A Love for Rebecca

by Uceda, Mayte

  “We’ll have to return the dresses,” said Lola, emerging from the kitchen. “Berta can’t go anywhere.”

  “Return the dresses?” Mrs. Munro looked at them, her eyes lively. “Don’t even think about it. I’ll stay and take care of her. It’s just a cold, after all.”

  “We wouldn’t want to take advantage of your hospitality . . .” Lola hesitated.

  “No, no, it’s all settled. You go to the festival and have a good time; your friend will be well taken care of.”

  Early that afternoon, Lola and Rebecca put on their Celtic Highland attire and emerged from the bedroom to show off their selections. Berta rested on the sofa, snuggled under a light blanket. Mrs. Munro was seated in the floral chair. She jumped up when she saw them. Berta, however, sneezed twice and blew her nose.

  “You look beautiful, my dears,” gushed Mrs. Munro. “Celtic dresses are always so becoming.”

  Lola’s outfit was made of two pieces: a fitted bodice and long skirt, both ruby-red with black piping. She had pulled her long curls back into a braid that made her look atypically demure. Rebecca’s dress, a moss green that matched her eyes, was trimmed with sparkling gold bands of ribbon at the waist and neckline. Her hair was down, cascading in pretty waves over her shoulders. Her bronze complexion set off her large green eyes, and her dark hair was woven with subtle natural highlights.

  But Rebecca was not comfortable; she thought the plunging neckline bordered on indecent.

  “Stop your complaining,” Lola said as she watched her friend tugging on the fabric in a vain attempt to cover the exposed cleavage. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”

  “You don’t understand; you aren’t as big and your dress isn’t as tight. But it looks like my—” She stopped herself. “They’re going to fall out.”

  “Say it. Tits! You can say ‘tits.’ It’s not a dirty word.”

  Rebecca glowered at her and continued tugging on the fabric. “You’re the dirty one. Besides, I wasn’t going to say that.”

  Lola smoothed her dress. “What were you going to say, then? Breasts? Boobs? Melons?” She looked at Rebecca, waiting for an answer. When she didn’t get one, she continued: “Jugs? Knockers? Hooters? The girls?”

  “Stop it, Lola! You’re as dumb as a lobotomized mosquito.”

  “OK, that was funny,” Berta relented.

  “And if you really want to know,” Rebecca said with a mischievous grin, “I was going to say ‘tatas’ . . . or maybe ‘lolas.’ ”

  Lola put her hands on her hips. “Oh, I’m the boob?”

  Her exaggerated manner of taking offense made all three girls erupt in laughter. Mrs. Munro had missed the conversation but got the gist, judging by Rebecca’s attempts to cover what nature had given her.

  “Rebecca has a point,” Mrs. Munro said. “There’s not a man around who isn’t going to notice . . . Well, love, you do have a beautiful bosom. But if you don’t want to be the center of attention, I don’t think that’s the dress for you. Keep in mind, I think of you as if you were my own daughter, even though I’ve had only sons.”

  Mrs. Munro’s words left Rebecca feeling even more uncomfortable.

  “Will you trade with me?” she asked Lola.

  “No way. I like this color.”

  “Come on. Don’t be like that. Yours isn’t as low cut.”

  “Of course it’s higher; my ‘lolas’ are smaller.”

  Rebecca stuck out her tongue.

  “If your hair were longer, you could use it to cover . . .” Berta paused as her voice grew hoarse from her cold.

  The sound of Rory’s horn cut them off, and they quickly finished getting ready.

  “Have fun, my dears,” Mrs. Munro said as she walked them to the door.

  Berta sent them off with a loud sneeze.

  THE CELTIC FESTIVAL

  Leaning on his red Ford, Rory waited for them dressed in traditional Scottish attire. Lola’s eyes grew wide and she hurried over to him, lifting the hem of her dress so she wouldn’t trip. Rory wondered if there wasn’t some sort of genetic imprint in women that allowed them to wear such clothing so naturally.

  “You look beautiful,” he whispered in her ear as she embraced him.

  She stepped back to check him out. He was wearing a plain kilt, predominantly blue and crossed with fine red and thick black lines. A white shirt, neatly tucked into the kilt, lent a contemporary note, and a wide belt around his hips and over-the-calf navy blue socks completed the ensemble.

  Rebecca was checking him out too, causing Rory to blush.

  “You both look wonderful,” he said, hoping to deflect their attention.

  His eyes couldn’t help pausing on Rebecca’s cleavage, disturbingly full and sexy. He hoped he wouldn’t have to spend the whole night fending off inebriated men enamored of her anatomy.

  Rory drove them to the festival site. Traffic was heavy; nobody wanted to miss the festival. This was a big event for small-town Beauly. He parked the car in a large meadow being put to that use. A large sign welcomed them to the festival in Gaelic and English.

  “It’s a shame Berta couldn’t come,” Lola said, excitement growing in her.

  At five o’clock the place was already lively, full of people getting food and drinks from vendors and mobile bars scattered around. Numerous women were wearing Celtic dresses like theirs, and many of the men were sporting kilts.

  Lola held tightly to her Scot’s arm and walked proudly at his side, forgetting occasionally about Rebecca. Rory was more considerate; he didn’t want Rebecca to feel like a third wheel, so he switched sides with Lola, placing himself between the two women—which provoked mild grumbling from his date.

  They made their way through craft and souvenir booths and past games of chance. Musicians and jugglers mingled among the crowd.

  Lola paused to take in the colorful tartan clothing and jewelry at a stand providing information on Scottish clans. “Which clan do you belong to?” she asked Rory. “Is there an Elliot clan?”

  “Yes, indeed. It was a very active and powerful clan in its day.”

  Rory examined a display of insignias and brooches pinned on a piece of tartan. Finding the one he was looking for, he paid for it, kissed it, and pinned it on Lola’s bodice, over her heart.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “The symbol of Clan Elliot.”

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, moved by the gesture. “Thank you.”

  The silver-plated pin was shaped like a buckled belt. In the center was a hand wielding a sword. Along the curve of the belt were three words in Latin: “Fortiter et Recte.”

  “See,” he said. “It’s the same symbol I’m wearing. ‘With Strength and Rectitude.’ ”

  Lola looked at the shiny buckle that adorned his belt and recognized the design on the pin. She was so thrilled she couldn’t hold back the desire to kiss him.

  The look Rory and Lola exchanged left Rebecca feeling flustered by the intimacy they exuded. She’d never looked at Mario that way, nor had he ever wrapped her in a look of intense desire the way Rory did Lola.

  It was as if a small, hidden voice inside her was finally allowed to speak, softly and timidly. She felt a wave of goose bumps, but the sound of approaching music interrupted her thoughts.

  It was the town’s bagpipe group, officially inaugurating the festival with a parade that would end in the center of the festival grounds. They played well-known songs like “Scotland the Brave” and “Amazing Grace.”

  Other bands would begin playing soon. People pressed around the stage, wanting the show to begin. Already, some revelers in the crowd were showing signs of intoxication. Luckily, Rory had to deal with only a couple of the guys staggering around who took unwarranted notice of the buxom Rebecca. And fortunately for Rebecca, their hands never reached her.

  The bands took turns on stage.
To the foreigners, they all blended together, playing similar instruments and dressed in traditional Highland clothing.

  As the evening wore on, the crowd in front of the stage dwindled as people left to hit the food stands again or simply from boredom. The girls and Rory were grateful to move about more freely, without getting bumped or splashed with beer.

  Rebecca wondered where Sophie was. She’d been keeping an eye on the area next to the stage where the musicians gathered but hadn’t been able to pick out Sophie’s stunning red mane. Rory informed them that her group would play last, a privilege regularly reserved for a local band.

  It had gotten dark when Rebecca felt someone grab her arm. Rory had gone to get drinks, and she and Lola were dancing in the small gaps of space around them. She turned and found Sophie smiling at her.

  “You came!” Sophie exclaimed, raising her voice to be heard over the earsplitting bagpipe band on stage.

  Rebecca checked out Sophie’s look: a long tartan skirt of red and green plaid and a black vest over a white blouse. Around her neck, a silver chain with a Celtic symbol.

  “We want to see you play.”

  “We’ll be on shortly, after everyone else has gone. There’s just one group left.” Sophie looked at Lola. “Is this Rory’s girlfriend?”

  Lola was surprised by the label but silently accepted Rebecca’s apologetic look. “Something like that,” Lola responded, venturing forward to greet her with two audible kisses on the cheeks. “I’m Lola.”

  Sophie happily returned the greeting, then noticed Berta’s absence. “And your other friend?”

  “She’s sick; caught a cold. Nothing too bad, but she couldn’t come.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Sophie said. “We don’t have very nice weather around here, do we?”

  Then she saw someone she knew in the distance. “Kenzie!” she called, waving to catch her brother’s attention. “Kenzie! Over here!” She waved again.

  A tall man dressed in a kilt walked their way. When he reached them, Rebecca couldn’t help but show her dismay. It was the guy with the copper-colored hair they’d seen at the river. She cursed her luck. Among all the men in Beauly, this one had to be Sophie’s brother! She prayed he wouldn’t recognize her.

  “This is my brother, Kenzie,” Sophie said and introduced them. Rebecca thought he looked like a mix of a Scottish warrior under William Wallace and a singer from a heavy metal band.

  Please, God, don’t let Lola give him the Spanish greeting, Rebecca prayed, so she wouldn’t be obligated to do the same. But she didn’t get her wish. To Kenzie’s surprise, Lola took two steps toward him, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him on both cheeks as she introduced herself.

  “I’m Lola,” she said.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” he said.

  Rebecca hesitated, at a loss for words, until Lola nudged her. “I’m Rebecca,” she said timidly. Her eyes rested on the man’s exposed arms, which bore a number of tattoos. This distraction prevented her from paying attention to his gaze, which rested squarely on her exposed cleavage.

  Kenzie nodded slightly in greeting and looked at her intently. Sophie brought him back by saying “She’s with Rory” and pointing to Lola.

  “Hmm,” he said, and bent his head toward his sister. “Let’s go, Sophie. We have to get ready. We’re on next.”

  At that moment Rory returned, holding three glasses. “Hey, Kenzie. Hi, Sophie.”

  “How’s it going, mate?” Kenzie slapped his friend on the back.

  As the men greeted each other, Lola and Rebecca had time to study the brother of their redheaded friend. They’d imagined a poor boy, abandoned by his mother, who’d had a difficult childhood. That is, they’d expected someone not so powerful-looking. His hair was long, not quite to his shoulders. He wasn’t a redhead like his sister, but his wavy hair reflected sparks of copper under the portable lights. He had dark eyes; an attractive, manly face; and a serious look about him. He wore a kilt, in the same colors as Sophie’s long skirt, and a plain black tank top. Leather boots covered his calves.

  “Come on, Sophie,” Kenzie prodded.

  Once they’d left, Lola blurted out, “Did you see that guy?” Rory and Rebecca looked at her. “He’s amazing!” she said. She turned to Rory. “Don’t be offended, sweetheart, but your friend is . . .”

  “You don’t have to say it,” he said.

  Lola gave Rory a quick kiss. “You have nothing to be jealous of,” she said to make it up to him.

  “Just the six-inch difference between how far our heads are from the ground.”

  Lola touched Rory’s curls. “Well, if you straightened your hair up, you could get a few more inches.”

  “Very funny.”

  But Rory was smiling when Rebecca tugged on Lola’s arm. “That’s the guy!” she whispered.

  “What guy?”

  “The guy at the river.”

  “The one making out with the other girl?

  Rebecca nodded.

  “So that’s the guy,” Lola murmured with a smile. “I’m not surprised. He must have a string of girls lining up for him to take down to the river. Did he recognize you?”

  Rebecca shrugged. “I hope not.”

  “Well, if he does, that’s what you get for being so snoopy.”

  The band onstage finished its set, and the festival emcee announced the final act of the night.

  Lola and Rebecca had a good view and could see all the members of the band clearly. The black tank tops the guys wore lent a rebellious touch to the traditional Scottish attire everyone was otherwise wearing.

  They watched the band members take their places onstage and get their instruments ready. Sophie had a bodhrán, an Irish frame drum covered on only one side, and her brother had a bass drum that he fastened on his waist with a wide leather belt. The other three also took their positions: in the middle, a guy with really long, dark blond hair set up several smaller drums on metal stands; another guy with short, brown hair—older than the others—hefted bagpipes on his left shoulder; and a younger guy held aloft a crescent-shaped tambourine.

  The percussionists kicked it off with a lively beat that got people moving, then the bagpipe joined in on melody. The stage lights wrapped the musicians in a seductive, alluring halo. Sporadically, a member of the band would emit a harsh, piercing cry.

  “Why are they yelling like that?” Lola asked. “It sounds like they’re being skinned alive.”

  “Bagpipes and drums were used by Scottish tribes in battle,” Rory explained. “It’s a war cry. Kenzie’s band can give off a vindictive vibe. A lot of their songs have to do with past wars and cries for freedom.”

  Lola noticed the large sign at the back of the stage with the name of the group in capital letters: “CALEDONIA.” Beneath the name, in smaller letters: “Alba gu bràth.”

  “Scotland forever,” Rory translated.

  Lola glanced at Rebecca, whose gaze did not waver. Lola followed her line of sight.

  “He’s hot, isn’t he?” Lola said into her ear.

  Rebecca jumped. “Who is?”

  “Come on. You can’t hide it. You were watching Sophie’s brother.”

  “I was not!”

  “Of course you were, for sure and for a while.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Lola,” Rebecca said. “I was watching everyone.”

  “Hey! Why are you getting so mad? Just admit it; no big deal. You were looking at him, not sleeping with him.”

  “Too much, Lola. Just shut your mouth.”

  Rory tried to keep the peace. “Leave her alone, Lola. Of course she’s looking at him. Everyone does.”

  “Not me. I was looking at you. And there’s nothing wrong with admitting I was,” she said, tossing a look at Rebecca.

  “Oh, leave me alone, Lola.”

  Rebecca was so upset, she didn
’t know where to look. If she looked at the stage, Lola would think she was watching Sophie’s brother. And looking away didn’t make any sense. Because she really was looking at him. She hadn’t meant to; her eyes had found him without realizing it.

  Lola sensed her unease. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s just late and I’m tired. I want to go home.”

  “Home? It’s not even ten thirty. Where’s that youthful spirit?”

  “You killed it,” she said with a tinge of bitterness.

  “Come on. I’m sorry, OK?” Lola said, trying to cheer her up. “You know how I am. I’m sure everyone was looking at him. It was just a joke.”

  Lola would’ve said anything to calm Rebecca down so she wouldn’t want to leave so early. If Rebecca left, she and Rory would have to leave too—and the night, to Lola, was very young.

  Rebecca accepted her friend’s apology and relaxed. She looked again toward the stage, trying not to focus on anything in particular. But she failed. Her eyes were drawn to the bass drummer. His bare, tattooed arms, beating the instrument, were beginning to glisten with sweat. Strands of long hair stuck to his forehead.

  She felt a wave of heat spread up her back. What am I doing? she thought. Every time she looked at him, she couldn’t help seeing the image of him at the river.

  For a moment, she imagined herself in Mary’s position, wrapped in his arms. She felt a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach, a sensation that both excited and alarmed her—a primal, physical attraction that washed over her without permission.

  Feeling self-conscious, she looked away from the stage. She turned and saw Lola dancing with Rory. She felt alone among all the people. Then a boy with a ruddy complexion asked her to dance. She hesitated a moment, but he didn’t appear to be drunk, so she accepted.

  She did her best, following her partner, who seemed to know what he was doing. His gaze, however, seemed stuck on her chest, and as soon as she saw that Lola and Rory had stopped dancing, she let go of him. He protested a bit, but she used her status as a foreigner to pretend she didn’t understand him.