Some like it scot, p.22
Some Like It Scot, page 22
Yet the dimpled grin on Lachlan’s face, the way I cared about what happened to him, sent me into pondering the what-ifs like never before.
I met him at the bottom of the hill, near several of the other tents. Some held food, some sold handcrafts, one offered to find your Scottish heritage, a few were empty, but all proclaimed the pride of this heritage.
“This is Jamie.” Lachlan thumbed toward the boy as they neared. “I told him how good you are at getting lost.”
The smile on my face stilled and then . . . nearly turned into a laugh. I coughed instead. “That’s true.”
“But you’re good with bandages.”
Jamie crossed his arms, examining me with a pair of brilliant green eyes. Next to that disheveled dark hair, he gave off his own kind of faerie vibes. Maybe one of J. M. Barrie’s lost boys?
“And you don’t like Irn-Bru.”
Both boys stared at me, shaking their heads as if beyond disappointed.
“Maybe the taste will grow on me.” I shrugged. I mean, what do you say? Probably not “It tastes like bubble gum.” I got a good tongue-lashing from Maggie of the Stories and Stitches book club when I mentioned my thoughts to her on Irn-Bru.
“But I do like fishing.”
That won a small grin from the boys, and without hesitation Lachlan grabbed my hand and pulled me forward. “Granny told me to bring you to see the sword dance.”
I didn’t fully comprehend his words because the sweetness of him taking my hand and guiding me somewhere lodged in a special place in my mind. A new significant memory to press back some of the less favorable ones.
“Sword dance?”
“Aye, you’ll have to see it to know,” Lachlan answered. “Uncle Calum’s books are in the book tent too, but you cannae tell anyone he wrote them.”
My brows rose. How did that work? And wasn’t Calum Graeme’s brother? And there was a younger one too, if I recalled. Peter? Who was away at college or something?
“It’s a secret. He likes to be mysterious.” Lachlan nodded as if repeating something he’d heard before. “But you must see the sword dance first.”
“My sisters are ’bout to compete.” This from Jamie, who trailed behind. “They’ve been taking Highland dance in a club after school for years.” He lengthened the last word as if his sisters were about a thousand years old.
“Ah, Katie-girl.” Mirren greeted me and ushered me forward near a set of tents where an upraised platform stood. “With your love of stories, I thought for certain you needed to see a bit of traditional Scottish dance.”
She linked her arm through mine, as if I belonged right there with her, and drew me closer to the platform near another small group, one of which looked familiar. Lori, another of the knitters—the sweetest of them, besides Mirren—said, “Oh, Katie, good to see you, dear. Isn’t this lovely?”
And again, I was embraced into this community as if I fit. As if . . . they wanted me here.
Me! With all my troublesome . . . ness.
“I’m telling her about the history of the sword dance, Lori.” Mirren gestured with her chin toward the platform.
“Oh, aye.” Lori nodded. “It has stories back to Macbeth even.”
“Macbeth?” I laughed.
“And is a long held dance done before battles,” Mirren continued. “Battle swords would be laid on the ground, and the warriors would dance around the sword, trying not to step on it as they danced. If the warrior’s feet touched the sword, it was considered an ill omen for the upcoming battle.”
I lifted my gaze to the platform where two young girls in colorful dresses and ballerina-like slippers took their positions. Sure enough, large swords were laid at their feet. I whipped out my phone to video a little.
“Uncle Graeme says it all started when Scot warriors took the swords of the opponents they’d defeated, placed their own sword at their opponent’s sword in the sign of the cross, and danced around them in victory,” Lachlan added. “See there.”
Lachlan pointed, and Jamie added, “Mum can’t watch them perform. She gets too nervous they’re going to fall, and I’ve tried to remind her that they’ve danced it dozens of times without dying, but she doesnae listen.”
Mirren and I exchanged smiles, stifling our laughter. Gah! I loved kids.
I spent over an hour of the four-hour-long festivities with Mirren, Lori, the boys, and Wedge, watching everything from Highland fling dancing to hammer throws and bagpipe competitions. I’d always expected the bagpipes to grate on my nerves, but instead, they grew on me, creating a background of sound ingrained in the life and culture of this world. Fresh air, laughter, accents, and bagpipes.
“And how are you liking your first Highland games, Miss Campbell?”
I turned from my first bite of a jammy cream doughnut to find Graeme approaching in full and glorious . . . Scottishness. Kilt, tight T-shirt, wind-tossed hair. I don’t think I’d ever thought knees could be sexy, until now. Heaven help me.
Needless to say, as I bit down on my doughnut, the massive amount of cream inside squirted around the edge of my mouth in perfect middle school embarrassment fashion—basically giving me twin trails of cream down the sides of my chin.
I was an accident-prone, redheaded, cream-toothed walrus.
Excellent way to impress a guy.
It’s a real wonder I’m still single.
I attempted to catch the dripping cream with my hand as Graeme rushed forward, pulling a handkerchief from the top of his kilt and . . . laughing? More like a rumbly sort of sound, like the percolation of a coffee machine, but it still almost made me smile.
Which would have been a very bad idea because . . . cream.
“First jammy cream?”
There was no way I was taking the bait and answering him with my mouth as full as it was. I narrowed my eyes, only to have his percolating chuckle take on more volume. “Did no one warn you about the size of these things?”
“I can nearly cram a whole one in my mouth if I try,” Lachlan said, wrinkling his nose and looking from Graeme to me.
Graeme caught some of the cream dripping off my chin that my palm missed.
Stellar romantic moment, Katie. The stuff to relive for decades to come with sweltering embarrassment and the desperate desire for the ground to swallow me whole. The humored expression on his face had me snatching the handkerchief from his hand and taking care of the mess myself.
“She’s just enjoying it as she ought!” came Mirren’s encouraging response as she placed a hand on my back. “Jammy creams, cream buns, and the like aren’t meant to be eaten without a mess. It makes them taste better.”
I smeared some cream across my face with the handkerchief to prove her point. It was tasty, but the mess I made didn’t improve its flavor. It only increased my humiliation.
“A little warning would have been nice,” I murmured after a swallow or two. “But it’s delicious.”
“Aye.” His gaze dropped to my lips before dragging back to my eyes. “It is.”
My face flamed for a whole new reason, and I forgot about my walrus appearance, the smeared handkerchief, and maybe even my name. I needed distance from this man just to protect my IQ.
With powers Superman should envy, I pulled my gaze away from his and turned back to Mirren, who stood sporting her own massive smile. Maybe she was trying to hide her laugh too. “But”—I waved toward the field with his handkerchief—“in answer to your question, this has been amazing. The dancing, the heavies, the piping.” I raised my half-eaten jammy. “The scran.”
He rewarded me with a wide grin I felt all the way down to my wellies. “You’re speakin’ like a Scot now, lass.”
Lass. That word from his lips and paired with such a look. Heaven above!
I glanced down with a loose hold on my composure and finished wiping my face. “Mirren has helped. Lachlan and Jamie too. Maybe they didn’t warn me about the jammy, but they’ve given me lots of other information, from the types of dances to the songs the pipers played.” I nodded over to Mirren, and the tender look in her eyes gave me pause for only a second.
She cared about me. And she’d sent Lachlan to seek me out so I could spend time with them. Me.
As weird and disastrous as I am. As tall and troublesome.
Without expecting me to be anyone else.
And Graeme had looked at my mouth as if—my face reheated enough to sizzle any residual cream—he were hungry. And it certainly wasn’t because I gave off seductive vibes. Could he really be attracted to me?
“Aren’t you meant to be off somewhere about now, Graeme MacKerrow?” Mirren’s question sliced into the stare linking my boiling body temperature to Graeme’s eyes.
He hesitated before pulling his attention from mine.
“What?” He blinked as if the contact impacted him as much as me. And then he gave his head a shake and looked down at his watch. “Aye.” The word shot from him, and he took a few steps backward, his gaze finding mine again. He even added a knee-weakening grin, as if to hold me over. “Come see how well I am at taking advice?”
“You’d better see it now because it may never happen again,” Mirren shot back, receiving a frown from over her son’s shoulder as he disappeared into the crowd at almost a run.
“What in the world is going on?”
“It’s a surprise.” Mirren linked her arm through mine and pulled me between the tents. “And you’ll want to have your camera ready because it’ll be worth givin’ folks a glimpse of your talented Scot, now won’t it?”
“My talented Scot?” But my protest disappeared into the noise of the passing crowd as Lachlan took my other hand and pulled me forward.
We stopped in front of a tent with a hand-painted sign that read: “Wildlife Sculpture Demonstration.” And beneath those words: “Watergaw Sculptures Demonstration.”
Watergaw? Was that some sort of family name?
“What sort of wood do you use?” The question came from an older man who stood among the group of observers facing the single occupant of the tent.
Graeme?
My bottom lip dropped. He sat behind a table beneath the tent with a finished sculpture of a barn owl on one side of him and directly in front of him an unfinished . . . puffin? Wait. Had he planned to show his work here? It didn’t sound like it from our conversation at his house. Had he taken my words to heart?
Mirren pulled me among the throng, closer to the front.
“In answer to your question, Mr. Cane”—Graeme patted the puffin—“I typically use tupelo wood since it’s a soft timber that still holds its strength.” He wiped his palms down the sides of his kilt. Was he nervous? I stepped closer, hoping to catch his eye. Reassure him. “But if I’m not painting the work, I tend toward oak or chestnut. The wood is good for carving and has some beautiful colors and grains.”
“You been doin’ this for years, have ye?” An older man waved toward the tent. “And we didnae know?”
“I began taking it seriously about five years ago, but . . . well, I . . . I’ve only been selling for about three years.” He cleared his throat, his smile tight.
“What a wonder!” came an older woman’s response. “Your grandpa would be fair proud of you, lad.”
Graeme’s gaze shot up to the woman. “Thank you, Mrs. MacRay. I hope so.”
“His grandpa?” Another man called out. “The lad’s done us all proud with such work. The owl looks so lifelike I’m tempted to go hide my chicks.”
The crowd laughed and Graeme’s expression grew a little more relaxed.
“There’s no greater compliment to Graeme than that,” Mirren whispered. “But Mr. Cane is right. My father couldnae have come close to the skill Graeme’s shown.”
Silence settled over the group crowded around the tent, and Graeme shifted a little, obvious discomfort growing with each extra second. I knew this feeling. It happened the first few times I interviewed people. The awkward shift from what I knew in my head to actually engaging with the person. All I needed at the time was a little boost to get started. A question here. A comment there. A smile from someone in the crowd.
I stepped forward, gaining his attention, holding his gaze.
“So, how do you get started? Do you have a picture in your mind already, or do you create as you go?”
His shoulders dropped a little with his growing grin. Relaxing, I hoped. “I . . . I usually have a type of creature I want to know more about and start by researching photos of my subject and take a few of my own, if I can.” Graeme reached for a paper on the table. “And then I’ll sketch out my design.”
The paper showed a beautiful pencil sketch of a puffin standing on a rock, reflecting what the unfinished wood already revealed in rough form. Amazing.
And he drew as well?
“I rough out the design first, usually using my chisel, and then refine the piece with more detailed tools.” He took a seat in front of the puffin, a small tool set scattered atop the table.
“You sell them, do ye?” a lady asked.
“Aye,” he answered, taking up a small knife-like tool.
“Do you just sculpt birds?” another man queried.
His gaze found mine again, eyes lit, before turning to answer the man. “A few other things, like sheep, foxes, rabbits, but birds mostly.”
“Have you done a gull?” someone asked.
“Aye. Several.”
“What about doves and starlings? Those are near my house,” a young lady asked.
“I’ve carved a few,” he answered. “And some mistle thrush, sparrows, even a golden eagle.” He raised the knife to the wing of the puffin. “And for my demonstration, I’m going to show you how I create the finer parts of a wing using my burn pen. It’s very effective.”
A murmur went through the crowd as he lifted the strange knife for everyone to see, then began detailing the wing.
“Look at him. He’s getting comfortable now,” Mirren said. “And see how proud he is. All he needed was a little nudge in the right direction, Katie-girl.”
I still couldn’t believe I’d been that nudge. That he’d valued my words enough for them to . . . matter. My throat closed up, my heart shook. Something inside me gave way to a feeling I tried to ignore, teasing a hope I didn’t fully trust, so I decided to go for what I knew.
Distraction.
“What does watergaw mean?” I whispered down to Mirren, and the way her eyes softened at the edges hinted at her answer.
“’Twas one of my daughter, Greer’s, favorite old Scottish words. She was always finding old words to revive in our vocabulary because she loved the language so much. No wonder she loved unique words. She and Graeme had their own twin language for so many years, and none could understand except the two of them.” Mirren sighed with a smile and then gestured toward the sign. “Watergaw means a part of a rainbow. Only part. A broken piece one might see through clouds. Greer garnered hope from it as a way to search for beauty, even within brokenness.”
A piece of rainbow. Shattered light but still beautiful.
“Life is filled with broken pieces, and we’re bound to have more hurt and brokenness along the way, but she always searched for the small pieces of beauty and held on to them.”
I was choked up and couldn’t respond with anything but a nod, so I looked back at Graeme. His hands carefully and gently moved over the wood. My eyes burned. Watergaw. He was making something exquisite out of a broken piece of wood.
I was broken. Down deep. In places I couldn’t touch. But was it possible someone like Graeme or his family found me . . . beautiful? Enough to care about me in all my fractured past and chaotic present?
How many times had I missed finding out the answer to that question because I ran away? Because I never stayed long enough for relationships to take hold?
And what would I do now with this knowledge? What if this attraction and interest proved truer than I could imagine and knocked all my fears to the curb? What if I’d convinced myself that I didn’t need what my heart truly wanted or needed most?
Would I run away like I always did?
Before I messed things up worse. Before I didn’t meet expectations.
Before all the charm and delight of the newness of a place and relationship dulled with familiarity and reality.
Because the very real fear lay between wanting to believe in the beauty but seeing only the brokenness. Maybe that beauty was worth being brave for.
And if Graeme MacKerrow and this little world on Mull proved to be all the wonderful things I feared it might be, would I be brave enough to trust them with my brokenness . . . and choose to stay?
Chapter 15
Katie
My phone was exploding.
And I was stuck inside an Edwardian-era swimsuit with no hope of escape.
It had been interesting enough to put on the worsted wool serge suit (say that three times fast) when dry, but now that the outfit pressed damp against my body, un-sausaging myself while my phone kept buzzing about a certain emergency left me tangled with my arms stuck over my head, my belly in view, and my lower cello still covered with “ruffled bloomers.”
No way was I calling for help.
There were some images no one needed to get stuck in their minds.
Me as a headless Edwardian belly dancer was one of them.
At least the beach outing had been relatively trouble-free, except for the instance when Miss Lennox fell out of the bathing machine (read changing room on wheels) into the cool loch water, garnering plenty of attention and a rescue by Logan.
She seemed a little disgruntled that Mr. Logan hadn’t attempted CPR on her.
From the way she was clutching his shirt while “unconscious,” he may have thought she hoped to give him CPR. I feel certain all sorts of Edwardian etiquette was broken when Miss Lennox’s strength proved greater than Mr. Logan’s resistance and mouth-to-mouth took on a little less life-saving quality and a little more scandal.
