The Island House (41 page)

“If I was going to make one—a crane, I mean—what would I need?”

Simon said, promptly, “Timber poles—sturdy, straight grain—and rope. And, let’s see . . . pulley blocks, a couple of slings too. Depends how big the stone is. And a bunch of good strong bolts to hold it all together. Not hard.”

Freya pointed at the cover on her father’s grave. “But the stone I want to move is around that big. Well, longer—and wider. Thick too; quite a bit thicker, actually.” She demonstrated, holding her hands apart. Bigger, smaller, “Something like this.”

Simon nodded patiently. Women and dimensions. “Granite?”

She frowned. “Not sure. Would it be very expensive to make the crane?”

Simon didn’t know Freya’s financial situation, but he could guess—those references to being a student. “Well, there’s a good hardware shop in Ardleith, a real one—and a timber merchant. Not forgetting the Chandlery, too, for the ropes and pulleys, though we might go for stainless-steel cable, on second thought. I’m not sure what it would all cost, but I’ll bet we can negotiate a deal. What’s the worst they’re going to do—say no? And if it’s still too much, we can think of another way; that’s what I do. I’ve got a car, by the way—like me to drive you to Ardleith? Happy to.”

Freya looked away. “You’re very kind, Simon. But . . .”

“Ah, there’s a
but
. . .” His smile glinted.

Here was an offer of help, a real offer. What was wrong with her? The gray lifted from Freya’s heart. “I shall say yes then, and thank you, on one condition.”

“And that is?” Simon stretched his arms along the back of the seat. He looked at her expectantly.

He really is very attractive,
thought Freya. “I pay for your time, a professional consultation. You could come over and have a look at what’s needed before we buy anything. Just so I have an idea of cost. And while you’re on the island, you could give me advice about power and, oh, lots of things.” The words came out of her mouth so easily, but when they were said, she understood. The decision had been made. She could not leave Findnar now or she’d wonder all her life. “When would be convenient?”

“Let me think, let me construe, let me not jump in without proper consideration.” Simon pantomimed pondering deeply. She laughed at his silliness, a delighted giggle.

“Would today be too soon? It would be great to see the island again—apart from anything else.”

Was she taken aback by his eagerness? “But aren’t you busy? I’ve interrupted your work.”

“Ah, but I’m on summer break. My time’s my own until autumn, and it’s a lovely day.” His smile was winning.

Light had broken through the ceiling of white cloud, and there were ever-growing patches of blue behind the rips. It
was
a lovely day, and as the errant sun shone down on her father’s grave, Freya could feel warmth gather in the black stone. Would he approve of her taking Simon to Findnar?

Oh, grow up. Take responsibility!
“Thank you, Simon. It’s a deal. Let’s agree on a price for your advice, though. Just to keep this on the level?”

He stood. “I have standard hourly charges, but the first consultation’s free, of course. Tell you what—let’s get over there and I’ll work out two time lines and two costings. One for raising the stone, one for evaluating what could be done with your house. I’ll break both down into modules, and you can commission me for as much or as little as you please. Done?” He reached out a hand.

A moment’s hesitation, and Freya shook it. “Done deal.” Much
easier shaking his hand than Dan’s. No second agenda.
Go on, admit it. You’re happy. You won’t need to be alone.
“Today.”

“Only today? We’ll have to work fast, then.”

Freya stammered, “I didn’t mean, that is . . .”

Simon swept her up from the seat. “Time’s a-wasting. Let’s look at your island, Freya Dane.”

Breathless, Freya allowed him to chivy her from the churchyard. It was comforting not having to make all the decisions for once.

CHAPTER 28

I
’M SO
sorry.” Rain hit Compline’s windows as if sprayed from a hose. “This is such a waste of your time, Simon. Not exactly strolling-around weather.”

The architect stood behind Freya’s shoulder as they stared out toward the stone circle through veils of falling water. “Wait five minutes and it’s bound to stop,” he told her.

“I’ll confess the crossing got my hopes up—it was actually warm on the water for a minute.” Though Freya joked, she felt oddly self-conscious. Yesterday Dan had been here in the kitchen, and talking to Simon alone, oddly, seemed like some kind of betrayal.

“Would you mind if I looked around while we’re waiting? The house was boarded up all those years ago, so I never got to see inside.”

“Of course not.” Freya gestured toward the staircase. “Shall we start up there?”

Simon climbed the stairs behind her, and there was that intimate feeling of his eyes on her back. Did she like being so closely inspected?

On the narrow landing, there were three identical doors. “It’s quite a small space up here—only two bedrooms and this.” The third door led into a linen cupboard.

Simon pulled it open. “Quite a large space. Good for hot-water storage, or even—at a pinch—a shower room.”

“Good storage-storage too.”

Simon grinned. “Old houses. Never enough places to put things. But we can fix that, we can fix anything.”

I’ll bet you can.
“Who’s this
we
?”

Tousled hair, black clothes, striking, lean—Simon really was a treat to look at, and it occurred to Freya that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so struck by the sheer physical presence of a man. But she smiled as she looked away. After all, it was rude to stare.

“So, this is mine.” She opened the door to her bedroom. “Small, but I have everything I need. Cozy, really—a bonus on a cold night—and the chimney flue from below goes up the wall. That helps take the edge off.” Seen with a stranger’s eye, the single bed in the white room seemed very chaste and narrow. Too narrow for . . .
Stop that! Concentrate.

She preceded Simon to the next door. “And this was Dad’s. The bed’s a bit too big for the room—doesn’t leave much space. Lord knows how he got it up here.”

“Just like Goldilocks. One bed too small, one too big . . .” Simon grinned, definitely a naughty grin, and Freya couldn’t help responding.
Too fast.
She instructed her face and eyes into neutral gear. That worked until he said, “Pity there’s no third to be just right.” Simon winked. “But let’s see what you’ve got here.” He paced out the dimensions of the room, all business.

Freya let him. She wasn’t ordinarily passive, so that was an interesting response.
He likes to control things.
She half-muttered, “Oh, shut up, Mum.”

“What did you say?” Simon glanced toward her.

“Nothing.”
Liar.
She added, hastily, “So what do you think?”

“Well, it won’t be hard to rationalize the space up here.” He tapped along the wall to where she stood. “Lath and plaster. Very easy to take down, and you might even be able to squeeze a bathroom between the two reconfigured bedrooms—if you let me colonize the linen cupboard. Then you could use some of the space in that massive bathroom downstairs as a laundry and for storage too.”

“Not a bad idea.”
Too expensive, of course.
Freya led her guest back to the kitchen. Money. She’d always got by on so little.
You could sell something, though, it’s all yours. You’d have fun working on this house.
The gold torque glittered in its nest of cotton wool.
No!
Freya shook the thought away. All those government regulations hovered, just waiting for her to raise her head above the parapet.

Simon roamed the kitchen. “So, tell me what you’d like to do in here.”

“I haven’t really thought about it, not properly.”

He lifted the pump handle and said, solemnly, “I have late-breaking news. The twenty-first century has all kinds of cool things—taps, for instance. And genuine running water, hot
or
cold, your choice.” He grinned.

Freya folded her arms, and unfolded them. What was there to be defensive about? “Dad must have liked things the way they were.”

Simon looked at her curiously. “Do you?”

“It’s more work but . . .” Yes, it was more work, but she was getting used to the way things were on the island.

Pumping water sucks, be honest.

Simon’s eyes crinkled at Freya’s rueful expression. “No rush. If you do decide to sort out power and water for the house, it certainly can be done. Maybe you could consider a small wind generator with solar panels on the roof. You’d hardly ever need the backup though. I remember it was quite breezy here sometimes, a rich resource for power.”

Freya laughed. “An understatement.”

Simon sauntered over and stood beside her.

She fought the urge to move away. Just slightly. She’d always valued personal space.

His lips quirked. “This is how people keep warm in Scotland, Freya.”

“Really?” She fought natural suspicion.

“Yes. Propinquity.” The rolled
rrrrrrrrr
made her laugh, and his grin was wicked. “Seriously, reliable warmth is important if the winter is not to get you down. SAD: seasonal affective disorder is real in this part of the world. More daylight in the house would help if you’re vulnerable.”

“I’m not sure. There was always too much sun in Sydney to know.” They really were standing very close to one another. And there was that moment, that delicious feeling of hanging in space as it seemed he would bend down and . . .

Why did Freya do it? She moved away a step and said, recklessly, half-sorry, “I did wonder about a glass roof over the kitchen. Now that’d do great things on a dark day.”
Timing. Always been my problem.

But Simon didn’t seem to be offended by her skittishness. He said, lightly, “Not just a pretty face, Miss Dane. Do you have paper?”

“Paper?” She was thrown by the non sequitur.

He said, patiently, “Yes. I could draw something—see if I can put your idea into pictures.”

Freya opened the door to the big room quite quickly. “Sure. In here.” A natural excuse to move away.

Simon paused in the threshold. “Well, well. Your father had a great eye—this is a lovely room.” He ambled to the windows. “Bet the view’s brilliant too.”

Freya half-closed her eyes. What an elegant body Simon had: broad, straight shoulders, muscular back, long—very long—legs. And his hair. She wanted to touch his hair, feel its texture. “When you can see it. All of the western sky.”

Simon turned back. Perhaps he’d felt her eyes on him this time. He pointed to Michael’s desk. “May I use this?”

She hurried over. “Of course. I’ll just make room.” She stacked her father’s card files on the nearest windowsill.

“Please don’t worry. Paper is all I need.” Simon sat without fuss.

“Is this okay?” She held out a wad of copy paper.

“Grand. I’d kill for a cuppa though. Always work better with a cuppa.” A glinting smile.

“Sure.” Freya felt the need to clatter about the kitchen as she pumped the kettle full and fired up the gas ring.

“Milk’s in the barn—that’s my version of a fridge. Won’t be a moment.”

Simon called out, “It’s pouring out there. Happy with black.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. Besides, I like milk in mine.”
And similar froth and babble . . .
Freya cursed herself as she ran back from the barn; she really was bad at flirting these days.
Note to self: stop trying so hard.

The kettle was singing as Freya hurried back into the house, damp curls all over her face. She grabbed a dry sweatshirt from the bathroom, dragged her hair into a ponytail, and ran to pull the kettle from the gas ring.

In the doorway of the big room, she paused to settle her breathing. She carried a tray with the best of the mugs, and there was even a small silver jug for the milk. It might be tarnished, but Simon would appreciate the pretty form. “As advertised, tea with milk—and a surprise. Tim Tams, the best chocolate biscuits in the world. I smuggled my own from Sydney.”

Simon was leaning against the window, shoulders back against the glass. He seemed completely at ease. “Have a look.” He pointed to a sketch on the desk. “Just first thoughts, of course.” He strolled toward her. “You’ve changed your clothes.”

Self-conscious, Freya put the tray down and smoothed her top. It was as if they were speaking a different language to each other, the English conversation an irrelevance. “You were right. It was wet out there.” She leaned over the desk. “You do work fast.”

Simon had scrawled an impression of the back of the house with an airy structure attached. There was even a girl sitting at the table in the redesigned kitchen. Just a suggestive line or so, but she was looking straight back at Freya, waving. A little figure wearing a scribble of red.

Freya tensed. And then her brow cleared. Of course, the sweater she’d been wearing before was red. She’d pulled it on at the last minute before going over to Portsolly, just to make herself feel better.