Keepsakes from the Cottage by the Loch (Loch Cameron #6)

Chapter 16

SIXTEEN

The Wee Dram had been part of Loch Cameron’s high street since Tara was little. She remembered coming in with her dad on the weekends to pick up supplies for the Inn, and having to wait patiently while Eric chatted with the owner, Grenville McNulty, who still ran the shop.

In the window, faded posters for Cinzano and Martini Rosso competed with a classic globe-style cocktail cabinet. There was a large display for Loch Cameron Distillery single malt whisky, and a sign outside that said:

LOCAL STOCKIST, OLD MAIDS SINGLE MALT

BOOK YOUR DISTILLERY TOUR HERE

FREE SAMPLES

Of course, Grenville was a good deal older now, although he’d always seemed old to Tara. He wore a white, neatly trimmed beard and was dressed smartly in dark slacks, a cream-coloured shirt with a pointed collar that Tara assumed had been fashionable in the 1970s. It was open at the neck, and Grenville wore a wine-coloured cravat with it.

He sat in a black leather armchair behind an impressive green baize-topped table, greeting Tara as she pushed open the heavy glass-panelled door to the shop. As soon as she opened the door, a fusty aroma of leather, cigars, dust and whisky hit her: it had never changed, as far as she could remember.

‘Afternoon, Miss Ballantyne,’ Grenville sang out as she walked in. ‘How are you, my dear? It’s been a while.’

‘Fine, thanks, Grenville.’ Tara approached the desk, smiling, even though she felt that now-familiar sense of unreality in coming back to somewhere she hadn’t stepped inside since childhood. There had been no reason to come here as an adult on her infrequent trips to Loch Cameron. But, now, she could almost see herself, aged eight, holding her mother’s hand as Dotty gossiped with Grenville. It was slightly surreal. ‘Mum’s sent me over for the drinks order.’ The shop was lit by gold-hued lamps, and Tara thought that added to the feeling of being transported back in time. It always seemed to be sometime in the past in Grenville’s shop.

‘Aha. I have it just here for you, dear.’ Grenville got up and went into the back room behind the counter, returning with a box containing a number of bottles of whisky and two of gin. ‘All Loch Cameron Distillery, as usual, and the botanical gin your mother likes.’ He put the box on the counter. ‘On the tab, I assume?’

‘Please. I think Dad said he’ll come in and settle up.’

‘Right you are, dear. So, how are you enjoying being home? And how’s poor Dotty? I expect she’s being the world’s absolute worst patient,’ Grenville chuckled. ‘And I say that with love, of course. Never let it be said that I don’t appreciate your dear mother.’

‘Oh, well, she’s okay. But, yes. A terrible patient.’ Tara smiled. ‘Yesterday she called me from the bedroom to remind me how to make tea properly for the guests. I’m twenty-nine.’

‘Ah. Mothers.’ Grenville clucked his tongue. ‘We do love them so.’ He gave her a cheeky grin. ‘Well, please do give Dotty my regards, and let me know if I can be of any help. I was thinking that I should pop over and entertain her with a crossword or something of that type. What can you suggest, dear?’

‘Actually, I expect she’d just really appreciate a chat. You know that she, err… likes to keep up to date with what’s happening in the village.’ Tara knew that both she and Grenville understood what that was code for: Dotty was a huge gossip and was probably missing her usual opportunities to glean all the new goings-on from her friends. That said, Tara had noticed that her mum had been on the phone an awful lot, so obviously the rumour mill wasn’t quite exhausted as yet.

‘I can certainly do that.’ Grenville nodded decisively. ‘Poor dear. Don’t worry, Miss Ballantyne. I’ve got plenty of salacious titbits to entertain Dotty with, from the distillery tours. There have been some unbelievable happenings of late.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘You know that I’ve taken over the tours of the distillery, I take it? It started a couple of years ago, and I rather enjoy it. Gives me an opportunity to stretch my talents for amateur dramatics.’

‘I didn’t know, but that sounds fun.’ Tara wondered if Grenville was lonely; the shop didn’t seem like somewhere that was always packed full of people, although it had been open for years and so Grenville must be doing okay for custom. She realised that she didn’t know much about him: he was single, as far as she knew, and though he was a friend of her parents – all the shopkeepers and businesses on the high street knew each other – she’d never really spoken to him, just one to one.

‘Oh, it is, dear. Of course, you used to perform yourself.’ Grenville sat back down in his leather chair with a sigh. ‘My dancing days are probably behind me, but I used to love a foxtrot.’

‘Well, it’s never too late to get back into it,’ Tara said. ‘If it was something you enjoyed.’

‘Well, I’m not doing anything now.’ Grenville twinkled at her, standing up and appearing at her side rather suddenly. He held out an arm and bowed. ‘Would you do me the honour, Miss Ballantyne?’

‘What, now? Oh, my… all right.’ Tara was thrown by the sudden action, but acquiesced as Grenville put one hand on her waist and clasped her other hand in his. ‘Alexa. Foxtrot,’ he called out, and after a couple of seconds, some big band, jazzy dancing music came on.

‘Goodness. You’ll have to bear with me, it’s been a long time since my ballroom classes.’ Tara giggled, despite the unexpectedness of it. Being a teacher had made her a little more used to a certain level of unpredictability; at school, she could often end up dancing with children in the hallways or talking about gerbil names without warning. A sudden foxtrot with someone she’d known all of her life was just one of those things: she could roll with it. And, since she’d started dancing again, it seemed as though the universe was going to put opportunities to dance in front of her.

‘Nonsense, dear. You’re doing fine. Just follow my lead,’ he said, gently guiding her in the steps. ‘Right foot back, now step to the right… that’s it. Just follow me, dear.’

They danced around the circumference of the shop, and Tara tried to concentrate on remembering the steps.

‘It’s like a waltz, isn’t it? The foxtrot?’ she said, frowning.

‘Yes, not dissimilar. Though the waltz is 3/4, and the foxtrot is 4/4. Time signature,’ Grenville explained, spinning her under his upheld arm. ‘That was just for fun. And, forward.’ He hummed along with the music.

‘Looks like I’m interrupting something. ’

Ramsay’s voice was so familiar that Tara didn’t need to turn around to know it was him standing behind her in the whisky shop. She tensed immediately, her heart going from a pleasant rhythm to racing in a matter of seconds.

Grenville turned her around so that she was facing Ramsay: Tara found herself smiling, reflexively.

She felt the old joy at seeing his face; the familiar energy of him, the rightness of his body.

It was weird seeing him again. Her body reacted to him just like it had in the rehearsal room, the other day. But her memory still knew how many days of grief had passed in the time he was away. Her heart was a raw wound again, and it was almost impossible to stand there with him in the same room and not want to either cry and run away, or leap into his arms and never let go.

That was the thing that was messing with her, and she didn’t know how to deal with it.

‘Ah, Mr Fraser, isn’t it?’ Grenville halted for a moment and smiled politely.

‘Aye. Hello, Grenville,’ Ramsay replied.

‘It’s been a while, eh?’ Grenville let go of Tara and took both of Ramsay’s hands in his. ‘How are you, lad?’

‘I’m okay, thanks.’ Ramsay shot Tara a shy look out of the corner of his eye. Neither one of them had acknowledged the other, yet. ‘Hi, Tara.’

‘Hello again,’ she replied, self-consciously rearranging her ponytail, which was a little awry. She felt as though it must be obvious to absolutely anyone that there was an awkward tension between them, but Grenville hadn’t seemed to notice.

As children, sometimes they’d stared into the dim windows of The Wee Dram and speculated on what whisky tasted like. As teenagers, they’d tried their luck once, aiming to buy a bottle of Loch Cameron single malt, even though they were underage. Looking back, Tara had no idea how they thought they would get away with it: Grenville was her mother’s friend, after all. Everyone knew how old they were.

But, that day, Ramsay had really wanted to get drunk.

Grenville had turned them away with a chuckle, and that had been that. Away with you , he’d shooed them out of the shop.

Ramsay hadn’t said why he’d wanted that bottle of whisky, but Tara could guess. They had snuck a bottle of wine out of the Inn’s bar a couple of times as teenagers and taken it up to a hidden spot, up on Queen’s Point, and, sometimes, he’d cried. He never wanted to talk about it, but she knew it was about his dad.

Let’s get out of here , Ramsay had pulled at her hand, that afternoon, so many years ago. She could still feel his hand in hers. The shadow of his fingers in her palm, the pressure of his anxiety. It was rare for him to be like that, but there was a darkness in him, under the sweetness. Not that it had ever been directed at her. Ramsay’s demons punished him, and him only. Tara may not have known the details of what went on in Ramsay’s home life – despite asking him frequently – but she knew enough about Ramsay’s dad to guess.

‘You were Miss Ballantyne’s original dance partner. Please, do cut in.’ Grenville held Tara’s hand out to Ramsay, smiling paternally. ‘I remember you two. You were the pride of Loch Cameron! Come on, do a little turn for me now. Alexa – Tango!’

‘Oh, I don’t think…’ Tara protested, a crashing feeling of grief mixed with joy at seeing Ramsay, filling her. She wanted to pull her hand back, but she also wanted to bury her face in Ramsay’s chest. Grenville didn’t know what had happened between them, and the emotional inferno that was raging inside Tara’s heart.

Grenville wasn’t privy to her feelings, and neither was Ramsay, although he must be aware that they were intense and difficult. He had always been the one that had known her best, after all. That didn’t just disappear.

‘Better do as we’re told.’ Ramsay surprised her by taking her hand. His hand found her waist, just as it had done a thousand times before. They had danced so many times; it was familiar, easy, natural. She was aware that the tango was a very particular choice, and if Dotty hadn’t schooled her so rigorously as a child about being polite to her elders, she would have protested. But, it seemed easier just to comply.

‘Hey,’ Ramsay breathed, his eyes finding hers.

‘Hey,’ she replied, quietly. They stood there awkwardly for a moment. ‘Grenville, I don’t think…’ Tara began, but then the music began, and Ramsay started to lead her in the tango, a smile at the edge of his lips.

How can he smile? she wondered. Doesn’t he know how difficult this is for me?

And, yet, as soon as he touched her, Tara felt pleasure and rightness erupt in her. It was excruciating, but it was also the feeling she’d craved for so long.

She found that she was concentrating on remembering the steps: her body had kicked in to its old habit of following Ramsay’s body as he led her in the dance. Without really saying anything to each other, the chemistry was flowing between them effortlessly.

She made an involuntary moaning sound as Ramsay dipped her; thankfully, she’d remembered to place her feet correctly so that she didn’t fall over, but she felt unsteady.

‘You never know when you’ll be called upon to tango.’ Ramsay shot her a shy grin as they moved together. They’d mentioned the tango when he’d intruded on her dance practice at the community centre; now that they were actually dancing it again, she could tell that he was slightly awkward. But he was also an ex-dancer, and Tara knew that he wouldn’t deliver less than a professional performance .

Tara tried desperately not to think about how sexual the tango was: how intimate its movements were, how good it felt to be pressed against Ramsay. How good it felt to be led by him in this deeply sensual way.

They turned, Tara tossing her hair instinctively at the well-known about-turn move at the edge of the shop floor, where the dance changed direction and her and Ramsay’s hands swapped, re-joined and powered forward, arms outstretched. Ramsay led her back to the counter, his hand in the small of her back. There was a passion in his eyes as they held hers that made her swallow hard. But, she returned his fiery gaze.

Grenville clapped approvingly. Tara almost didn’t hear him: she was so caught up in Ramsay and the dance – the propulsive, sexy beat of the tango and the heat between them – that real life felt as though it had faded into a background, distant hum.

‘I didn’t expect to be dancing today,’ Ramsay murmured. ‘Or to have you in my arms.’

‘I… I didn’t either.’ Tara blushed hard.

Ramsay held Tara in a deep dip, staring into her eyes.

His gaze flickered to her neck: the heart necklace had come free and was dangling on top of her T shirt. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes returned to hers.

He had seen that she was still wearing it when she’d seen him at the community centre. But, having that secret exposed made her feel vulnerable. She didn’t want Ramsay to know that he still mattered so much to her.

‘Wonderful! Excellent! What a treat!’ Grenville cried, clapping them both, his hands making a delicate prayer shape. ‘Little did I know when I opened the shop this morning that I’d be getting a personal performance from Loch Cameron’s dance champions! You’ve brightened by day, my dear ones. My week!’

‘You’re welcome.’ Ramsay let go of Tara, and she felt the loss of his touch immediately .

‘Um. Yeah. Sure.’ Tara adjusted her t-shirt, and tried to look unruffled. She took her hair down and tied it back up in a ponytail.

‘I actually just came in for a bottle of wine. I’m cooking beef bourguignon and I realised I didn’t have anything. I don’t tend to keep alcohol in the house,’ he added, clearing his throat. She knew what that meant. I’m not like my dad.

‘Ah, good, good. I do have some lovely red wines.’ Grenville held up a finger and went over to a shelf to the left of the shop, and brought back a couple of different choices. ‘These are robust, not too expensive, tasty. I’d say they’d cook well.’ He handed them both to Ramsay.

So, let’s pretend that nothing just happened , Tara thought. Let’s pretend that we didn’t just connect deeply, out of the blue, here in a little whisky shop. That we didn’t just feel what we felt.

‘Thanks. This one will be fine.’ Ramsay held out one of the bottles to Grenville, who nodded appreciatively and turned away to the counter.

‘I’ll wrap it for you,’ he said, pulling out some brown paper with a flourish.

‘So,’ Ramsay jammed his hands into his pockets and met Tara’s eyes, tilting his head to one side. ‘We meet again.’

‘Yeah. Here we are,’ she replied, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. It wasn’t from the exercise.

‘Sorry for the tango,’ he said, his awkwardness belying the confident, controlled way that he had just steered her around Grenville’s shop floor. ‘He put on the music… I guess it was muscle memory that kicked in.’

‘That’s okay. Same here, I guess. You don’t forget.’

‘I certainly haven’t,’ he said, his expression unreadable. ‘You still wear it.’

She knew he meant the necklace. He’d mentioned it before, at the community centre.

‘Yes,’ she replied, softly. There was a silence between them; Tara realised that she was biting her lip. ‘It’s a nice memory. Just because something’s in the past doesn’t mean that you can’t still take pleasure from it.’ She’d said it before thinking, and as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them.

His eyebrows hiked in surprise.

‘Oh. I…’ he began, awkwardly.

’I should be getting back,’ she said, interrupting him.

There were a million things Tara wanted to say to him, but she couldn’t: not with Grenville right there, and not even then, perhaps. Those things were too difficult. She’d inadvertently said more than she intended to, already.

‘Oh… Okay.’ He frowned, and reached out his hand towards her; awkwardly, he gripped the cuff of her cardigan for a moment and then let it go. ‘Ummm… sure.’

Grenville said something, and Ramsay turned to the counter to pay. Tara didn’t know what to say; she didn’t know how to be around Ramsay Fraser. Not now. Being in his arms just now had made it all the more confusing.

To quell the rising feeling of panic in her stomach, she stepped up to the counter and gestured to Grenville that she was taking the box of bottles for the Inn.

‘Good to see you,’ she murmured, ostensibly to both of them.

‘Bye, dear! See you soon.’ Grenville looked up and smiled, halfway through operating the shop’s antiquated till. Ramsay looked like he wanted to say something, but she just nodded to him, and left.

Once outside, Tara strode down the high street, keen to put distance between her and The Wee Dram. Her heart was still raw; it still felt as though its tender healing had been ripped open again. Was she going to keep bumping into Ramsay? Was that how it was going to be, now that she was back in Loch Cameron? If so, she had to come up with a better strategy than getting spooked and running away .

But, the truth was that Tara really didn’t know how to be around her lost love. Because, when the love of your life reappeared unexpectedly in your life, it felt as though you had had your heart cut out, all over again. That you were standing on top of a tower that was falling, and you could do nothing but fall with it.

And, worst of all, she had the terrible feeling that she’d been the one to push the tower over in the first place. And the guilt and the worry over that washed over her whenever she dared to think about what she’d done.