly. Her bluff manner wasn’t put on—that was just who she was—but it didn’t mean she wasn’t perceptive.

“You’ve had a tough time,” she observed.

Lissa dragged the bag behind her and stared at the ground. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m perfectly fit to work.”

Joan glanced at her again. “Well, we’ll try and keep your workload light. I’m sure they’ll keep Cormac busy!”

Joan opened the back door of her ancient car and three scruffy terriers jumped out.

“Yesss!” she said, her tone instantly changing from brusque welcome to motherly concern.

“There we are, Montgomery, my angel! Jasper! Jasper! Come here, my lovely boy! Pepper! Pepper! Come here!”

But it was too late. All three dogs were immediately leaping up, covering Lissa with their mucky paws. She was frozen in fear. She had learned on her rounds to be very wary of dogs; many dogs in London were bred to be guard dogs and righteously defended their property whenever she walked up the path. And these hairy beasts seemed completely uncontrollable. As she tried to make them go down, she saw Joan looking at her, the stern face completely gone.

“Aren’t they wonderful?” she said. “You’re lucky. They like you.”

Lissa did not feel in the least bit lucky as she attempted to gingerly pat one on its fuzzy head.

“You’d better get used to dogs if you’re going to work a country beat,” observed Joan.

And almost completely surrounded by panting dogs—a state Joan appeared to consider entirely desirable—Lissa followed Joan up behind the square to a whitewashed stone house, separate from the others, with a brass plate on the wall announcing the GP surgery.

“Is it just you?” said Lissa, worried. “Do you take the dogs in?”

“No,” said Joan. “Bloody Health and Safety.”

She whistled, surprisingly loudly, and the dogs left Lissa alone and slunk around the back of the house. Lissa peered after them and saw a rather pretty medium-sized garden and three dog kennels. The idea of a GP surgery having a garden tickled her.

“And it’s just you?”

Joan nodded. “Yes. Small population in the village, plus hamlets and homesteads. I spend a lot of time in the car, and so will you.”

“Oh yes,” said Lissa. “They said there’d be a car . . .”