Some like it scot, p.4
Some Like It Scot, page 4
And then I replayed my sentence and grinned. Which part was realistic anyway?
As Mrs. Lennox left me to attend to some catastrophe in the kitchen, I glanced out one of the magnificent arched windows toward green hills and beauty. Sunlight beckoned me forward.
I always uncovered the best adventures when I went off on my own. And today I had time to explore, so why not go ahead and search for a story to share?
Chapter 3
Katie
I snatched up the book on Scottish legends I’d purchased at an adorable bookshop in Inverness and headed out my bedroom door, energized by the idea of possible discoveries . . . and from the excellent sleep I’d gotten the night before. The soft night sounds of crashing waves, a warbling bird noise, and an occasional owl created a soothing lullaby. And having the windows open to the cool island breeze sent me into a sort of comatose sleep state I hadn’t experienced in years. Something about this quaint world fit me in a way I’d never imagined. A surprising match.
The same thing happened the first time I ate scallops. I was sure I was going to hate the slimy things but then had to practically redefine my future after wondering where they’d been all my life. This entire landscape Obi-Wanned me into self-reflection about why it fit, without providing any clear answers.
Weird. Captivating. And a little unsettling. Pretty much the perfect trio to describe my entire trip to Scotland so far.
I’d just pulled my backpack onto my shoulder when my phone buzzed to life in my jeans pocket. Dropping my pack down on the bed, I raised the phone and grinned at a photo of me and my closest brother.
I perched on the edge of the bed and raised the phone to my ear. “Whit like are ye, Brett?”
His chuckle emerged all warm and familiar. “Is that really a greeting from Scotland, or are you making it up?”
I settled into the conversation like a warm hug. In all my traveling, he remained constant. There. Just a little reminder that somewhere in the world, someone wondered about me and wanted to make sure I was okay.
“I heard it from a few of the locals, especially my taxi driver yesterday. You would have loved Archie. He’d make a great character in a book.”
“Do you plan to put it into one of your Katie on the Fly stories, then?”
My chest squeezed at the mention of my secret project. Brett was the only person on the entire planet who knew about the middle reader books I’d started writing three years ago. One day while sitting on a beach in Australia watching a family make a sandcastle together, I’d jotted down a few lines of a story idea and couldn’t stop. Fourteen-year-old Katie was much less accident prone and embarked on adventures to the places I’d traveled, only I’d sprinkled her stories with some fictional magic here and there. I’d just started writing book four: King Tut’s Impossible Tomb Adventure.
Despite Brett’s urging, I’d refused to send the stories to a publisher because, well, I wasn’t a fiction writer. I was a travel writer. And I’d poured all this joy, hopefulness, and creative exploration into them. The idea of making an offering to the publishing gods of this intimate story, about the Katie I wished I were, felt way too vulnerable. Fictional Katie abounded with bravery, confidence, and certain happily-ever-afters, despite the dangers along the way. She didn’t stumble around and constantly second-guess herself—rather, she knew who she was, what she wanted, and where she belonged.
I forced a chuckle through my tightening throat. “You know I’m trying to keep it authentic for the kids.” I blinked out of my foggy emotions and gave the conversation a safe turn. “Speaking of kids, how are my favorite niece and nephew?”
“Your only niece and nephew,” came Brett’s unamused response.
“Which proves my point all the more.” I shrugged, as if he could see me through the phone. “We both know it will take a miracle from God for Chase to find a woman to put up with his temperament. You may be the only hope for my aunt status.”
“After being raised in a house with Mom, I think Chase is just afraid of the possibilities.”
Weren’t we all? Until Brett went off and met Jess, a wonderful woman from an equally wonderful and well-adjusted family, we three surviving siblings rarely spoke of our future families. Jess’s entrance into our family seven years ago introduced a picture within our defunct family of a happily-ever-after possibility. At least for Brett. The relationship had not only brought out his smile a lot more but had pulled him out of his shell. She proved that the right person in one’s life had power to influence that person for the good.
I shook the thoughts away. “How are Jess and the kids adjusting to the new apartment?”
His hesitation didn’t bode well. “We need more space, but we just can’t afford it right now. Jess is trying to make the best out of the situation, as usual, but I can tell she’s feeling the pinch.”
“Maybe moving away from Atlanta would help?”
“It’s something we’ve talked about, but I’d need to find a solid job before we can even consider that option, and we can’t count on an income from Jess for a while. It’s cheaper for her to stay at home with the kids than pay for daycare.”
“But that means you can’t pursue your art like you’d hoped.” His dream for years.
“I think I may need to hang up the hobby for a while. Mom always said it would never amount to anything anyway, and I want to be a part of my kids’ lives when I’m home from the bank.”
Unlike our dad. But Brett didn’t say that. He didn’t have to. “You’re a great dad. I just wish you could have a little freedom for your dreams too.”
“Katie.” His voice softened with acceptance that I didn’t fully understand. “Sometimes one dream has to bow to another, and that’s okay.” He chuckled. “I love having my family to come home to, even if they’re sometimes loud and stinky.”
“Gross.” I pushed levity into my response, but my heart squeezed a little. Home sounded sweet when he said it. “I’m going to tell Jess you called her stinky.”
“Funny.” Quiet passed between us as I looked out the window into Scotland green. “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Clearly one of a kind to put up with you and all your dad jokes.” I felt that pinch in my chest again, but for a different reason. A weird sort of fight-or-flight battle against pressing into what Brett had. Something sweet enough to redirect dreams and plans. “But I hope you can pursue your art someday, Brett. You have a gift and you love it.”
“I hope so too, Skeeter.”
The nickname incited my grin.
“When will you be back at the farm? We’ll come visit.”
Oh, how Brett loved that farm. He’d never say it aloud, but we both knew he loved the old place more than I did. Why Grandpa and Gran left it to me, I’m not sure, except maybe as a way to link me back to my roots when I traveled more days out of the year than not.
“I have an assignment in Kentucky right after Scotland, and then I have a few weeks before the next trip. This time to Spain.”
“Spain.” He released the word with a puff of a laugh. “Someday you may want to land a little while, Skeeter.”
The unspoken implication unearthed something Gran had told me once: “It’s fine to run away from home, but one day home will catch you.”
“You find me a match as amazing as Jess and I might consider it.” I rubbed my palm against my jeans and shook off the unsettling feelings I couldn’t quite define. “Otherwise, I’ll be off now on my little afternoon adventure to a quaint Scottish village in the middle of the most magical countryside you can imagine.”
“Rub it in.”
“Turnabout is fair play, brother dear.”
With the sound of his familiar chuckle in my ears, I ended the call and started for the village of Glenkirk. My maid—which sounded really weird to voice even in my thoughts—had mentioned a path to the village cut through the garden on the back side of the house, so I started down the second floor (or first floor in the UK) hallway of guest rooms toward the back stairs. Reading about Scottish legends while rocky cliffs, ocean breezes, and ancient mountains surrounded me was sure to inspire my imagination for my magazine articles, not to mention my blog. I’d already written up a teaser to describe my introduction to Mull from the ferry.
And my books? This place breathed with some sort of otherworldly wonder.
I slowed my pace down the hallway to take a few photos of the amazing woodwork, which looked new but was so intricately woven into the existing crown molding that it fit perfectly. Those must be some of the renovations Mrs. Lennox had mentioned during the tour. And had she said only half of the rooms were in use? What did she have in mind once the whole house was restored? Surely not just a Downton stage. From the entryway to the views, this place nearly screamed for something more.
I’d just made it to the top of the back stairs when a strangely familiar voice broke into the silence from the direction of the main stairs. Considering an entire hallway separated me from the top of the main stairs and I could still hear his voice painfully clearly only proved the identification of the man all the more probable.
Mark Page, or at least that was his online moniker.
My entire body seized, and I pressed myself against the wall as if my jacket and jeans would somehow become one with the floral print wallpaper. I even pulled my ball cap a little lower on my head.
Why had he been invited to Craighill’s media preview? He wrote sports travel articles. How on earth would he fit into an Edwardian Experience?
“Horseback riding?” His words barreled down the hallway toward me as if in answer. “Of course I know how to ride. Been doing it since I was sixteen.”
I rolled my gaze heavenward and prayed for a secret passage to open behind me and transport me to . . . anywhere. Even that awful dungeon restaurant I’d visited in Belize.
Mark and I had only spent one evening together after a media event in London, and no amount of toothbrushing had removed his painfully thorough and unprovoked kiss from my tactile memory. Twenty texts (most of which I tried to ignore), a long and unflattering (to him) social media message, and five months later, he’d seemed to have moved on.
And now? I had to spend three weeks with him in this house?
My eyes narrowed on the beautifully ornate ceiling. Gran often talked about how God wrote the story of our lives. Hmm . . . Why did my personal genre look more like a book of jokes than a cozy mystery or sweeping adventure?
It certainly didn’t resemble a romance. For one, living on the fly made it nigh impossible to meet a guy for more than two or three dates. My lips tipped. Except the delicious Egyptian in Cairo. Five of the best dates of my life, all along the Nile on a dahabeah.
But second, I’d never met a guy to stay put for. Finding one who was confident enough to encourage my travels but loved me in such a way to bring me home? Well, maybe he was as legendary and mythical as a sword in a stone.
Mark’s voice drew nearer, so with careful, quiet steps, I descended the back stairs and turned the curve on the landing of the stairs, just as his blond head came into view. With a creak to the next step, I blew out the breath I’d been holding and dashed down the remainder of the stairs into a narrow hall, only to come nose to wood with a massive stair railing swinging toward my head. Before ducking, I did wonder how on earth a stair railing could fly, but with my introduction to Craighill, normal seemed relative.
The railing swung over the space my head recently vacated, and on the other side of it stood Mr. Scotsman from the day before. The railing balanced on one of his massive shoulders as if it were nothing more than a damsel.
I blinked.
Well, not that he seemed the sort to throw damsels over his shoulder. But with those arms, it probably wasn’t a hardship.
Heat flooded my already hot face, and if my breathing came any faster, my head might take flight off my body like a hot-air balloon.
I stared up at the man from my crouched position on the floor, the brim of my cap blocking the top half of his expression, but his close-shaved beard framed an impressive frown. I braced myself as I rose to my feet.
Maybe I could get in the first word.
“If you’re going to lug a tree through the house, don’t you think you ought to wear a warning bell or something?”
Looking up to him still felt strange, but in a nice sort of way. I met his gaze, but the scowl I’d expected was surprisingly absent. Instead, his dark brows pinched together and he studied me as if he wasn’t sure what to do next. Those eyes had taken on more of a stormy blue than the paler hue of earlier. And I lost whatever verbal defense I’d partially been concocting in my head.
The man didn’t respond with words, but his gaze traveled from my face to the brim of my hat and then back to my eyes. The silence prickled over my skin, and I cleared my throat, gesturing with my book to his railing.
“Do you carry stair railings through manor houses often?” I placed my free hand on my hip to have something to do with it and looked away from his stare to the wood. The light filtered over it, highlighting the beautiful grain and reddish sheen. “Is that cherry? What an amazing finish!”
I reached my hand to smooth over the wood, noting the careful trim work on the lip of the railing. “And the detail. Beautiful. There’s something about hand-carved wood that feels so intimate, isn’t th—”
My words died on my tongue as I glanced back at his face and realized I’d been yammering on to a man whose sentence lengths so far made it up to five fingers. Maybe less. Plus, by stepping closer to touch the railing, I’d moved nearer to Stoic Scot than I’d intended. My pulse ricocheted in my throat. I breathed in to make a comment and caught a distinct sweet scent along with something tangy. Maybe wood finish or cologne? I nearly grinned. No, he didn’t seem the cologne sort.
He blinked as if coming out of a daze. Again his gaze shifted from my eyes to my hat, then paused on the book in my hand. The crinkles on his dark brow deepened. “That book’s rubbish.”
Three words in that sentence. He was digressing. My yammering clearly impressed.
Yet the sentence and his tone of voice failed to match. There was a softness in his delivery, breathlessness, even, which slowed my comprehension.
“What?”
He cleared his throat and took a step back, nodding toward my book. “That book on Scottish legends. It’s pure rubbish. If you want a good book on the subject, you can fetch Alec Frasier’s Lore and Legend from Mirren’s in the village.”
Three full sentences. And in that Scottish accent.
Why did I feel like I’d just won an award while also being reprimanded? The way he curled his r’s sounded a whole lot different from Mrs. Lennox. Skin-hummingly different.
I tugged the book to my chest to protect it from his critique. True, I had only read the first few paragraphs, but “rubbish” seemed a strong insult for something that couldn’t defend itself. “Are you one of the servants in this whole Edwardian Experience?”
Though Mr. Grumpy would have a difficult time making his six-seven, wide-shouldered, thundercloud-browed self unnoticeable.
“I’m not a servant.” He grumbled out the words, his eyes narrowing.
My attention flitted down his attire of dusty white shirt and brown trousers, halting for just a second to appreciate those shoulders one more time. It was a rare thing indeed for me to meet a man who made me feel small.
“Are you quite done oglin’ me?”
My attention snapped back to his eyes as sweltering heat coursed up my neck into my face and nearly evaporated through my eyeballs. “Um . . . you’re dressed like a servant.”
“I’m a tradesman.” One of his dark brows needled northward. “BBC doesn’t teach you everythin’, Duchess.” He ground out the last word like an oath and dipped his head, as if that made his behavior all better.
I stood up to my full height, which usually gave me more confidence than it currently did. “I’m . . . a writer.” But with a baseball cap, jeans, and sneakers, the argument didn’t quite sting. “Not a duchess.”
Which fell flat, even to my ears.
He enacted the most impressive eye roll I’d ever witnessed, then released a growl—or that’s what it sounded like—along with a grumbled string of words I couldn’t understand. Giving me as wide a berth as a massive man and a stair railing could, he walked toward the ballroom.
I glared at the back of his head. “If you’re going to insult me, at least do it in English.”
And with a little twinge in my chest of something I couldn’t quite identify and a glance back toward the disappearing giant, I marched directly out the back door toward Glenkirk and far away from grumpy Scots, arrogant sportswriters, and the promise of another embarrassing experience.
The fresh air slowed my pulse and pace as I stepped over the threshold from the house on the walking path through Craighill’s back garden. Seven years as a travel writer taught me to heed that inner navigator and breathe in the day. Most of my best stories happened in the unplanned moments, and I tried to keep an eye out for the untold tales and less-trodden trails.
So I took a fistful of that experience to heart and pushed away my worries about Mark and the unsettling leftovers from Brett’s call and stepped forward. A motto for life. Move forward.
Too many things in the past only slowed me down anyway.
So I embraced the moment. The early July breeze against my cheeks. The glints of sun through a veil of intermittent clouds. A slight mist sprinkling my face and the sweet scent of—what was it? Almonds and honey? A burst of white flowers clung to the rock garden wall lining the path toward a grassy field. In fact, though part of the wall disappeared beneath an overgrowth of vines and a few wild roses, my gaze trailed the length of the expanse, and the breadth of the garden took full shape.
What must it have once looked like? Because, from a little Google searching, it had been built in 1800 as the pride and joy of some great Scottish military guy named Duncan MacKerrow. I’d always bragged that the house I’d inherited from my grandparents was pretty old as a 1915 two-story brick farmhouse, but Europe redefined old for me. In fact, Craighill stood as a relatively young structure in the UK.
