All eyes turned to Anjuli, waiting for the smash return. Rob’s glinted like silver coins, bright and hard.
Anjuli held a hand out to the crowd, much as she used to when she was performing. “I think we’d rather pay a higher energy rate than see empty shops or vacancy signs. We should fight the wind-farm proposal on Redesburn Moor so we can hold on to our beautiful countryside, and to our livelihoods.”
Rob picked a leaflet off the trestle table and approached. Her stomach fluttered, but not with colourful, pretty little butterflies. A flock of hyper swallows had taken up residence.
Up close the silver coins turned into bullets. “The people of Heaverlock will make informed decisions based on the need to protect our environment and our businesses.” His voice had softened but the effect was anything but gentle. “Decisions based on facts, no’ scaremongering.”
What facts? What was he talking about?
Rob handed her the leaflet. “The proposed wind-farm site is no’ on the Redesburn Moors. If you take the time to read the information you’ll learn the basic facts.”
At that moment Anjuli would have given anything for the platform to be like the Vegas Arena, where she had sunk into the floor and disappeared from view at the end of her performance. Once again her impulsiveness had landed her in trouble. She had gone to battle when the war didn’t even exist, stirred up the crowd with false accusations and publicly insulted the one person her future depended on. It was little wonder Ash was shaking her head, staring at her like she was an idiot.
A look into the mirror over the Inglenook showed the deep blush spreading over her pale face like red wine spilling on a tablecloth. Anjuli’s hands clenched and the shards of glass dug into her skin. Rob’s look pierced her more deeply.
He turned his back and returned to the trestle table.
A reaction that didn’t go unnoticed, if the buzz below was anything to go by. Time for a strategic retreat and a few bangs of her head against the wall, somewhere private. Or not.
Councillor Hamish stood, stretched out his arms and smiled. “Anjuli Carver,” he said warmly. “It’s wonderful to have you back.”
Hamish O’Connell was bald now and more stooped, but he had the same twinkling eyes and ready smile she remembered. And he was still a gentleman, letting her squeeze his papery fingers without wincing at her grip.
“We’ve kept tabs on your success these past years and are proud to call you a daughter of our wee village. Are you sure you don’t have any Scottish blood, lass?”
Anjuli forced a smile at the old joke. “I drink enough whisky to make up for it, Hamish. That must count for something.”
“Aye, and another chance for a dram or two is coming up, hopefully soon. We’re having a ceilidh when the Town Hall renovation is complete. It’ll be good to get back to normal. Dinna’ get me wrong,” he said hurriedly. “We appreciate Ash letting us discuss council affairs here at the pub, but the last few weeks have been bad for my liver. The ceilidh will mark our return to business as usual.”
“I look forward to dancing a few reels with you.”
“I’ll settle for a performance. It’ll be just like old times, eh?”
Anjuli’s smile faltered and she stepped back as a trickle of nausea crept into her stomach. Remember what Dr. Coren said. Slow, complete breaths and then deflect the trigger.
“People would enjoy the dancing so much more than my singing. What band have you booked? Anybody local?”
“We’ve got Moor O’ Lass coming from Edinburgh. They could back you for “The Borderer’s Lament” or “Fair Helen of Kirconnel.” I still remember when you sang that at the Common Riding Ball ten years ago and not just because it won us the Best Common Riding prize. We were in buckets of tears by the end of it.”
Anjuli’s throat was dry and short, sharp breaths accelerated her words. “A good reason not to perform if ever I heard one. And Moor O’Lass have a wonderful singer who would be affronted if I took her place. The only toes I should be stepping on are my partners’ so I’ll stick to whisky and dancing and—”
“Nonsense! You’ll sing at our ceilidh and it will be the highlight of the evening. I’ll make sure of it.” His face was animated, eager. “And our Ball will be the envy of all the Border towns. With Anjuli Carver performing the final ballad of the night the judges will be sure to award us all the points we need. The pot is five hundred pounds this year. Much needed if we’re to beautify our village for the Britain in Bloom contest. We’ll make front page news and...”