Lochlan, p.12
Lochlan, page 12
CHAPTER 16
WALLS OF JERICHO
LOCHLAN
An uncertain Kenzie stands in the middle of my room, chewing her bottom lip and appearing far less confident than earlier. I don't know how to take care of someone; I can barely do that for myself.
“You can take my bed for the night,” I say, moving toward the chest of drawers. I don't sleep in pajamas; it's usually boxers for me or nothing at all. I find one of my old shirts and hand it to her. “You can use this to sleep in.”
She stares at the shirt, then nods. “Thank you. I'll change in the bathroom.”
“There's a new toothbrush in the drawer. Use anything of mine you need.”
She slips into the bathroom while I walk to the screen that hides my gym equipment. The gigantic piece is light and opaque. I place it a few feet from the bed to give her some privacy. I find a blanket in back of the wardrobe and pull one of the two pillows from the bed, then drop them on the couch.
The kitchen has little to offer, except for an abundance of whiskey, but that doesn't seem to be enough. I search through the cabinets and there in a corner is a tin of cocoa that I bought on a whim, thinking that some mornings I would have that for breakfast.
I swipe a bottle of milk from the refrigerator that I keep for my oats and pull out a saucepan. I'm pouring the cocoa into the heated milk when Kenzie emerges from the bathroom in my shirt, cuffing the long sleeves.
The fabric barely covers her bottom, exposing her long legs, and I have to feign attention to the saucepan to avoid observing her unabashed. “You'll have some cocoa with me before you go to bed. It'll relax you enough to sleep in a strange bed. Seat yourself at the table and I'll bring the mugs over.”
She complies without protest, seating herself at the table with hands folded. The chocolate-flavored milk steams in the mugs as I set them on the table. “I'm assuming you like cocoa?”
She studies the mug, then grips the handle. “Sorry for the inconvenience. I would've gone to a hotel, but the truth is I don't have the money, so I appreciate your hospitality.”
I guessed that she might not have the funds. I'd have paid the bill if she decided to go to a hotel. “What kind of employer would I be if I left you sitting on your doorstep until the next day?”
She gets the awkward joke and gives me a faint smile before she raises the mug to her lips. Ripples form on the chocolate surface as she briefly blows to cool the liquid. “I do like cocoa. When I was sick, making hot chocolate for me was part of Mom's care routine. She'd float giant toasted marshmallows on top. I'd try to get a bite of marshmallow with a sip of chocolate and end up with a chocolate mustache and a dollop of marshmallow on my nose.” She sighs. “Cocoa is a childhood memory that makes me feel warm and loved even when I make it for myself.”
Watching Kenzie recall a child's memory is enough to warm anyone, but I can't relate to the story. I've no caring mother memories, not even a caring nanny one. I'm struggling with the yawn-inducing niceties of this conversation. She expects me to be supportive, so I try for once not to live up to expectations of being a prick.
“Maybe we should update your hot chocolate to an adult version. I don't have marshmallows, but I have something that will complement the chocolate.” I find the bottle of whiskey that Geordie left and cap off both our beverages with a healthy dose, and for the first time since I've met Kenzie, she gives me a brilliant smile.
We talk until I drain the last of the cold liquid from the bottom of my mug. It's been a long conversation without awkwardness. She stifles a yawn, and I pick up the mugs and place them in the sink. “You've had your cocoa, lass. It's time you're in bed. We'll sort out your locksmith problem in the morning.”
“Thank you again,” she says, then disappears behind the screen. Even though she's a few feet away behind a thin barrier, it feels as if she's abandoned me, as emptiness descends even as I undress, slip the blanket over myself, and lay my head on the pillow.
There's water running in the distance, the aroma of fresh coffee, and a wooden spoon stirring in a saucepan. I raise my head from slumber and squint at the sight in my kitchen. A woman is there, her back to me, and she’s dressed in my shirt. During a few moments of grogginess, I wonder who this woman is and swear under my breath at my recklessness until I remember Kenzie was here with me last night. I sit up, the blanket falling to my lap.
She turns to me and chuckles. “Do you know you sleep like the dead? I've been moving around this kitchen for at least thirty minutes before you stirred.”
“I have no answer for that. I can't help it if I sleep like an angel.”
She shakes her head, rolling her eyes to heaven in a display of relaxed intimacy. “Since you took care of dinner and that chocolatey nightcap, I thought I would make you breakfast. You must be a light eater, because there's not much in this kitchen to work with.”
“Most days, my intention is to have breakfast and when I do, it's oats. Normally I skip it because I like the steel cut and it takes a long time to cook. I see you got the coffeemaker to function. I never took the time to figure out how it works. Maybe you'll show me later how you accomplished that feat.”
She waves a dismissive spoon at me. “Your breakfast will be ready in another ten minutes. Get dressed. I can only stir this for so long before it congeals.”
“Right,” I say, standing with the blanket about my hips. Her eyes widen at my bare chest and I notice some interest, but they don't linger because she brings her attention back to her stirring.
There's an ungodly banging at the door that jolts me out of this domestic peace. “Lochlan, have you overslept and forgotten our meeting?” Geordie shouts at the door.
“St. Andrew’s balls, what time is it?” I don't wait for an answer from Kenzie. The sound is threatening and I stride towards it. I yank the door open to Geordie's fist, poised to strike the frame into submission.
He lowers his meaty hand, relieved that I'm here. “Ah, I thought you were dead, cousin. You never miss a meeting. When you didn't show up after an hour...” He sniffs the air, as if he's trying to ferret out a scent, then looks past me into the kitchen. There's a quick frown, and he shakes his head. “Good morning, lass,” Geordie bellows, pushing his way into the room. “I see you have breakfast on. Is that oats you're stirring?”
“There's enough for two; would you like a bowl? I only drink coffee in the morning. Would you like a splash of milk with that?”
“Aye, please.” He turns to me. “Stop your gaping, man, and put some clothes on before you come to the table.”
I'm not happy Geordie's issuing orders or that I'm standing in my living room with only a wee blanket to shield my manhood. There's nothing to do but to slip behind the screen to grab some clothes, then head for the bathroom.
Kenzie and Geordie laugh like old friends when I return. Geordie wipes a tear from his eye. “Kenzie's been telling me the sad tale of being locked out of her apartment last night and the chivalrous offer of your bed while you slept on the couch.”
“It was too late to find anyone here who might help. I thought someone in maintenance could recommend a locksmith this morning,” I say.
“I'll ask George, our general fix-it man. He might know someone if he can't do it himself.”
“If you'll excuse me,” Kenzie says as she rises to her feet. “I'm going to change and call my apartment again, and I'll let you know what they say.”
We both watch her backside before she disappears behind the barrier.
Geordie gets to his feet, addressing the screen. “Thank you, Kenzie, for breakfast. Let me know if you need my help.”
Kenzie pokes her head around the screen with a grateful smile. “Thank you, Geordie, that's sweet of you to offer.”
I'm tired of Geordie appearing when Kenzie is here; you'd think he had an interest in her. We're through the door and a few steps away, enduring the chilly morning. “Are you two getting close?” Geordie asks.
“Close enough, or are you asking the question because you want to know if you have a chance with her?”
He shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and levels his gaze at me. “I think this one is good for you. It's about time you had a healthy relationship.”
I'm regretting the accusation, but the two of them seem close when they're together. “It happened unexpectedly. I'm not sure if this will last.”
“She's a smart, bonnie girl. It would be in your best interest to make it last. Maybe she can be the one who melts that cold heart of yours.”
“I'll not consider a relationship until I know my position in this winery is secure.”
He shifts his weight, his face ruddy with the cold. “I understand the logic behind your hesitation. Granda will soon be here to decide our fate. You can begin to turn this in our favor tomorrow at the Wine Association meeting. Are you ready?”
“I've been working with Kenzie. The main part of the presentation with the facts and figures is done. I'm still working on the last part of the pitch that convinces members to invest.”
“Whatever you have to do, cousin. If you've got to conjure up voodoo magic, then I suggest you work on some spells. Anything to convince Granda all is well and we don't need to be a concern.”
I shrug. There's no point in discussing what ifs; what happens next is out of my hands. “I'll do my best; that's all I can promise.”
“I'll be there tomorrow to give you support. Now, I have to go back to my office. Connell starts his internship today, and I need to go over my strict rules with him before he starts.”
Kenzie reappears, dressed in her clothes, and is clicking off from her cell phone. “Management says their locksmith is still unavailable. They'll search for someone else, but it will take some time.”
“I called George, our head of maintenance, when I was outside talking to Geordie. He can help you get back into your apartment. He'll drive you over. Are you ready to go now?”
Kenzie gnaws the bottom of her lip, considering. “Are you coming with me?”
“I'm not needed. He'll get you back into your place without having to wait for your apartment management to find someone.”
“How about the presentation? Let's go over it from start to finish.”
“I'm fine. I got enough out of our last session. You need to go home. Tomorrow is a big day. I'll walk you to the maintenance office.”
Kenzie's dejected frown is the last glimpse of her after I shut the door of George's truck. There's no need for her to stay; I have what I need.
I pull up the presentation and make notations on some of the slides. I even get up in front of the mirror and make a dry run to my sullen face. These owners already know me and won't expect sweetness and light. Appealing to their need for more profit is what I'll aim for.
After a few hours, I pack up my equipment, put it away in a cupboard, and grab my camera to review the photos of Kenzie I took a few nights ago. I find wires to connect the camera to the TV and have a big-screen viewing of that series of photos. I marvel at the beauty she brings to each shot. The way the light and dark frame her perfectly.
The pictures continue to move in sequence until I stop the images to study the last two shots of Kenzie holding up the sign I asked her to display. The first photo shows an angry, contorted face with her defiant finger raised to the camera. In the last shot, her body is rigid, clutching the sign with the promise of bloody murder in her eyes.
I regret these two photos, but I don't have it in me to delete these images because, as awful as the circumstances were that produced them, they are a profound piece of work.
A persistent thought tugs at me until I can't dismiss the idea. I'm on the phone with Logan, a painter I met during the first year I came to America. He has a studio in the hills and over the years we've gotten together to talk about our work.
“It's been a long time since I've heard from you. I'm working on a new exhibition. You should come up and see the paintings. I've been going back and forth over what to include in the show with my agent. You have a good eye and you haven't seen these pieces. Help me with the final selection.”
“I will. Name the date.”
He lets out a big exhale. “Great, I'll let you know by next week. Are you working on anything?”
I glance at the screen again and move to a photo that's caught my attention. “I just finished a session a few nights ago. They're semi-nudes. I think the work is exceptional. I was wondering if you would paint the subject from a photo?”
“I don't normally. I like to have my models in studio. Can you send me some images and let me see before I commit?”
I select two pictures and send them. “There are several in this session if you need more.”
We talk more about his exhibition while he waits for the photographs to come through.
“They're coming up now.” Seconds later, a high-pitched whistle comes through the phone. “Dammit, these are good. Who's the model?”
“A friend. The session wasn't planned; it was a spur-of-the-moment inspiration.”
“I always said you had a good eye. Yeah, I'll do the work. Most of my paintings have been in watercolors for the showing and I think this would look great in that medium. Is that okay?”
I think about this for a few moments. The image of her in more of a fantasy seems appropriate for these photos. “Aye, I think that would work.”
“Do you have a deadline?”
“No, take your time; there's no rush. I want to invite you to dinner and a tasting. You can choose the restaurant and I'll bring the wine.”
“You got a deal, if we can combine the dinner with helping me whittle down the exhibit.”
“Deal accepted.”
“Send me all the photos you have in the session. Depending on how it goes, I might have some preliminary sketches for you by next week.”
CHAPTER 17
THE HIGHLAND CLAN
KENZIE
George was wonderful to help me back into my apartment. Instead of taking hours to gain entry, I was walking through the door within minutes. Before I could offer him a tip, he had already hit the elevator button and disappeared inside.
It's been a long time since I had a day where I had nothing planned. I spend the time in activities I normally don't get to do, like watching copious amounts of television, reading trashy novels, and eating junk while lounging in my scruffiest pair of sweats.
Lochlan is intruding on my me-time as a continuous interrupting loop. He didn't handle the situation well when he caught me in his bedroom. The man didn't know me and I'm the one who took advantage of him. The more time we spend together, I continue to discover new facets of his personality. I might not pique his interest, but he's beginning to arouse mine. I'm curious to see how his presentation will be at the Wine Association lunch tomorrow.
It's taken me a long time to decide what to wear to the luncheon. I figure this is business, so I pull on a white shirt and a black pencil skirt and heels. Dull, but classic. I'm deciding whether to wear a matching jacket. But at the last minute I opt for a red structured cardigan and place my hair in a bun. I think about wearing a pair of glasses, but I don't want to look like a librarian attending this meeting.
I'm a little nervous when I approach Cherrywood Vineyards. The Wine Association meetings are held in a different venue each month. My cold hands and jittery nerves are a surprising reaction. This is probably sympathy nervousness for Lochlan delivering his presentation, then there's meeting his grandfather, Ian MacTavish.
The association doesn't have a large membership compared to nearby Sonoma and Napa counties. I estimate the turnout to be approximately fifty attendees. Mostly are from small wineries, but there are six that sell throughout the state of California and two internationally.
I stop outside the large private tasting room at a table with two women checking in the attendees and handing out meal tickets.
“Welcome to the Silicon Valley Wine Association,” says a woman studying me through chained spectacles that sit three quarters of the way down her nose. “What winery are you with?”
“MacTavish Cellars.”
She runs a finger down the list. “I see we have several attending from your winery. Your name, miss?”
“Her name is Kenzie MacGregor,” a voice booms from behind me. “I'm with the same party. You should find the name Geordie MacTavish also listed.” Geordie dwarfs me as he takes his place beside me. He's wearing a dark-blue shirt, suit jacket, and a MacTavish kilt. It's not the men's uniform for the winery; this is a dress kilt worn for occasions.
The woman pulls off her glasses and admiringly scans the big man next to me. “Oh, welcome to the Silicon Valley Wine Association lunch. I believe this is the first time you've ever attended this function.”
“Aye, it's my first time. Are our names on your list?”
His question breaks the spell of seeing a Scotsman in full Highlander dress. She glances at her paper again. “Yes, I see both your names are here along with Ian, Fiona, and, of course, Lochlan. You two are the first of your party to arrive. She turns to a middle-aged woman sitting next to her, who is staring at Geordie open-mouthed. “Liz, will you give Mr. MacTavish and Miss MacGregor their meal tickets?” She glances back at Geordie. “I would suggest the beef plate. The caterer does a wonderful job; it's a slice of prime rib with a blue cheese sauce...”
“I'll have the beef,” Geordie says. “Kenzie what's your pleasure?”
I try desperately not to laugh at the stir this man is causing. “I'll have the fish.”
“Liz, you can give them their tickets now they've officially checked in.”
The woman hands Geordie both tickets. He takes them from her and mumbles a thanks, then slips his hand under my elbow. “Come on, Kenzie, let's get some good seats for the show.” He guides me into the spacious tasting room. We're seen by the other guests, but no one comes up to greet us. I'm sure based on Geordie's attire they've guessed that we're from MacTavish. We settle on a table a few rows back from the podium. It's a good place to see the speaker as well as the room.
