Page 72 of Scotlander

‘I know. Don’t rush me, lass.’

They both stared at the glass-paned door, its name written in swirly gold letters just like it had been since the store had opened in 1843 according to the little plaque to the left of it.

She gave him a few moments, but . . . nothing.

‘Dude. It’s a ribbon store.’

‘Aye,’ he snapped back. ‘I know what type of shop it is. And I’ll thank you to remember it’s actually called a haberdashery establishment.’

An elderly couple passing by overheard the exchange and tsked.

Willa sniggered. For some reason she was finding this fun. Loads better than convincing the latest Coachella stars into a pre-performance interview. This version of Finn in a grump was delightful. It was like being with the Grinch as he fought his deeply ingrained habits in order to embody new ones that allowed him to be happy.

They’d started at the bakery on the premise that, as the owner was Orla’s long-term school friend and they’d just scoffed down a massive pile of her scones, it would be easy. It hadn’t gone quite as smoothly as anticipated. Instead of adopting the happy-to-help-a-mate tone Finn had been hoping for, Mhairi, who ran the place, went full on so-you’re-the-asshole-who’s-been-treating-his-stepsister-like-shite-all-these-years. To the point Willa, who had decided to stand outside and peep in on the whole thing through the window, had heard every word.

Rant finished, Willa expected Finn to nod, thank her for her feedback and walk out.

But he’d surprised her. Stuck to his guns. He’d taken Mhairi’s criticisms on the chin, agreed that he could’ve done more on the farm and, using Jules’s new project as bait, convinced her to come out to Balcraigie to take a look at the castle’s old oven and bring along a few loaves of bread as well. Day old, but still. He’d walked out with a smile on his face and a little kick to his step. It had been fun to be a part of it.

Before she had a chance to come up with some more words of encouragement, Finn had sucked in a big breath, grabbed the brass doorknob, and pulled her inside with him as he offered hearty greetings over the tinkling of the entry bell.

‘Well,’ said the proprietress, a Mrs-Claus-type figure dressed in a long tartan skirt and an immaculate white top. ‘If it isn’t young Finlay Jamieson.’

‘Good morning, Mrs Donaldson.’ Finn nodded his head. ‘Are you well today?’

‘Oh, aye. Not much changed since the last time you were in.’

His face clouded briefly as the memory of whatever it was she’d referred to hit. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

‘Apologies for that, Mrs Donaldson. I wasn’t myself then.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t chastising you, lad. How could you’ve been on top form what with laying your father to rest and all.’

Willa sent him a look and, perhaps because he hadn’t expected the kindness of Mrs Donaldson’s response, he explained to Willa, ‘I came with my mum before Dad’s funeral and might have knocked all the button jars off the counter.’ He pointed at five huge jars filled with a mismatch of buttons.

Mrs Donaldson explained. ‘Folk bring in their spares and when someone’s putting together a new outfit, we try to help with these.’ She looked at Finn and said, ‘It took some time to pick them all up, didn’t it? Two days, was it? Three? Anyway, back in town for the tattie holidays, are you? Taking some time off from the bright lights of Inverness and slumming it with the country folk?’

Willa hid a smirk. From what Finn had told her, Inverness was about as rock and roll as the Yukon.

Finn nodded. ‘I thought Orla and Dougie might need a hand what with . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘. . . things being tricky at the farm.’

Mrs Donaldson gave him a savvy look. ‘I’m sure they appreciate that help, Finlay. And that of your – is this your girlfriend?’

Willa looked at Finn. This should be interesting.

‘She’s, ah . . . she’s my – mo nighean donn.’ He gave a solid nod as if he’d decided to commit to the whole Outlander thing.

Mrs Donaldson unleashed a full bright smile. ‘Ah, well. That’s lovely to hear. Many congratulations to you, Finlay and . . .’

‘Willa.’ Willa reached forward and the women shook hands.

‘Very good, very good.’ Mrs Donaldson wiped her hands as if that was the gossip part of their session finished, freeing them to move on to other, more pressing topics. ‘So! What brings you to Donaldson Haberdashery today?’

Chapter Thirty

A few hours later, Willa stood back so Finn could have a preview of her efforts. Swags of heather, courtesy of the local forager, hung from the exposed beams, and kerosene lamps (borrowed from a local auction house) warmed the darker corners the fading sunlight didn’t reach. The old breakfast table had been scrubbed until it glowed like honey. He’d never seen the potting shed look this inviting. More than that, it looked Jacobean. ‘There’s no need for the collywobbles, Willa. They’re going to love it.’

Her forehead crinkled. ‘Collywobbles?’