Laying a Ghost (2 page)
Nick looked startled, as if he’d forgotten. “Yes.” He pulled his cup toward him, curling his hand around it. “But it’s almost healed now.”
Stella seemed about to ask for more details, but Nick lifted his cup and began to take careful sips from it, his gaze focused on the table. John didn’t get the impression that he was being deliberately rude; the man was just too tired to think about more than one thing at a time. He tried to catch Stella’s eye to give her a casual yet meaningful look, signaling her to leave the man be, but it wasn’t needed. The jangle of the door bell heralded new customers -- a father and his young son from Edinburgh who’d been on the island fishing for the past week -- and Stella turned and walked toward them, her hand poised to ruffle the boy’s bright-red curls as she did every time she saw the poor wee lad.
“It’s furnished,” John said, finally answering Nick’s question. “And you’ll still have water and power, but there’s not a crumb of edible food in the place, the sheets will be damp, and you’ll be fair choking on the dust.” He took a sip of his own drink and then reached for a biscuit, dunking the ginger nut into his coffee before popping it into his mouth. “Are you that set on staying there then?” Which was a tactful way of asking the man his plans, if ever there was one, John reflected.
“Yes,” Nick said, drinking more of his coffee with his eyes closed. “I’ll get the place cleaned up. I don’t suppose you know if there’s a phone?” Something in his voice had changed, making it colder, more distant.
John shrugged off the small rebuff, settling back in his chair and reminding himself that the man was tired. “Aye, there is. Of course there is.” He took another biscuit and bit into it hard after adding dryly, “Or did you think we used smoke signals up here?”
“I thought that was Native Americans,” Nick murmured, bringing his other hand up and wrapping it around the cup too, as if for warmth. With his elbow propped on the table, John could see that it was Nick’s wrist, and not his hand, that had been injured. He couldn’t help but wonder how it had happened, but he didn’t see that there was much point in prying. It wasn’t likely the man would stay on Traighshee, after all. “I haven’t slept for ... well ... Let’s just say it won’t matter what condition the house is in, because I won’t be noticing.”
“There’s a food shop over the way. Want to stop in there before we leave and get some supplies?”
“Actually, yeah, if you wouldn’t mind.” Nick drank some more coffee and sighed. He stared down into the cup. “I’ve only seen pictures of the house. My mother kept them in an album that I wasn’t allowed to look at unless she was sitting with me. She and my uncle ... they didn’t get along. She used to say ...” He blinked. “Is there anyone who’d be willing to help me with the house, do you think? I can do some of it myself, but I’m not all that handy at anything more than the basics, and if I can stay --” Nick stopped, cleared his throat, and started again. “If I decide to stay, I’ll probably need to hire someone to give me a hand.”
The leisurely pace of the island life, where there was always tomorrow to start a job, meant that Nick’s request had John blinking at him in surprise. The man hadn’t even seen the house properly and he was after changing it? Well, now. But it sounded as if he was planning to be around for a while. John linked his hands under the table, rubbing his thumb across the palm of his right hand as he thought about spending time with this man, working with him. It’d mean staying off the sea, but the money would probably be better and more reliable.
Nick looked at him, and John gave up trying to find reasons to convince himself that what he’d decided to do the moment Nick had finished speaking was the sensible course of action. It wasn’t. It wasn’t sensible at all to put himself in a situation where the attraction he was feeling might increase, but he had to trust that he could keep Nick from guessing how he felt about him. At the moment he was feeling a combination of protectiveness, because the man looked exhausted, and a slightly less noble desire to hear that cool, drawling voice say his name for the first time. John was starting to feel split in two; he sounded calm and businesslike as far as he could tell, but he felt anything but calm inside.
There wasn’t any way that this could work. It was a huge risk and he really should just back off now. Take the man to Rossneath and drive away.
Nick raised his eyebrows, a faint, polite smile on his face, and John stopped pretending that walking away was an option. Not until he’d seen what the man looked like smiling properly, the wariness gone from his face.
“Not much I haven’t turned my hand to,” John replied. He jerked his head at their surroundings. “Helped Stella to convert this place, if you want a reference.”
“Aye,” Stella nodded It didn’t surprise John at all that she’d been listening in on their conversation -- any hint of an outsider trying to settle on the island piqued curiosity like little else could. “Trustworthy, and as you can see, he does a fine job.”
“It’s very nice.” It sounded as if Nick were answering automatically. Then, to John, “I’m sure we can work something out. I’m not in a hurry to do anything more than get the place livable again, so I can work around whatever ... schedule, you have.” There was what seemed to be a hint of condescension in his voice.
John laughed, refusing to be ruffled. Or hurt. Off-islanders, they were all the same. “Schedule? No. There may be disadvantages to living up here, but that’s not one of them. The tides are all that stop me from doing what I want, when I want. But don’t be too fast to spend your money; for all you know the place will need no more than a scrubbing brush.” He stood up, snagging a final biscuit. “And in that case, I’ll be after introducing you to my sister, Janet.”
Nick stood up as well, adjusting the strap on the bag that was still slung over his shoulder and had been resting on the chair beside him while they’d been sitting. “You’re very optimistic.” Which was, John thought, less rude than telling him he was mad, although it seemed fairly clear that that was what Nick was thinking.
“Don’t forget your case,” Stella said, as they stopped at the counter so that Nick could pay. “John, you take it for him, that’s a good lad.”
“No, it’s fine.” Nick picked up his suitcase. “I’ve carried it all this way. I can take it a little further.”
John hesitated, but not for long. Nick was clinging onto the suitcase as if it was holding him up, not the other way around. “My car’s just outside anyway,” he said, more to placate Stella, who was frowning at him, than to reassure Nick. “We’ll just put your gear in there, and then I’ll walk with you to the shop.” There was no way that Nick would be able to carry everything he’d need with an injured wrist, but to stave off the refusal of help that he was sure was hovering on the man’s lips, John added, “I’m fresh out of tea bags myself, as it happens.”
Nick nodded and gave Stella a polite smile before heading towards the door, reaching out with his left hand and giving the brightly polished brass doorknob a sharp twist before hissing under his breath in pain and cradling his wrist to him, dropping the suitcase to the floor.
Stella had already disappeared into the restaurant area to deal with the order from the
“I’m fine,” Nick snapped “It’s just ... I’m fine.” He did, however, let John open the door for him before he picked up the suitcase again.
Fortunately, the car really was just outside, and Nick seemed willing to accept John’s help in putting both bags into the trunk. He still seemed pale as they started toward the food shop, his wrist still held carefully against his chest as if he was protecting it from being jarred further.
After a moment, Nick glanced sideways at John, seeming to understand that an explanation of some sort would be polite. “I broke it about three months ago. There was a plate and screws in there. They had a hell of a time putting it back together.” His smile was strained. “The bandage is more to remind me to be careful with it than anything else. Although you can see how well that works.”
“It’s not surprising you don’t like being reminded to be careful. I’d be the same myself, I shouldn’t wonder.” They reached the village shop and John made sure he got to the door first, without making it obvious, lengthening his stride a little.
The shop wasn’t too busy; the children were still in school, which meant that the narrow aisle in front of the comics section was easier to navigate than it was at the weekend. John gave the shopkeeper a pleasant smile and murmured, “How are you, George?” He didn’t like the man; George Dunn would sell you the air you breathed if he could, the tight-fisted old sod, but John preferred to keep his feelings to himself. He’d had a lot of practice at that.
The shop was -- just -- big enough to mean that there was a choice of cart or basket. John pulled out a cart and murmured casually, “I’ll push it, you throw stuff in. Well, maybe not the eggs. And don’t let me forget my tea bags. My mother comes visiting on Wednesdays, and if I can’t give her a cup of tea after her walk up the hill, I’ll never hear the last of it.”
“Your family all lives on the island?” Nick asked, putting a tin of soup into the cart.
“I’ve two sisters.” John was willing to talk in the hopes that it would encourage Nick to open up a little. “Both married. Andrea’s the youngest; she had her second baby not two weeks ago. She lives at the top end of the island. Janet lives here in town; she’s got two kids too, one of each.” He smiled, because it was hard not to when he thought about his nieces and nephews. His mother adored them all but was determined not to spoil them. John, with a cheerful indifference to the consequences, indulged them as much as his sisters would allow.
“What does your father do?”
“Passed away last year,” John felt the sheer unreality of it, as he always did. “They went out on the boat, he and my uncle Collum, and a storm came up. They were in sight of land when a wave took the boat and capsized it. Dad had hold of Uncle Collum by the scruff of his neck, keeping his head out of the water because Collum’d broken his collarbone, the clumsy devil.”
They’d come to a halt now, side-by-side in the aisle, with Nick looking a little awkward, if sympathetic.
John sighed and reached for a tin of baked beans. “Dad got thrown against a rock. Knocked a hole in his head you could put your fist through. And then it was Collum’s turn to do the hard work and get them both home the best he could.” He studied the picture on the tin and then put it back on the shelf, giving Nick an apologetic smile “Sorry. You’ve losses of your own to bear without hearing about mine.”
Nick looked shaken, but he swallowed and nodded, his good hand tightening on the edge of the cart before he moved it to touch John’s hand briefly. “I --” His voice broke a bit, and he cleared his throat before trying again. “I’m sorry. It’s good for me to be reminded that it’s not just me. I ... I didn’t know my uncle Ian. He and my mother didn’t get along. I don’t even know why he left the house to her, unless it was just because he didn’t have anyone else to leave it to.” The man seemed to be making an effort, at least, which was good. He wouldn’t last long on the island if he had everyone convinced that he was just a typical American, rude and thoughtless.
John couldn’t fault him for not mourning the death of a man he’d never met, but it was clear from his reaction that some bereavement was still troubling him. His mother’s death, maybe? Although that was four years ago, and you’d have thought by now --
Chiding himself for being overly inquisitive, even though it was motivated by concern, John carried on walking. “He spoke of you. Not often, no, but there’s a picture of you on the table in the hall that your mother must’ve sent him, so maybe they weren’t always at odds.” He gave Nick a small grin. “You’re older and wearing more clothes now, which is why I didn’t recognize you. You’d have been about three, and having a fine time in your bath by the looks of it.”
“My mother had a tendency to take pictures like that. I think the last one she took was when I was about eight. After that, I learned to lock the bathroom door.” Nick smiled a little bit, as if remembering. He stopped and looked at the shelf in front of him. “Tea bags,” he said, gesturing “Which ones did you want?”
“The cheapest, but as my mother would notice, we’d better make it PG Tips instead.” He took the box from Nick and put it in a separate section of the cart.
“Hello, John!”
They both turned, and John attached a polite smile to his face. Moira. Hadn’t taken her long to spot a new face, he thought uncharitably. They’d grown up together and she hadn’t improved with age.
“Well, now, someone’s stocking up.” Her gaze flickered inquisitively from the shopping cart to Nick’s face.
Giving in to the inevitable, John introduced them, and Moira’s pale-blue eyes widened with pleasure. “You’ve come to live here then, Mr. Kelley?”
“That’s the plan,” Nick agreed.
“Well, now.” Moira beamed at him, getting a strained smile in return. “We’ll just have to make you feel at home then, won’t we?” She edged a little closer and rested her hand on Nick’s arm. John rolled his eyes without troubling to hide his feelings because Moira had forgotten he existed -- something he wished she’d done a good ten years earlier -- and then frowned as Nick’s hand curled into a fist and he stepped back.
“I’m sure I’ll like it here. But I’m really tired, and I don’t want to infringe on any more of Mr. McIntyre’s time than I have to, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll finish up here so he can drive me out to the house.”
Moira tittered. “Oh, he’s got nothing better to do,” she said dismissively. “Not when he can’t go fishing, anyway. Isn’t that right. John?”
John took a tight hold on his temper. “I was brought up never to contradict a lady, Moira.”
