Some like it scot, p.25
Some Like It Scot, page 25
The instant welcome to draw me into her house for conversation and tea settled over me like so many other things about this place.
And I’d written about it, trying to put into words this intangible something only Scotland possessed. The mystery-infused air, the history-laced earth, the legends in the fog. All of it fueled my writing.
Words for Katie on the Fly came with maddening speed too.
Dave liked my most recent article, “The Sheepish Adventure to Fearlessness,” and felt it should help curb some of the backlash from Mark’s post. But he still encouraged me to continue to put out more content. “Bring back the Scot if you can. He seems to be a crowd favorite.”
No duh! What I needed was a really spectacular story to share about “The Scot” if I wanted to overshadow Mark’s meanness. Maybe he’d let me write about his sculpting? Or maybe I could write the legend of heather, as he told it? “Pink Heather and a Hot Scot”?
Ugh. Love? I wasn’t in love with Graeme MacKerrow.
Definite like though. So maybe a light pink heather?
Dave praised my edits to the articles I’d sent back to him, encouraging the three newer writers to reach out to me for further discussion. The idea of mentoring them wasn’t so bad either. Maybe I could offer some encouragement like Dave had given me.
Badly needed encouragement that had changed the trajectory of my career.
Hmm . . . Hadn’t Gran once talked about giving out of our own gifts and lessons? Being little rescuers of others in a world where people looked out for number one?
I grinned at the thought. Yes. I might not be able to rescue in grand gestures, but maybe I could keep being a little heroine for others. Like Graeme had said. What seemed so small in helping him had mattered. And maybe encouraging these new writers was a way to do that too.
As I got ready for church, my phone buzzed on the bathroom counter beside me.
Mom: Did you get my last message?
Code for: Why haven’t you called?
How was she even awake right now? Wasn’t it five in the morning for her?
I drew in a deep breath and pressed her name, then the speaker button.
“You’re up early.” Starting the conversation usually ended better for me. It stalled her questions.
“I’m always up early. It’s the province of the elderly.” Which she wasn’t, but she liked to play that card when it worked in her favor or sounded funny. “Did you know that Brett and Jessica are contemplating moving away from Atlanta?”
Ah, she wasn’t just calling about the online slander situation. She had news. “Brett mentioned something about it on his last call.”
“I hope you advised him to reconsider. His banking job is the first step to climbing the corporate ladder like his brother. We both know his art will never amount to anything, Katie. So I need you to back me on this before he makes a huge mistake.”
I stiffened at her utter dismissal of Brett’s abilities. Surely she knew her own son well enough that he’d never drop everything to pursue his art. He had a family to provide for. But if his plan to move away from a higher cost of living to try to save money and heart in the long run . . . “Mom, I think Brett’s old enough to figure out what he and his family need most.”
“No, he’s not. He’s always been led by his desire to paint and it just won’t amount to anything.”
“You told me travel writing wouldn’t either, and look where I am now.”
“Yes. Look where you are now.” Her voice edged with familiar disapproval. “Having your name maligned for all the world to see. If you’d just pursued nursing like I’d recommended early on, then you wouldn’t have to worry about those things.”
Sarah’s goal. To be a nurse.
Another thing I failed to accomplish, among the dozens of expectations Mom placed on me in Sarah’s shadow.
“Nursing was Sarah’s dream, Mom. Not mine.”
Silence greeted me. I’d mentioned her name. The one we didn’t mention. The one our family hid beneath the grief and unspoken memories as if she never existed. But we all knew. She had lived. She’d breathed and laughed.
But two weeks after her death, Mom stripped the house clear of any trace of Sarah, except for her bedroom. Every picture with Sarah in it, every award or medal, all took up a new space in Sarah’s room, like a little shrine that no one visited or talked about but everyone knew was just behind a closed door.
“Nursing was your dream. Don’t you remember? You used to try and treat your siblings’ wounds?”
Sarah.
I was usually the one she was treating. “That wasn’t me, Mom.”
“Of course it was. You were top in all the science classes.”
How many times would I have this conversation with her? Me and science had a really bad teenage relationship. “Mom, I barely passed my science classes in school.”
“Why are you contradicting me? Are you trying to upset me?”
I pinched my eyes closed.
I couldn’t change her.
It wasn’t my fault.
“I’ve gotta go, Mom.”
She huffed. “Of course you do, but will you at least talk to Brett about what I said?”
“I’ll talk to him.” And boy, would I. He understood.
“Good. And I do hope you’re able to clear up the mess about your online presence. You know that everyone at the club follows your journey and wants to see you succeed in the best way.”
I stared at my reflection in the mirror, one eye with mascara, one without. Both watery. The mantra had helped a little, and usually I shrugged off her ridiculousness. Ignored the hurt. But the brokenness in our relationship felt bigger today.
What I really wanted at this moment more than anything was a mother who’d just take me in her arms and love me as me. Not as the memory of someone else. Not as the “reputation keeper.” Not as the “good girl.”
But me, in all my messy, ridiculous self.
And if I accepted that I couldn’t fix my mom, then I had to accept the fact that my wish would never come true.
“Bye, Mom.”
It took me too long to pull my mind from the residual foggy effects of my conversation with Mom. And I almost canceled attending the MacKerrows’ church.
Because I could just run away and hide. Stay safe. Disappear.
But my heart ached for light. For Mirren’s companionship and Lachlan’s teasing and Graeme’s smile and God’s hope more than the desire to turtle up under the covers and cry for a few hours.
But I shouldn’t rely on them. It wasn’t their job to be my pick-me-up. And it was too early to call Brett. But with all he had going on, it wasn’t his job either.
The sunshine out my window brought the warmth and birdsong of the day, almost as if God was trying to get my attention. I chuckled. And maybe that’s exactly what He was doing. Reminding me not just of the beauty of the day, but that He was here.
And maybe the love I needed to linger in most was His?
The idea of the watergaw hit me all over again.
Fear kept me in check for so long, moving me away from relationships, keeping me on the run, feeding my insecurities. Fear of letting people down. Fear that my perfect little dream of home and love and happily-ever-after would never measure up in reality.
But love was messy. Life was hard.
Forgiving and being forgiven.
Falling and learning from the fall.
Breaking and healing through the love of others.
Even if I only had a little while with the MacKerrows, their brand of care shored up my fearful heart like nothing I’d known in a long time.
And I didn’t mean the swooning.
Or the shoulders.
But the real sense of belonging.
So I embraced the forthcoming sadness just to enjoy the present. Watergaw.
I quickly finished getting ready, choosing a blue blouse to wear with my skirt. With a smile to myself in the mirror, I slung my bag over my shoulder and slipped from the quiet manor house.
The sun shone clear and beautiful upon the waking world. For now. Who knew what the weather would be like in an hour?
So I borrowed one of Craighill’s bicycles and started down the hill.
The fresh air provided the morning perspective I needed. And the beauty of the surroundings pulled my mind toward better things. Higher things. Truths I needed to fill my head and aching heart with after a phone conversation with my mom.
My value wasn’t measured by her behavior. Or my mistakes. It was measured by God’s love. A love I couldn’t out-fail. Ever. I needed the reminder so badly, and it was almost as if every flower and sea-scented breath joined in a massive chorus to remind me.
Graeme’s directions (including another self-drawn map) led me to an iconic view to add to the many I’d seen so far. A stone chapel hovered between a rocky hill on one side and an open glen full of flowers on the other. It welcomed me forward with the same sweetness as Mirren and Graeme, who met me at the door. After the phone call with my mom, sitting between Mirren and Graeme in the little chapel as songs rang out and sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, a battle between longing and belonging wrestled in my heart. I hadn’t shared a moment this intimate with other people since my grandparents died, and the memory sank deep into my home-parched soul.
At one point during the service, Graeme’s arm came up to rest on the pew behind me, bringing an extra waft of his yummy scent, and then Lachlan offered me a piece of gum, and Mirren gave a comment or two about the “Scottishness” of the pastor. I wanted to nestle into the experience like a warm blanket on a cold night and never emerge.
So I held on. Daydreamed. Hoped.
What could my world look like if everything turned out like the storybooks? If Graeme offered me his heart and his family embraced me and my traveling? If my fear, clumsiness, and unintentional troublemaking didn’t derail any possible happily-ever-afters? If home came with more of a Scottish accent and salt-sea air than anything I’d ever envisioned for my life?
The temptation to give in to the what-if tugged me deeper into a hope that terrified me and enchanted me all at once. And promised me that if I fell this time . . . I’d never recover.
* * *
“I cannae believe you’ve never had steak pie.” This from Lachlan, who’d sat across from me at the long dining room table in the MacKerrows’ cottage. “You’ve lived a poor life in America, and that’s a fact.”
“Come now, lad.” Kenneth MacKerrow, the patriarch of the family, and the leader of the gene pool where his sons were concerned, chuckled as he served some of the steak pie on a plate for me. “Katie’s scran in America mayn’t be as tasty as what we have here in Scotland, but I doubt it’s poor.”
He winked over at me, the ease at which this family moved among one another giving off all sorts of snuggly vibes. They loved one another.
I don’t know if they realized what they had, but any onlooker with a history like mine saw it glaring in neon from every side hug or easy exchange. The gentle way Mirren placed her palm on Kenneth’s shoulder as she stood near him, and the instance when he tugged her against him as she asked if anyone needed more to drink.
The way the brothers shoved one another around in playful annoyance and everyone kept an eye and ear out for Lachlan. This was finding the needle in the glen.
“I’m pretty sure Lachlan is questioning all of my food choices at this point.” I grinned as much at Kenneth’s wink as at the overall joy of being in the thick of such a place. “Especially since not finding Irn-Bru to my liking.”
The men all groaned in response.
“Not to worry, Katie.” Calum leaned closer from his place beside Lachlan. “If we keep you here long enough, Irn-Bru will grow on ye.”
Clearly, Calum inherited the charm gene from both his parents, but his darker eyes were from his father. He teased often, laughed readily, and flirted shamelessly with me, which wasn’t necessarily bad when it meant Graeme kept finding a way to stay close.
The whole day kept warring between my hopes and fears. Church and now a family lunch. I almost sent a gaze heavenward to question God’s faith in my personal strength and self-control.
“Where do you travel next, Katie?” This from Mirren.
“I actually am attending my first Renfaire in Kentucky for two days, followed by a special alpaca festival for another two before I return home for a couple of weeks.”
“An alpaca festival?” Graeme cleared his throat, his grin hiding none of his amusement. “I can’t imagine any trouble happening to you there.”
“Right?” My gaze caught in his, attraction pinging between us like a pinball machine. “Now that I’m a sheep master, my Jedi powers should transfer to other creatures automatically.”
The family laughed, and I took a bite of steak pie with a sigh. Boy, this reminded me of my grandparents’ house so much. Even the food. I’d thought meals and families like this had disappeared with them, but here I was, living in a scene so familiar yet so different. The closeness. The ease. I hadn’t realized just how much I ached for it—the depth of what I’d lost when my grandparents died—until this reintroduction.
And I wasn’t quite sure what to do with the discovery. It was almost too much. Too wonderful. Overwhelmingly sweet.
“Do you ever rest?” Kenneth asked, offering me a basket of bread.
“I feel pretty rested right now.” I took his offering.
“Now, lass, you ken what I mean. Everyone needs a time and place to settle.”
“Says the man who works about ten hours a day,” Mirren said, raising a brow toward him.
He pinched his lips tight with a fake frown. “Now, my heart, I take days and hours when I’m needed or wanted, don’t I?” His cooing endearment melted Mirren’s ire like ice cream in an Arizona summer. He turned his attention back to me. “University hours can be long, especially when I must take the ferry to the mainland each day.”
“He’s such a good professor, he keeps getting promoted, and there’s naught I can do about it, Katie-girl.” Mirren kissed the man on the head, resulting in him pulling her into a side hug.
“But I am home every night to settle my heart, Katie.” His gaze caught mine and held, much like Mirren’s. Mind-reading skills must run in the family. “It doesnae sound as if you’re home very much at all.”
I failed to mention the idea of “home” was just that to me. An idea. Though the scene before me looked and felt a whole lot like what home should be.
I was saved from responding by Calum. “You must really like traveling then?”
He was clean-cut and his hair hung a little longer than Graeme’s—not quite to the shoulders but close. And he wasn’t quite as tall or broad as his elder brother, but not far off. Both got their stature from their dad. Mirren barely came to five foot four.
“I love it. It’s been an amazing part of my life, and I’ve finally gotten to a point where I’m not having to race around like a starving rat to find the next story.” I took a drink of my sparkling pressé. “My editor even has me doing a trial run at editing.”
“So there’s good money in it?” he continued. “Writing?”
His eyes took on a strange glimmer as if he meant something different than he said.
“There can be if you cobble together different sources of income, as I have over the years.” I studied him. “And if you can find your niche and write well.”
“He’s making sport of you, Katie.” Graeme nudged my shoulder with his own. “Because he’s fairly exploding with the need for you to ask him about writing.”
“Och, Graeme. Dinnae give away my secret.” But Calum’s exclamation came with more drama than real frustration.
“Your secret?” I laughed out the question. “Oh right. Lachlan mentioned something about your books being for sale at the Highland games.”
“Aye.” Mirren topped off my water. “Calum’s a fiction writer, and his first series has been very popular. Fantasy, they are.”
“Really?’ I swung my attention to him. “That’s fabulous.”
“You can’t go off telling it though, Katie, because my agent has made it a point for no one to know the true author behind my pseudonym.” Calum wiggled his brows. “He thinks it adds more mystery to my brand.”
“I’m glad it keeps any fans away,” Kenneth offered, filling his fork with some more steak pie and sending another grin to me. “But I reckon the anonymity keeps Calum humble, which is a feat all on its own.”
“Dad.” Calum pressed a palm to his chest as if wounded and then turned back to me. “Dinnae believe a word from them about me, Katie. I’m the very model of a modest man.”
“You know God hears ye talkin’, don’t cha?” Graeme shot back across the table. “And right after a sermon on meekness too.”
The family’s laughter erupted again, and my heart filled almost to overflowing with it all. In fact, I had to take a few extra drinks of my flavored water to get my emotions under control.
“Truth be told, my agent has some braw scheme to reveal my true identity”—he straightened with a bit of exaggerated pride—“through some brilliant marketing idea. I’m not sure what it is yet, but he’s always full of grand ideas.”
“Sounds familiar.” Graeme rolled his eyes heavenward as he shook his head in exasperation. “True identity? You sound like a bloomin’ superhero, Calum.”
“Who’s to say I’m not?” He wiggled his brows at Graeme. “Saving one uninspired reader at a time.”
“Och, away with ye!” Graeme shot back, sending a wink over to me as he scooted a teensy bit closer.
Maybe I was dreaming. A wonderful dream. “Fiction is a fantastic genre to choose, especially fantasy,” I finally added to the ongoing conversation as the men kept ribbing one another. “But I didn’t realize how difficult and exciting it would be all at once to make the stories and characters come to life.”
