500 Miles from You (Scottish Bookshop #3)(50)



“He was very grumpy,” she complained to Nina in the bus the next day.

Nina squinted. “Cormac MacPherson?” she said. He’d done the health visits for John when he was tiny and had bounced the little creature up and down, then dangled him from his fingertips, turned him upside down to glance at his bum, said, “Yup, perfect bairn, A-one,” and gotten him straight up again, while she had watched in horror. Lennox had allowed himself a private grin, given how much Nina fretted about the baby and whether he was all right and if a snuffle meant he was going to die. Lennox knew livestock, and obviously his only son wasn’t livestock. But he wasn’t exactly not livestock, and Lennox knew something bouncing with glorious health when he saw it.

“I know,” said Lissa crossly. She was more upset than she’d let on; she’d kind of thought they were becoming . . . friends didn’t seem to quite work. Pen pals?

However, she’d made sure every other note she’d sent that day had been entirely professional in possibly quite a passive-aggressive way, and he had, equally passive-aggressively, not gotten back to her at all and left her in quite the temper.

Her face softened, though, as she spied the new Kate Atkinson novel and Nina handed it over.

“Maybe London’s affecting Cormac,” said Nina thoughtfully. “Making him cranky. Is he happy there?”

Lissa looked pensive. “I don’t know,” she said. “It never occurred to me to ask. I’ve no idea how he’s getting on.”

“Right,” said Nina. “Well . . . maybe you should?”

“Hmm,” said Lissa. “And what about Cameron Blaine?”

Nina looked around. “Well,” she said, “I don’t know. I mean, I believe books can fix most things, but . . .”

She had a sudden thought.

“You could try?” And she went to the shelf of classics and pulled out The Catcher in the Rye.

“Buying him a book?” said Lissa.

“No need to sound so sarcastic.”

“I don’t want to buy him a present! I want to clip him round the ear.”

“Tell me you didn’t say that to Cormac.”

“No,” said Lissa, looking chastened. “He’s not talking to me now anyway.”

She picked up the familiar book, the edition she knew with the red horse on the cover.

Lissa looked at Nina. “Do you think? It’s ancient now.”

Nina shrugged. “Does as good a job at reaching adolescent alienation as anything I’ve ever known.”

“I suppose,” said Lissa. “Okay, I’ll take it. Cormac can pay me back for going above and beyond.”

“Bring it back if he doesn’t want it,” said Nina.

“What if he can’t read?”

“That too.”

“What if the dog eats it?”

“I think you’re procrastinating.”

Lissa thought guiltily of everything she should have been doing and felt the anxiety surge again. “Maybe,” she admitted.

“That’s okay,” said Nina. “Most people, when they come across the Blaines, just turn and run. Procrastination is a step in the right direction.”

BUT EVEN WHEN she wanted to email Cormac to tell him what she’d done—she’d left a note inside the book, put it on top of the letter box, and, she was ashamed to say, run away—she found she didn’t, because she still hadn’t heard from him. And then she was puzzled why she even cared that she hadn’t heard from him and wanted to stop checking her phone, which was annoying because . . . well, it was annoying. He was being stubborn and irritating and accusing her of not doing her job, and she was furious.

CORMAC WAS FURIOUS. He would have thought that she of all people would understand the vulnerability of damaged young men; she was literally there to try to look after them and make life a bit better. Okay, so they were a bit nasty, but he’d met plenty worse on her beat. He reckoned she thought everyone in the Highlands was just adorable like on a shortbread tin and everything was gorgeous and perfect. She didn’t want anything to cloud her judgment of how beautiful the place was, to spoil her vision of loveliness. It was all about her. But there was poverty and deprivation there as there was anywhere else—sometimes worse, due to isolation, stretched services, low wages, and bad public transportation. She couldn’t turn her head away just because it wasn’t pretty and she had to realize that. And Robbie was preying on his mind too.

London annoyed him tonight; it was hot and noisy, and he couldn’t sleep. He wished he were back at home, with the cool breeze coming through the open cottage window, nothing but the rustle of . . . Ned! Shit! He sat bolt upright in bed.





Chapter 39


He was still cross with Lissa. He didn’t want to email her. And it was late. But he’d forgotten about Ned! How could he? Damn damn damn damn. London had turned his head.

He reached for his laptop and opened it up. Maybe she’d be in bed. Or asleep. He didn’t want to type first; it would look like he was apologizing.

He looked at his last sent message and winced a little. Maybe it had been a little harsh. But even so, this was serious.

He sat in his T-shirt and boxers on the side of the too-small single bed, rubbing the back of his neck with his large hand, wondering what to do. Finally he began to type: Are you up?

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