A Love for Rebecca

by Uceda, Mayte

  “It’s a sausage dish,” she explained, “mixed with onion, flour, herbs, and spices.”

  “What kind of sausage?” Berta wanted to know.

  “Sheep. Heart, lungs, stomach . . . the pieces that often get thrown out.”

  The expression on their faces told the waitress they wouldn’t be ordering the haggis, and she suggested a vegetarian sandwich. The girls opted for that, which they enjoyed with some aromatic coffee and cookies. They were finishing dessert when they saw two girls enter the shop. One had carrot-colored hair and the other was a blonde.

  Berta and Rebecca exchanged looks; the blonde was the same one they’d seen at the river locked in a steamy embrace the day before. After ordering their beverages, the newcomers sat at Berta and Rebecca’s table. With one side free, it was the only one with any space available. The intrusion caught them by surprise. The new arrivals had scarcely greeted them with “hello” when they struck up a conversation.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” asked the one with orange hair.

  Rebecca smiled. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Well, we all know each other here. Plus, with that tan . . . That’s not the product of the Scottish sun.”

  “We’re from Barcelona.”

  “Mmm. Spain, sun . . .” She sipped her soda and added: “Are you staying in Beauly?”

  “Uh-huh. We’ve rented a cottage from Mrs. Munro.”

  “On Riverside Drive?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Are you staying long?”

  “Three weeks. We just got here two days ago.”

  “And what brought you here? We don’t see many tourists in Beauly.”

  Berta, who had been quiet until then, responded with a wide grin: “Love.”

  Their eyes widened.

  “Oh, yeah?” The redhead seemed intrigued. “Do tell.”

  “Well, really it’s our friend Lola who dragged us here,” explained Rebecca. “Her friend Rory lives here.”

  “Rory MacDonald?” the blonde inquired.

  “No . . .” Rebecca tried to remember Rory’s last name, but the redhead beat her to it.

  “Rory Elliot?”

  “Yes, him.”

  “Rory Elliot is your friend’s boyfriend?” the blonde asked, surprised.

  They nodded, and Rebecca said, “More or less.”

  “Rory’s a cool bloke,” said the redhead. “He was in school with my brother, and they’re still good mates. I think he’s teaching in Edinburgh now.”

  “He is,” Rebecca said.

  “By the way, my name’s Sophie”—the redhead pointed to her friend—“and this is Mary.”

  After the introductions and chatting about what the foreigners had done in town—which wasn’t much, but which did include a session of spying on Mary and the hot guy with the copper-colored hair, a detail they didn’t reveal—Rebecca made their excuses, explaining they should return home.

  “I hope to see you again,” Sophie said. “We could show you around.”

  “That would be great,” said Berta as she got up.

  Before they left, Sophie asked another question. “Do you like Celtic music?”

  The girls didn’t know how to answer that one.

  “You know: bagpipes, drums . . .”

  “Sophie plays the bodhrán in a band,” explained Mary, “and her brother’s the drummer. They’re brilliant.”

  “The Highland Celtic Festival begins on Sunday,” Sophie said. “This year it’s in Beauly, and we’ll be playing.”

  Berta shot Rebecca an excited look. “That sounds great.”

  “So we’ll see you there?” Sophie asked. Her excitement was contagious, and Rebecca smiled. Despite the interrogation, she liked Sophie.

  “Sure,” she said. “We’ll see you there.”

  Back at the cottage, the girls put their tired feet up and relaxed. They were dozing when they heard the doorbell. Reluctantly, Berta roused herself to answer it.

  “Hello, love.” Mrs. Munro had a foil-covered plate in her hands. “I made you some haggis so you can try a typical Scottish dish.”

  Rebecca, hearing her landlady’s voice, joined them in the foyer. Berta was holding the plate, not knowing what to say. “Thank you,” she finally managed.

  “You shouldn’t have bothered,” added Rebecca.

  “Oh, it’s no bother, darling.”

  Since Mrs. Munro didn’t seem in a hurry to leave, Rebecca invited her in, suspecting that what she really wanted was a look around the place to make sure her renters were taking good care of it. Fortunately, that morning they had taken time to clean the kitchen and pick up the clothing they had scattered about.

  Mrs. Munro discreetly glanced around and looked satisfied.

  “Would you like some tea?” Berta asked.

  “Oh, well, if it’s not too much of a bother . . .”

  They sat in the parlor, the girls on the floral sofa and Mrs. Munro in a matching side chair.

  “And your other friend?”

  “She’s in Inverness with Rory.”

  “They make a nice couple, don’t they? I could tell from the moment I saw them there was something special between them. I may be old, but I’m not blind yet. So, tell me,” she said, changing the subject. “What did you do today?”

  “We went to the monastery,” Berta answered.

  “Ah, of course.”

  “Then we went to the library,” said Rebecca. “And at the coffee shop we met a couple of girls from town.”

  “I see. Whom did you meet?”

  “Sophie,” said Berta, “and Mary.”

  “I know at least four Sophies in Beauly; it’s a popular name. But if she’s about your age, it could only be Sophie MacLeod. Was she a redhead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course. A nice lass,” Mrs. Munro said. “Her friend is Mary Campbell. They’re inseparable.” She appeared pensive a moment before adding: “Such a shame about William and the children . . .”

  Berta and Rebecca looked at each other, uncomprehending. But they didn’t ask and focused instead on sipping their tea.

  Mrs. Munro was disappointed at the girls’ lack of interest in the story. She fidgeted in her floral armchair, like a puppy with a bone hanging just out of reach, and finished her tea. Then she launched into the unfortunate story of the family MacLeod, whether her audience wanted to hear it or not. Mrs. Munro didn’t have many opportunities like this to talk, and the fact the girls were foreigners was extra incentive to do so. After all, they would leave soon and forget all about it. “I met William and Elisabeth MacLeod when they first came to Beauly,” she began.

  Berta yawned, and Rebecca discreetly elbowed her while attempting to stifle her own.

  “They were newlyweds and looked so much in love. They met in Kirkcaldy just after William had come from the Isle of Skye to work in the Seafield mine. Poor dear . . .”

  Mrs. Munro paused a moment, and Berta masked another yawn behind her hand.

  “When they married, she insisted he leave his job at the mine and get a job at the distillery in Glen Ord, near Inverness. That was when they bought the Croyard Road cottage. Elisabeth was a very pretty woman. You’ve met Sophie. She’s her mother’s daughter, all right. She inherited Elisabeth’s looks and beautiful red hair.” She made a show of looking skyward. “God willing, that’s all she inherited.

  “Soon Kenzie was born. At that time, we talked often. Elisabeth never got used to the quiet, uneventful life in Beauly, always complaining that there was never anything to do here and how, if she’d known, she never would have insisted William leave the mine. She could have stayed in Kirkcaldy or Edinburgh. Seven years later, Sophie was born.”

  Mrs. Munro paused and Berta offered her more tea; the story had caught their interest.
/>   “Thank you, love,” Mrs. Munro said before continuing. “Where was I?”

  “Sophie was born,” Rebecca prompted.

  “Ah yes. As I was saying, seven years later, Sophie was born, and three years after that, Elisabeth left, abandoning all three of them.”

  Rebecca choked out an exclamation: “What kind of mother abandons her children?”

  “They exist, love, they exist. If only that was the worst of it. Elisabeth’s departure led William into a deep depression; he began to drink and he lost his job. In a moment of lucidity he sent the children to their grandfather on Skye, and they lived there for ten years. William would go to visit them when he got up enough nerve to leave the bottle for three days in a row. Then he’d return to Beauly, to the home where he’d been happy with Elisabeth. The poor man never got over her leaving.”

  “Where did she go?” Rebecca wanted to know.

  Mrs. Munro shrugged.

  “I’ve heard she went to Edinburgh alone; some say she went with a man. Who knows?”

  “She never saw her children again?

  “She never returned to town. But I know Sophie spends time with her.”

  “And her brother?”

  “Oh, no. He went through a lot, watching his father turn into a drunk with no desire to move on after the abandonment. Kenzie was ten years old when his mother left. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven her. He quit school when he was quite young, poor thing. His grandfather was not a man of means, and the boy had to go to work. When the grandfather died, the children returned to Beauly. Kenzie got a job at Cameron’s mechanic shop, here in town, and Sophie stayed in school. Last year she started university in Edinburgh, and during the school year she lived there with her mother. She was a wee thing when it all happened. Her heart isn’t as full of bitterness as her brother’s.”

  They sat silently, their cups empty.

  “How sad,” murmured Rebecca.

  “Yes, quite sad. Sometimes I’m surprised the children have turned out as well as they have, without a mother, stuck on an island with the grandfather—who I heard was a grumpy old man. Poor dears.”

  Moved by the story, the girls tried to lighten things up a bit by talking about the Celtic festival. Mrs. Munro knew all about it.

  “Oh yes,” she said, with a burst of enthusiasm. “Two days of absolute madness.”

  “Sophie said she and her brother play in a band,” Rebecca said.

  “True. The whole town is very proud. The other three musicians are from Inverness. It’s a pleasure to see them; they’ve got wonderful stage presence. They wear kilts for all their performances and display a keen passion for Scottish customs.”

  “They all wear kilts?” Rebecca asked.

  “That’s right, love. By the way, if you go to the festival, be sure to rent a dress from Mrs. Ferguson. She has the most beautiful Celtic attire.”

  The haggis, reminiscent of Spanish morcilla, was much more delicious than they’d imagined. The description of its components was not appetizing, but they had to admit they couldn’t argue with the taste.

  That evening, when everyone was seated at the table, Lola chatted away nonstop about their excursion to Inverness. When she found out about the Celtic festival, she scolded Rory for not telling her.

  “I forgot,” he protested, turning crimson.

  Berta intervened on his behalf. “Don’t get mad at him; he’s been too busy taking care of us, especially you.” She gave him a smile and winked.

  “That’s true. I’m sorry.” Lola touched his hand, then turned her attention back to her friends. “So, tell me about these girls.”

  They explained how they met Sophie and Mary, and Rory talked about Sophie’s brother, Kenzie, and how they’d been friends since they were little. He said they’d always been close and still were, even though they didn’t see each other so often.

  At the end of the long evening, they toasted with a little whisky Rory had bought at a distillery near Inverness. It was the first time Rebecca had tried whisky, and she made a face when she brought the glass to her mouth and smelled the amber liquid.

  “Slàinte mhòr agad!” Rory said and raised his glass.

  The girls looked at each other. The well-known “Cheers!” they’d expected to toast with remained on the tips of their tongues.

  “What the hell was that?” asked Lola.

  Rory laughed when he saw their faces. “How about we just say ‘slàinte.’ ”

  “OK, that I can handle,” Lola said. She gave him a light kiss that made him blush.

  “Slàinte!” they all shouted.

  They each took a drink and set the glasses on the table. There was some clearing of throats, and stomachs were on fire from the strong liquor.

  “You speak Gaelic?” Berta asked. “I thought there weren’t many Gaelic speakers left.”

  “That’s true. Most live on the isles or here in the Highlands. My great-grandfather on my father’s side spoke it, so then my grandfather did too. He told us they were disciplined if they used it in school. None of us speaks more than a few of the common phrases. But now the government is trying to revive the language. At any rate, if you want to learn more about Gaelic, you can ask your new friend.”

  “Which one?” asked Rebecca.

  “Sophie. She and her brother are part of the select group of Scots who speak perfect Gaelic.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s not surprising, given that they grew up with their grandfather in the Hebrides, on the Isle of Skye. Half the population speaks it there. You should hear them, especially when they argue, or when the blokes don’t want anyone to know what they’re saying.”

  After Rory left, the girls grabbed blankets and went out to the back garden. The night was cool but dry. They could smell the fresh-cut grass from a neighbor’s yard. Since arriving in Beauly, the three of them had scarcely had any time to talk alone. Berta and Rebecca were about to pepper Lola with questions when she beat them to it.

  “Yes, I’m in love! More than in love: I’m mad about him!”

  Berta let out a big laugh that made her glasses slide down her nose. “You don’t have to tell us. You should see how you look at him. And we’ve only been here three days! It’s all happening so fast. You’d better slow down, or you’ll be heading down the aisle before Rebecca.”

  “Don’t be so old-fashioned. I don’t need chapels or churches and priests.”

  “Maybe Rory does,” Rebecca pointed out. “Is he Catholic or Protestant? Or whatever they are in Scotland.”

  “What do I know? Maybe he’s Lilliputian.”

  “Well, you should know if you’re so interested in him. Otherwise you could get surprised later.”

  “I don’t care what he is. I’d marry him in a Hindu ceremony in Bali if I had to.”

  Berta sighed. “Mmm, an ocean-side wedding on an island of the gods . . . That doesn’t sound too bad. But do you hear yourself? You’re talking about getting married, for heaven’s sake!”

  “I know I’m acting like a crazy lovesick girl, and I never thought it could happen to me . . . certainly never like this, so madly in love.”

  “I’d say it’s the whisky talking,” Rebecca quipped.

  “The whisky? No way! I just . . . love him.”

  “No, seriously, I think it’s the whole Scottish spell that’s been cast over you; it’s clouded your judgment,” Rebecca said.

  “You know what? I’m going to bed.” Lola yawned. “It’s been a long day, and I want to remember everything before I fall sleep. Tomorrow you can tell me more about this Sophie you’ve been talking about.”

  “Sleep well, Juliet,” Berta bid her good night.

  DARING DÉCOLLETAGE

  In the morning the girls made tea and prepared toast with homemade lemon curd. Mrs. Munro had left it for them in the refrigerator, and t
hey agreed it was the best they’d ever had. During breakfast, Lola listened to the story of the MacLeods, which they hadn’t dared recount in front of Rory. They also described Mary’s steamy scene down by the river with the guy with the copper-colored hair.

  Lola threw Rebecca a wicked grin as she imagined how embarrassed her friend must have been when she was caught spying.

  That same afternoon, Rory accompanied them to Mrs. Ferguson’s dress shop. The store, like all the others, was on High Street. They tried on several dresses, each one prettier than the last, but Berta and Lola settled on simple attire. Lola, on the other hand, chose the most eye-catching ensemble.

  “This is the first time the festival has been in Beauly,” Rory said. “You can already see lots of people arriving into town. There’s going to be eight groups, including Caledonia, which is Sophie and Kenzie’s band.”

  “Are you going to wear a little skirt for me?” Lola asked mischievously.

  Rory turned red. “I wasn’t planning on it . . . but I suppose . . . if you want me to . . .”

  “I do!” Lola said quickly, before he could change his mind.

  Sunday morning Berta woke up with a touch of a fever and a sore throat. The change in temperature had affected them all, but Berta, without a doubt, had caught a bad cold.

  When Mrs. Munro found out her renter was under the weather, she appeared at the door loaded down with cold remedies.

  “Here,” she told Rebecca, handing her a pot. “I made a good Scotch broth. Soup, love,” she clarified upon seeing the girl’s confusion. “This will chase away any cold, no matter how bad. Make sure she drinks it nice and hot. I’ve also brought some porridge—oatmeal. Her throat won’t be in any condition for solid food. Here,” she said, holding out two jars as she walked toward the kitchen. “You can add honey and cinnamon. In two or three days she’ll be good as new.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Munro. You’re very kind.”

  “Oh,” she replied with a wave of her hand, “it’s nothing. You remind me of my own children. They’re a little older than you, but a mother will stretch out her wings to protect any little chick in trouble.”