Holy Terror in the Hebrides by Jeanne M. Dams Page A

gardens were sheltered by walls and hedges, and Iona gardeners were doubtless used to severe weather, and planted accordingly.
    The houses, on the other side of the street, were the same. Here and there a slate was missing, a chimney pot askew. But the day was wearing on, and most of the damage, I imagined, had already been repaired by the hard-working householders. The houses were small and sturdily built, meant, like the gardens, to withstand the severities of life on an isolated, windswept island.
    My house (I had already begun to think of it as mine) was charming. Outside it was as plain and solid as the rest, a gray stucco box with blue shutters and a little blue roof forming a tiny porch for the front door. But there was a window box under both lower front windows, planted with bright pink geraniums that seemed to have weathered the storm unperturbed, and the snowy curtains visible in the front windows promised a well-kept interior. I let myself in with anticipation.
    The layout of the house was very simple. A minuscule front hall had doors leading to a small living room on one side and an even smaller dining room on the other, with the kitchen at the back. Steep, narrow stairs led to two bedrooms and a small bathroom. It was nothing more than your basic two up and two down, in fact, but made delightful by the way it was furnished—simply, even sparsely, in white, mostly, with a few bright cushions and pretty watercolors.
    Someone with excellent taste had managed, in fact, to give a tiny house the feel of spaciousness and repose. No wonder Lynn loved it here. It was, to be sure, in stark contrast to her London house, which had Renoirs and Sargents on the walls, and wildly expensive (and lovely) antique furniture. It didn’t resemble my house much, either, although most of what clutters mine is just that—clutter. But contrast is part of what a vacation is all about. I was going to love it here.
    I inventoried the kitchen carefully before I left. A former tenant had kindly left behind some coffee and a tin half full of tea cookies, and the basics of housekeeping—flour, sugar, salt, a few spices—came with the cottage, but I would certainly need to lay in supplies before I could actually live here. I started a list on the pad thoughtfully placed by the telephone. Bread, orange juice, eggs—no, I had to remember Tom’s heart problems, no eggs—cereal, that was it. I went on through canned soup and sandwich material for lunches, and some salmon and vegetables, stewing beef and salad stuff for a couple of dinners. That would do it until the Andersons arrived, anyway. Tucking the list in my purse, I headed joyfully out the door.
    And does this mean
, my nasty inner voice piped up,
that you intend to forget about Bob?
    I sighed. Try as I might, I
couldn’t
forget about Bob. But surely I could be allowed to defer the problem for a little while?
    As I was nearing the Argyll Hotel, a door opened in the cottage just beyond and David MacPherson popped out, making me hope I hadn’t been muttering to myself.
    “Mrs. Martin! Have ye a moment?”
    “Of course, Mr. MacPherson.” I was glad to see him, actually; he just might have some news that would mean I could stop worrying. Exactly what news that might be, I didn’t stop to define.
    “Would ye like to step inside for a cup of tea? My wife’s juist set it to brew.”
    “That sounds very nice, thank you.” Actually, if the tea was anything like what had been in his thermos yesterday, I’d have to be very cautious and add a lot of milk, but as my father used to say with a twinkle in his eye, “Never suppress a generous impulse.”
    I was introduced to Fiona, his attractive wife, and, of course, I’d already met young David. The family was just sitting down to their tea, and I made only a token protest when I was offered fresh scones and shortbread. The tea was, indeed, too strong for my taste, but lots of milk and sugar made it drinkable, and the food was heavenly.