by Camille Eide
“Ah, good. Thank ye, dearie.” Her soft Scottish brogue and cheerful smile returned.
No harm done.
This time.
CHAPTER TWO
Emily’s phone had been oddly silent. Duh—she’d forgotten to turn it back on. She powered it up.
Thirteen messages and voicemails, mostly from Jaye.
Emily dialed her friend, but before the call went through, the red Ranger pulled up out front.
Seconds later, a breathless Jaye burst into the house with Emily’s tote bag and a string of questions that began with how Aunt Grace was doing and ended with which firemen had come out on the call.
Emily tossed her bag onto a chair. “I’m sure Wrangle will be glad to hear you got all the important details.”
“What? It’s a small town.” Jaye smoothed her magenta bangs aside. “That was a totally standard question. And by the way, chica, no answer on the double da—I mean group fun night—counts as a yes.”
“Yes?” Aunt Grace smiled up at Jaye. “Ye’ll stay for tea? I made lemon shortbread.”
“Scottish shortbread? Seriously? Of course I’m staying.” Jaye grinned and linked an arm with Aunt Grace as the old woman rose slowly to her feet.
As Emily fell into step beside them, she tried to catch Jaye’s eye, but her friend wasn’t taking the bait. Jaye was busted for the blind date and she knew it. They’d be having a talk later.
Aunt Grace smiled up at each of them. “Ooh, this is lovely. We’ll have tea and read Maggie’s letter together.”
Emily sucked in air between her teeth. “I’m not sure if there was a letter from Scotland today.” She darted to the chair for her tote bag and shuffled through the contents for the mail she’d tossed in on her way to work. She sorted through bills and junk and spotted it: the prized envelope, complete with extra postage and airmail stamps, a Scottish postmark, and addressed in Ian MacLean’s usual block print. Emily took it into the kitchen and waved it like a winning lottery ticket.
Aunt Grace was already making tea for “The Reading.”
“Amazing.” Emily aimed a smile at Jaye. “I have no idea how she knows.”
Grace heated water, while Emily set out a serving tray and collected cream, sugar, and spoons.
Jaye snatched up the envelope and studied it. “MacLean. Hmm. Such a good, strrrrong Scottish name,” she said in an exaggerated burr. “So what kind of property do they have in Scotland, these relatives of yours? A manor house? A castle? Ooh—a gothic castle with secret passageways.”
With a laugh, Emily tucked napkins under a saucer on the tray. “Well, first off, they’re Aunt Grace’s relatives, not mine. Secondly, it’s a small farm in the lowlands. And third—”
“Wait—you’re not part of the MacLean clan?”
“Nope, sorry.” She laughed again at the pouty look on Jaye’s face. In a small way, she shared her friend’s disappointment. Though Emily had no roots in Scotland, the idea of being part of a clan had always appealed to her. Clansmen—and women—must feel a deep sense of history, of family. Of belonging.
“Oh, dear—” Aunt Grace squeaked.
Emily dropped what she was doing and rushed to her aunt’s side.
The teakettle Grace held in her good hand had dribbled hot water.
Emily held her breath as the old woman slowly poured the rest of the boiling water into a teapot.
When Grace finished without mishap, she turned and beamed a smile up at Emily. “Did ye hear, Emmy? Ian sent a letter.”
“Yes, I heard.” Emily smiled down at her aunt’s wrinkly face. Even though her mind was sometimes a bit fuzzy, Aunt Grace was still a kind, gentle soul.
Jaye filled a rose-patterned plate with some of the pre-burn cookies. “Who’s Ian?”
“Maggie’s grandson.” Grace sighed. “Such a dear, kind mon. And so dependable, watching over my sister Maggie and her farm. Poor laddie.”
“Really? Why ‘poor laddie’?” Jaye’s eyes lit up. Typical drama junkie.
Emily carried cups and saucers to the tray. “She probably means because he’s widowed. But I think it happened a long time ago. In fact,” Emily said, turning to her aunt with a laugh, “I don’t think he would consider himself much of a laddie, Aunt Grace. He’s old enough to have traveled all over the world. And in one of his letters he called himself a hermit.”
Jaye’s eyes widened. “This could be seriously cool. Or ...” She made a lizard-tongue face and shuddered.
Emily paused with a teacup in each hand. “What?”
“I mean, like what kind of hermit are we talking about? A fat, hairy, old Friar Tuck, or a gorgeous Johnny Depp The Writer in a cabin?”
Warring images from Robin Hood and The Secret Window sprang to Emily’s mind. “So those are our only options? Not that it matters—”
“Oh, it matters, Em. You need to know what you’re dealing with.”
Aunt Grace turned to Jaye. “Ian is a writer.” She nodded. “A very good one.”
“Hey, all right.” Jaye grinned. “Johnny Depp in a cabin.”
“I saw that movie, Jaye. He was a homicidal psycho.”
“Tsss.” She tossed the comment aside with a wave of her hand. “A gorgeous psycho.”
Emily shook her head.
“What?” Jaye threw her an innocent look. “I’m just sayin’. Are you sure Ian isn’t your third cousin twice removed or something?”
Checking to see if her aunt was listening, Emily lowered her voice. “Grace was my great-uncle Thomas’s second wife. I’m not related to her, her sister, or any of her relatives.”
Jaye shrugged a sigh. “Bummer. You could’ve at least gotten a haunted castle out of the deal.”
When tea was ready, Aunt Grace shuffled to the small front room and settled into her chair. Jaye carried in the teapot and placed it on the coffee table while Emily brought the tray of cups, cookies, cream, and sugar. She set Grace’s saucer with her cup and cookie on the end table.
The old woman slowly unfolded a napkin with her left hand and laid it across her lap. Her right hand remained curled against her abdomen in a permanent upward turn as though she carried an invisible handbag everywhere she went.
Jaye plopped down on the braided rug and sat cross-legged while Emily sank into the pillowy-soft loveseat and tucked her feet beneath her. As she pulled the band from her ponytail and shook out her hair, she caught Aunt Grace watching her. Emily kept a straight face and unfolded the letter. “Okay, Aunt Grace, are you ready?”
“Aye. Read it aloud, please, dearie.”
Emily chuckled. She always read the letters aloud. As she smoothed out the folded pages, Ian’s familiar handwriting broadened her smile. She looked forward to these letters from Grace’s sister almost as much as Grace did, especially now that Ian wrote them on Maggie’s behalf. His writing always conveyed a quiet sort of charm and subtle humor.
And Grace seemed pleased that Ian wrote the letters now because he gave a more accurate report of what Margaret Agnes Buchanan MacLean was really up to.
Sometimes a little too accurate.
Emily read the letter. “Dear Aunt Grace & Emily, we just read your last letter and Maggie insists I reply at once, as usual. She says you’re very welcome and she’s relieved to know you’ll now have a proper cup of Scottish tea. I imagine you have perfectly good tea in America, but Maggie won’t hear of you drinking it, so if you do, please don’t mention it.” Emily raised an eyebrow at the other two women.
“Ooh, no.” Grace shook her head. “We won’t mention that.”
Jaye lifted her teacup in a toast and followed with a loud slurp.
“In answer to your question,” Emily read on, “yes, Maggie approves of the new minister. She says he’s ‘a wee rickle o’ bones,’ but since the woman is nearly blind, I’m afraid to ask how she knows that.”
“Och, Maggie!” Grace dropped her cookie.
Emily bit her lip and focused on the page. “So to fatten him up, she bakes a pie for him every Saturday.
Which means I stay close to the house and keep an eye on what might end up in the pie before it goes into the oven. But, what I miss, I miss, and if the minister is as godly a man as she claims he is, he won’t flinch at finding a chicken feather or a lock of Maggie’s hair in it.”
Jaye wrinkled her nose and mouthed ewww at Emily.
“Ooh, aye, Maggie loves to bake,” Aunt Grace said with a nod. “She’s happiest when there’s a full house to feed.”
“Yummy, I can just imagine.” Emily winced, then read on. “This year’s berry crop is off to a great start, maybe our best one ever. As long as Maggie doesn’t get any more ideas about hauling the berries down to the village in the old farm truck. I still don’t know—”
Emily skipped over “how she didn’t end up in the loch” with a peek at Grace and read the next line.
“Don’t worry, Aunt Grace. Since I was finally allowed to move up from the cottage to the farm house, your sister has found it harder to put her hands on things that get her into trouble. Things like truck keys and butcher knives. Do you remember the incident with the estate agent’s car?”
Aunt Grace nodded solemnly.
“Well, as far as Maggie knows,” Emily continued, “the axe has mysteriously gone missing too. All that to say Scotland is now a much safer place to visit.”
“Such a good, kind lad.” Grace sighed.
“Yeah. Good old Johnny.” Jaye’s eyebrows danced.
Emily answered with an eye-roll. “Speaking of visiting, Maggie is pleased that Grace has made such excellent progress after the stroke. Since she’s doing so well now, Maggie is in desperate need for Grace to come ho—”
Home? A gasp slipped out as Emily paused on the word. Holding her breath, she skimmed over the rest of the letter. Ian wrote that Maggie eagerly awaited Grace’s arrival in Scotland and that he would do whatever was needed to help Aunt Grace make the move.
“What? What else does it say?” Jaye asked.
Emily could only shake her head vaguely as she read the last paragraph to herself. There was plenty of room in the house for Grace, and Ian would gladly move out of the house and back into the old cottage. He repeated Maggie’s insistence that Grace come home soon—the sooner, the better. She looked up.
Grace seemed content to sip her tea, but Jaye frowned and held out a hand for the letter.
“We need more tea, Jaye. Come help me.” Emily rose and headed to the kitchen while Jaye scrambled up from the floor and followed.
Once they were in the kitchen and out of earshot, alarm deepened Jaye’s frown. “What’s wrong? What did he write?”
Emily shushed her and handed the letter over. As Jaye scanned the last lines on the page, Emily peeked around the doorway and checked on her great-aunt.
When Jaye finished, she locked eyes with Emily. “So?”
“So?” Emily spoke in a tight whisper. “Did you see what it said? Maggie wants Grace to move to Scotland.”
“Yeah, I saw that. So?” Jaye looked genuinely confused.
Which set off a little burst of panic in Emily. She shouldn’t have to explain it to Jaye, of all people. “Isn’t it obvious? She’s eighty-six. She can’t just pack up and go tearing off to another country.”
Frowning, Jaye looked at the letter again. “Sounds like Maggie really needs her. Maybe she should go. I mean, they’re sisters and they haven’t seen each other in a long time.”
Mouth agape, Emily stared at her friend.
“Come on, think about it, Em. The sooner Aunt Grace is back with her real family, the sooner you can pack up the selfless-caregiver routine and start thinking about yourself.”
“Real family?” Adrenaline forced her words into a hot whisper. “She’s my family too.”
“I thought you said she was like your step-aunt or something.”
“That’s not the point.” Her pulse kicked up a notch. “Family is about more than blood. She was there when I needed her. She’s been like a mom to me for the last thirteen years and I owe her. She depends on me now, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe. Traveling halfway across the world is totally out of the question.”
Jaye pinned her with a wide-eyed stare.
“I don’t expect you to understand, Jaye. But trust me. I know what’s best.”
Her friend’s left brow arched. “Best for whom?”
Aunt Grace. Who else? A sudden tightening in her throat made swallowing hard. She frowned.
After another brief scan of the letter, Jaye handed it back. “I get it.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Since your mom died and your dad will barely speak to you, Aunt Grace is all the family you have.”
It was hard enough to force visits on a dad who clearly didn’t want them. But for her best friend to point it out was like chucking salt in the wound. She hoped the rush of heat in her face didn’t look as red as it felt. “Jaye, that’s not—”
“Emmy?” Aunt Grace’s gentle, creaky voice carried from the other room.
“Listen, Em. I know you mean well and all, but she’s entitled to—”
“The absolute best possible care.” Stiffening, Emily sneaked another peek around the doorway. Grace was brushing cookie crumbs from her lap. Emily drew a deep breath and expelled it along with whatever Jaye was implying. “And that’s why traveling overseas is totally out of the question.”
“Seriously?”
“Jaye, she’s not strong enough to make a trip like that. Think about it. The risk of getting sick multiplies with travel, especially for the elderly. It’s dangerous. At her age, even a simple cold could be ... you know … fatal.” Clearly Jaye didn’t know what it meant to hold someone’s life in her hands. The weight of being solely responsible for another person was something Jaye had never borne. But Aunt Grace’s health and welfare were things Emily didn’t take lightly.
Maybe one day Jaye would understand.
“Emmy?” Grace called out again. “Are ye getting paper so we can write back now?”
“Yes, I’m coming.” Emily leaned close to Jaye and whispered, “I really do feel sorry for Maggie, but there is no way Aunt Grace is moving to Scotland.”
CHAPTER THREE
A fine Scottish fog, rising from the twisting burn below, blanketed the braes beyond the farm and settled over the glen. Ian stared out the kitchen window at the spreading mist as fragments of the conversation he’d just had echoed in his ear. When he heard himself say the words aloud, it finally sunk in.
He was going to the States.
It was only for a week, but it would be a seven-day holiday from Maggie and her pigheadedness. And if that last letter to Aunt Grace had done its job, then she would soon be coming to Scotland to keep her sister sensibly occupied. Hopefully, for good.
Ah, the freedom that would give him.
It was possible, as long as everything worked out. And so far, things were coming together. He’d booked his flight for the following Friday. He had also spoken with his editor at The Master’s Call magazine and confirmed the deadline for the first article in the special feature series.
Out of the mist, the post truck ambled along Craig’s Hill Road. It stopped at the MacLean’s mailbox and moved on. With any luck, the mail included a letter of reply from Aunt Grace and her live-in companion, Emily. And if he were very lucky, the letter would include the date of Grace’s arrival.
He strode down the drive. This long-awaited venture was finally becoming a reality. His first assignment was a follow-up story on the woman whose biography he’d written. A week in Oregon would give him enough time to talk with Janet Anderson again and journal her work on the streets of Portland. Not only would it provide him with the material he needed for the story, it would give him the chance to reconnect with the woman who had prayed him through the darkest time of his life.
Janet was probably in her mid-fifties by now, as five years had passed since they had last met. It would be good to see her again, and yet … Janet’s friendship would always remind him
of how they first met—at his wife’s funeral. Regardless of what memories a visit with Janet would stir up, he still wanted to talk with her, to know if she ever gave in to bitterness, which she had every right to do. And more than anything, he wanted to know if she still believed in turning the other cheek.
Because it certainly hadn’t done him a sorry bit of good.
At the mailbox, he drew out an envelope bearing a US postmark. Out of habit, he brought it to his nose. Same faint, sweet, flowery scent. Ian smiled again. Things were falling into place. He’d brave old Maggie’s ire and read the letter on the spot instead of waiting for her and her precious tea. She’d never know.
During the climb back to the house, he drew out the letter. The pages, written in Emily’s loopy cursive, also carried a hint of the delicate scent. He scanned through the letter for dates and times of arrival.
Nothing.
He went back to the beginning and read each line. When he got to the last paragraph, he froze.
We would like to thank Maggie for the generous offer to come to Scotland. But regretfully, Grace must decline. A trip overseas is just not possible. Please accept our heartfelt apologies. Your invitation was very thoughtful and much appreciated.
Yours as always,
Grace and Emily
Ian came to a halt on the walk a few feet from the house and reread the letter, frowning. Decline? A weird throbbing pulsed in his temples. From the reports in recent letters, Grace was healthy now. Was she ill again? Or was she showing a streak of her Buchanan blood? Based on previous letters, neither one made sense.
He stormed into the house and took the stairs two at a time, rounded the wooden newel post, and went into his room. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket as he paced the floor. Should he ring Grace for an explanation? Or—
It just so happened ...
His trip to the States the following week would take him to Oregon. If Grace wouldn’t come to him, then he’d go to her.
