Chapter 3

F lora caught up with Fintan and they walked through the lobby of the Rock hotel. It had felt like it would take forever to get finished, but it was done: sound and warm and dry and very beautiful. And Christmassy, even though it was only November. The tree wouldn’t arrive for a few weeks, but the staff had already put up the great scalloped green hanging boughs tied up with tartan ribbon, their scent filling the air. There were bowls full of oranges studded with cinnamon cloves, the great log fire at the entrance was lit, and gentle music was playing in the background.

Originally a large mansion built for a wealthy local family, the Rock had been converted by the brash American developer Colton Rogers, with absolutely no expense spared. There was also no taste spared, in terms of what an American thought a Scottish hotel was supposed to look like, which meant tartan carpets, lots of open fires, muskets and giant stag heads on the walls, and a library full of old hardback books that had been bought from an aristocratic book dealer down Kirrinfief way, without Colton reading a single word of any of them.

It was a little kitsch, maybe, but Flora couldn’t help admitting to herself that she rather loved it. It was just so warm and cozy all the time, which in the winter on Mure meant a lot. And being done up for Christmas put it in its absolute prime.

There was underfloor heating, towel warmers filled with fluffy towels, and great deep tubs in the bathrooms, and the hot water never seemed to run out. The kitchen was pristine and full of the latest equipment, Flora noticed enviably, ready to churn out bread and pastries, high teas and fresh lobster, buttery scones and creamy Cullen skink, sumptuous cranachan. And behind the bar, forty-five different types of whisky waited tantalizingly, together with a menu of delicious local cocktails.

Flora and Fintan looked at each other. Flora was excited by all the possibilities; Fintan’s shoulders were slumped, his entire countenance a mask of misery and defeatism.

“It’s never going to pay its way in a billion years,” said Fintan bitterly. “We should just get rid of it.

“Colton didn’t leave me a fortune,” he went on anxiously. “He just left me this place. We’d tear through the money in five minutes.”

Colton had donated the bulk of his considerable fortune to medical research; he’d left the hotel and his house to Fintan, but Fintan couldn’t bear to live in the vast echoing house by himself, so Joel and Flora were renting it, while Fintan stayed back at the farmhouse.

“And I don’t know how to run a hotel! I don’t even know what VAT is!”

“It’s like a very complicated puzzle the government sets you for fun, but if you get it wrong you go to jail,” said Flora, but Fintan wasn’t listening.

“I already can’t get staff! And how am I going to tell them what to do? What if the people here want to leave because they hate me? What if nobody comes? How much would we have to charge? I should sell it. I should sell this whole place.”