by Uceda, Mayte
“And what did he say?” asked Berta.
“You remember Rory came to Barcelona to do his master’s in teaching Spanish as a foreign language?” They both nodded. “Well, turns out he got a job doing just that at a school in Edinburgh.”
Berta wasn’t sure where Lola was going with this. “I’m happy for him, but . . .”
“I told him we’d probably visit, and he was thrilled. But he said he wouldn’t be in Edinburgh during the summer. His family is from a little town in the Highlands called Beauly, and he’ll be there all summer.”
Rebecca shrugged. “OK, so what’s our plan?”
“Well, I was thinking . . .” Lola interrupted herself to get something from her bag. She took out a map and unfolded it on the table.
Rebecca removed her sunglasses and lifted an eyebrow. “You have a map of Scotland with you?”
“Look,” Lola said. “Here’s Edinburgh.” The three bent over the map. Lola pointed to the city and then moved her finger over to the left. “And here, not far, is Glasgow. We could spend a couple of days in each city and then rent a car and go to Beauly. What do you think?”
“And drive on the left side of the road?” exclaimed Rebecca. “No way.”
“So what you’re saying,” Berta said, “is that you want us to take a lightning tour of the most important cities in Scotland and then hide away in the Highlands for two weeks watching the sheep get sheared while you dally in bed all day with Rory, who will be waiting for you in his kilt.”
Lola flopped back in her seat and let out a loud sigh. “It’s the only way I can see him,” she said. “I really like him. I’ve thought about him a lot since he left, and I know he likes me. I think there could be something serious between us.”
Berta shifted in her seat. “Well, that’s certainly new. I’ve never seen you so interested in a guy. What surprises me most is that you’re willing to take off to another country to see him. But I feel you,” she said, covering her heart with her hand.
“I couldn’t care less about seeing Scotland; I just want to see Rory. And if I don’t, I’ll never forgive myself. I don’t want to wonder the rest of my life if we could’ve really had something.”
“Wow!” Rebecca said. “That’s quite romantic.”
Lola sensed her friends finally were beginning to understand. “Rory’s town is really close to an important city. Look,” she said, rotating the map. “Here’s Inverness, super close to Loch Ness. I’ll bet there’s a ton of interesting places to visit there.”
Rebecca touched her friend’s arm. “You don’t need to say anything else. I don’t think this trip is going to be about tourism. As far as I’m concerned, we can go wherever you want. Anything for love, isn’t that your motto?”
“So, you don’t care if we spend three weeks in Beauly?”
“Three weeks?” Rebecca and Berta exclaimed together.
“Yeah! I haven’t told you the best part! Rory said we could rent a little cottage. He knows some people who rent them out during the summer, and we can get a really good deal—three weeks for the price of two.”
Berta adjusted her glasses, rested her elbows on the table, and buried her face in her hands. “Three weeks under the cloudy skies of Podunk, Scotland.”
Lola bit her lip. “You can be happy even under cloudy skies, can’t you?
“Anything for love,” Rebecca said, and raised her glass of iced tea in a toast. The other two raised their glasses to join her.
THE BEGINNING
Inverness
July 19, 2006
Their cheeks still radiating the warmth of Barcelona, the three friends were greeted by a light rain in the Highlands’ capital city of Inverness.
Rebecca had pretended to nap during most of the flight. She wanted to give free rein to her thoughts. The last fifteen days had been a whirlwind of dress fittings, menu tastings, guest lists . . . She felt more relaxed now, knowing everything was taken care of despite her mother’s frequent reminders to the contrary.
The wedding had been set for Saturday, the seventh of October—the only date still available at the most lavish restaurant in Barcelona. The guest list had occupied Rebecca for nearly a week. No matter how hard she worked to cut the numbers down to what she considered a reasonable family affair, she simply couldn’t get it under three hundred. She didn’t even know the majority of the guests. “Obligations,” her mother responded when Rebecca asked.
Then there was the job offer. The executive Rebecca had seen at her father’s law office turned out to be the headmaster of a prestigious private school in Barcelona. Apparently he had two teaching positions open for the upcoming year for the first-year primary students. Rebecca had passed the first interview and practically had the job promised to her upon her return. She knew her father’s relationship with the headmaster was a major factor in her success, but she told herself she’d soon be able to prove herself a worthy teacher by her own merit.
She had so many reasons to be happy: her wedding, her job . . . and to top it all off, the three weeks she was getting to spend with her friends. Everything was perfect in her world. The only thing that cast a shadow on her joy was watching her brother struggle.
Following her father’s advice, she’d given Enric the chance to be completely open with her. But it wasn’t until the day before she left that he chose to do so. They were sitting in the comfortable new wicker chairs on the balcony of his small apartment, enjoying a cold drink as they chatted about trivial things. Then Enric sobered and looked at his sister anxiously.
“I always knew I was different.”
Rebecca looked into his green eyes. She didn’t say anything, but she was ready to listen to whatever Enric was ready to share with her.
“Ever since I was a kid,” he continued. “But you think it’ll go away. Then when you get older you realize not only is the feeling still there, but it’s grabbed hold of your heart and grown with you, not leaving room for anything else. You try everything you can to not think about it, to drive it away . . . and soon you discover its roots have grown so deep there’s no way to get rid of it without pulling yourself apart, because it’s part of you just like the color of your eyes and your hair.”
“Enric—” Rebecca couldn’t hide her anguish.
“No, Rebecca, let me finish.” He took a deep breath and continued, his voice tight with the effort. “I’ve repressed it for too many years, lacking the courage to bring it out into the open. But now I have to, and I feel so alone. I even told Father Arnau, to see if it would help me feel better, or to get advice or something . . . I don’t know.”
He rubbed his head and ran his fingers through his straight, glossy hair.
“And what did the priest say?”
He shrugged and closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them again, they were glassy and a little red.
“That I should fight. That life is made up of battles and sacrifices and that I shouldn’t give up. But, mostly . . . to not let my feelings control my actions.”
Rebecca listened, her heart breaking, not knowing what advice she could give. She laid a hand on his arm.
“You know I’ll support you no matter what.”
He looked up at her and smiled wanly. “I know.”
“I think Mother and Daddy only want what’s best for us. But deep down, I agree that you did the right thing in facing it and starting a new life.”
“You really think so?” he asked, rubbing his hands together with his elbows resting on his knees.
“It’s the only way Mother will ever come to understand. I think that in time . . .” She stopped.
Her brother nodded. “I hope so.”
They sat quietly, each one lost in thought, until Enric smiled.
“What?” asked Rebecca, returning the smile; his happiness was contagious.
“I’ve met someone.”
“Actually, I already knew him. He’s a friend from the university. His name’s Pablo.”
She was so surprised she didn’t know what to say. She mumbled something incoherent.
“Stop. You don’t have to say anything,” he cut her off. “I know it’ll take some time to get used to the idea. But I’d like you to think about it.”
She exhaled in relief. “OK.”
Enric turned serious again. “I can’t believe you’re getting married in three months.”
“I know; it’s a little weird.”
“You can always ditch him at the altar,” he teased.
“Don’t start, Enric.”
“I won’t. I’m just saying that as long as you haven’t said ‘I do,’ there’s still time . . . You know.”
“Mother would die!”
“She’s not the one who’ll be sleeping with Mario.”
Rebecca raised a finger in warning, and her brother apologized.
“OK, I’m sorry. I won’t say anything else. If you’re happy, so am I.”
Rebecca was totally absorbed in remembering the conversation with her brother when Berta, seated next to her, broke in.
“We’re landing. Look.”
Berta leaned in and peered out the tiny window.
“Finally, we can see something,” Rebecca said. “There was a sea of clouds below us the whole time.”
“You slept the whole time.”
“Well, I opened my eyes once.”
“Hey!” complained Lola, who had gotten stuck with the aisle seat. “I can’t see anything.”
The airplane landed along the Inverness Firth, with the city in the background. The capital of the Highlands was at the mouth of the River Ness, on the far southwest side of Moray Firth.
Much to Lola’s delight, Rory Elliot was waiting for them in the small airport’s arrivals area.
They hadn’t seen each other for two years, but as soon as he saw Lola, Rory hurried to meet her, dodging carts loaded with luggage. When he reached her, he gave her a huge hug, then kissed her on each cheek. Berta and Rebecca couldn’t help smiling at the effusive greeting. At last he noticed the two friends.
He greeted them with the two kisses, Spanish-style, also.
“How was the flight?” he asked, with almost perfect Spanish, as he guided them to the exit.
“Short enough that we didn’t get tired,” said Lola, taking advantage of the conversation to get a good look at him.
Rory had blond hair, shorter than it was the last time the girls had seen it but still curly. His face was red, either from too much sun—which was doubtful, given the overcast skies—or because he was totally blushing.
As they exited, a large blue sign hanging from a streetlamp greeted them in the country’s two languages, English and Gaelic: “Welcome to Scotland” and “Fàilte gu Alba.”
Lola was wearing sandals; pretty, but not particularly practical on a day like this.
“You’ll catch a cold,” Rory told her, looking down at her exposed feet.
“I’ll keep that in mind for tomorrow,” Lola said, still smiling happily.
“You’re all so tan,” said Rory. “I miss the Barcelona sunshine.”
“It looks like we will too,” noted Berta, looking up at the sky.
Lola gave her friend a little shove. They’d just arrived, and it wasn’t a good idea to start in on the bad weather.
Rebecca, squinting in the drizzle, also glanced up at the overcast sky. She hoped her dismay was not too evident. And although the typical comment about the weather in Britain was on the tip of her tongue, she kept it to herself; she didn’t want to feel Lola’s elbow in her side.
Lola was excited. Rebecca figured it wouldn’t have mattered if it were raining cats and dogs—an English expression she’d learned a long time ago, even though she never really understood the reference to animals. “It’s raining buckets,” another idiom she had learned, made sense to her. But “cats and dogs”?
They walked to the parking lot, stowed their three big suitcases as best they could in the trunk and backseat of Rory’s red Ford Mondeo, and climbed into the sedan.
Leaving the airport, they headed southeast on a highway that ran parallel to the estuary.
The scenery was as expected: lots of green wherever they looked, with a few houses scattered along both sides of the road. Their walls were white or stone, and the roofs were peaked and covered with flat, black slate tiles. Very British, thought Berta. She asked how far it was to Beauly.
Rory grinned upon hearing her pronounce the name, the laughter in his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.
“What?” Berta said.
“Nothing,” he replied. “It just sounded funny.”
“It’s pronounced like beauty,” Lola corrected her. “You made it sound French, with an o.”
“It’s pretty much the same thing, isn’t it?”
“Well, if you go back, the origin of the word is French,” Rory said.
“See?” Berta raised an eyebrow and gave Lola a look.
“Beauly is twenty miles from here; it’ll take about thirty minutes.”
Those in the backseat were clearly relieved; they didn’t much like the idea of a long ride when they were surrounded by suitcases that penned them in with little wheels and polycarbonate walls.
“You’ll love the cottage I’ve reserved for you,” Rory was saying. “It’s the best in the area, but Mrs. Munro wouldn’t budge on the price. Three weeks was all I could get you.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Berta said, observing Rebecca rolling her eyes. “Three weeks is more than enough.”
“I’d spend my whole summer here,” Lola said, turning to look at Rory, who beamed back at her with a wide, promising smile.
The girls studied their friend and her college flame and couldn’t stop smiling or giving each other encouraging looks. They could see the two holding hands. They both knew Rory’s relationship with Lola had been a blip in Lola’s hectic love life. He’d been a side thing during her six-month relationship with Santi, a classmate during her third year. In the end, Lola had left them both. She’d always said Santi never really cared, but Rory had been deeply hurt. Clearly, he still adored her. They could tell by the way he looked at her.
They saw a sign that directed them to turn left for Culloden Battlefield.
“A field of battle?” Berta asked, translating the English literally.
“Culloden Field,” Rory explained, “was the site of the last pitched battle on British soil. It was back in 1746.” He paused before adding: “It was a confrontation with calamitous results for us and our history.”
“Wow!” Rebecca said.
“We could go see it one day, if you want.”
“Yes, please. I’d love to know more.”
Lola changed the subject. “I read that Moray Firth is one of the best coastal areas in the United Kingdom for seal and dolphin watching.”
A few minutes and several roundabouts later, a large sign confirmed her statement, announcing the Dolphin and Seal Visitor Centre. Berta was pleased to learn that sheep weren’t the only animals they’d be seeing.
The wide estuary channel came into view. Thick fog and a soft veil of rain blurred the low ridges rising on the opposite bank. The scenery became monotonous; everything was green, with the exception of an occasional barley field.
Soon enough, a large sign with a rounded top and a crest in the center greeted them: “Welcome to Beauly,” it announced in an arc that followed the shape of the sign. Below, there was something incomprehensible: “A’ Mhanachainn.”
“What does that mean?” asked Berta.
Rory pronounced the words, provoking comical looks from those hearing the foreign sounds.
“It means ‘The M
onastery.’ It’s a little farther ahead, in the center of town, but it’s only ruins. You’ll get a chance to see it. Some people find it a very spiritual place.”
“Well, the only one here with a spiritual side is Rebecca,” joked Lola.
“Hey!” Berta said. “Speak for yourself.”
“OK,” Lola said, “but she’s the only one who does anything about it.”
They drove through town on the main road, where the architecture was similar to what they’d been seeing. Then they turned off to the left, leaving the main street behind. Here there were individual houses with little gardens. On a street named Riverside Drive, Rory stopped the car.
“We’re here,” he said, nodding his head toward a cottage they could spot behind a thicket of trees and bushes.
Lola wiped the fog off her window, as did Berta and Rebecca in the backseat. The cottage looked like all the others: stone construction with a peaked, coffered roof. It had a cute little front garden surrounded by a low wall topped with a brown painted railing.
“It looks nice,” Berta said, trying to see around two large trees that blocked the view.
Rory pointed to the house next door, which was almost identical but a little larger. “Mrs. Munro lives there. She’ll be waiting for us.”
They stayed in the car and waited a few minutes for the rain to let up, then dashed the short distance to the bigger cottage. Mrs. Munro welcomed them cheerfully. Her kind face was round and smooth, free of wrinkles despite the fact she was probably past seventy.
“Welcome,” she greeted them in Spanish before switching to English. “Come in, get out of the rain.”
Mrs. Munro appeared to study her renters as Rory made the introductions and they all took a seat in the parlor.
“So . . . from Barcelona,” the older woman said as she settled into an armchair upholstered in pink flowers and green leaves.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lola responded.
“May I offer you some tea? I’ve made a fresh pot.”
The girls weren’t big tea drinkers, unless it was iced tea, but they didn’t turn her down, either to be polite or, in Rebecca’s case, because she was cold.
