A Love for Rebecca

by Uceda, Mayte

  Her thoughts wandered back to everything that had happened the day before. She’d been in a trying situation because of Lola, and what irritated her most was that Lola had done it on purpose, knowing it would bother her. She thought of the physical contact with the drummer, the intense heat, and how she had trembled when his arm went around her waist and gently pulled her close.

  A sigh escaped her lips, and suddenly she felt the urge to talk to Mario. She knew he’d be working at that hour, but she needed to hear his voice. She pulled out her phone and called his number.

  “Rebecca?” a male voice answered. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I just wanted to talk with you a bit.”

  “Oh, babe, this isn’t a good time. We’re with a client. You know you shouldn’t call me until the afternoon. I’ll call you, OK?”

  “Yes, OK. It’s not important; don’t worry.”

  “Love ya, beautiful.”

  “Love you,” she whispered.

  A raindrop landed on her phone’s screen. Looking up, she saw that the gray clouds had turned darker and menacing. She hurried back to the cottage just in time to avoid a downpour.

  In the kitchen, Berta was preparing tea.

  “You look terrible,” Rebecca told her friend, who was holding a teacup in one hand and a tissue in the other. Rebecca fixed herself a cup of tea and some toast and sat down with Berta.

  “This is what I’ll take home with me from Scotland,” Berta said, her voice raspy and snuffling. “A horrible cold.”

  “You’ll be over it soon, you’ll see,” Rebecca said to cheer her up. “How’d it go last night with Mrs. Munro?”

  “I can’t say that I was bored. She brought me up to date on all the neighbors. And she made me eat all the vegetable soup and that porris stuff.”

  “Porridge.”

  “Whatever. And I had to drink a concoction made with hot whisky, honey, and lemon.” She blew her nose loudly. “And you? How was it? Did you have fun?”

  “It would’ve been fun if it weren’t for Lola—she’s so self-centered.”

  At that moment Lola entered the kitchen, her pajamas wrinkled and her hair looking like a stork’s nest. “Good morning,” she said hoarsely. “You two make more noise than a bulldozer.”

  “I was just filling Berta in on your little games.”

  “Good. I’m just in time then,” Lola said indifferently as she looked through a cupboard.

  “What did you do this time?” Berta asked with a suspicious smile.

  Rebecca’s eyes flashed. “She forced me into the arms of a wild-looking Scotsman.”

  Berta’s glassy eyes opened wider.

  “Oh, yeah? Who’s the wild man?”

  Lola burst out laughing. “Oh my God, he’s the most wild and sexy thing I’ve ever seen in my life. If I didn’t love Rory, I’d take him to bed myself. Or to a Scottish hayloft. Or a dark Scottish room. Or the backseat of a Scottish car. Or a stable filled with Scottish sheep, or . . .”

  “OK, Lola!” Berta said, nearly choking on her tea. “I think we’ve got it. But would one of you tell me who you’re talking about?”

  Lola took the remaining stool at the counter. “Sophie’s brother.”

  “He’s a wild man?” Berta asked, surprised.

  “A total barbarian.”

  “The same guy Mrs. Munro told us about?

  “The very same. And—are you ready for this?—he’s also the same guy we saw at the river rendezvous with Mary.”

  Berta’s eyes widened even further. “The dude at the river is Sophie’s brother?” Rebecca nodded slowly. “And did he recognize you?”

  Her friend’s sheepish expression told her the answer.

  Berta howled with laughter. “I so should have been there! Oh! Why did I have to get this stupid cold? And you say Lola forced you into his arms? Oh, God! I want to hear this.”

  “I only asked him to dance with her,” Lola explained innocently. “I was dancing with Rory and . . . you know . . . so she wouldn’t be alone.”

  “So I wouldn’t be alone!” Rebecca exploded. “Mary was right there, and she was absolutely livid!”

  “Oh, my goodness! This is better than I thought.” Berta turned to Lola and added: “You are evil.”

  “Hey, she shouldn’t complain,” Lola countered. “There were a dozen girls wanting to do the same thing, but little Miss Goody Two-Shoes didn’t even realize it.”

  “I didn’t want to dance with anyone!”

  “OK, calm down,” Berta said. “There’s no reason to get so upset over an innocent dance.”

  “An innocent dance with a hot guy dressed like that dude from Braveheart,” Lola continued. “You should thank me. It’ll be the closest you get to a real man in your life.”

  Berta laughed loudly, but her coughing cut her off.

  “Go to hell, Lola,” Rebecca said.

  The other two were taken aback at the force of her words.

  “You better watch your language, Miss Potty Mouth, or you’ll have to find a Catholic priest to hear your confession,” Lola retorted. “And you might have to pop over to Ireland to find one.”

  They were all quiet: Rebecca muttering to herself, Berta holding in her urge to laugh and cough at the same time, and Lola trying to arrange her curls.

  “Well, you should know Mary’s not his girlfriend,” Rebecca informed them as she finished her last bite of toast. Her friends looked at her. “He told me they’re just friends and what happened at the river wasn’t going to happen again.”

  “If that’s how he is with his friends, I advise you not to go near him again,” Berta said, holding back a sneeze.

  “I wonder why on earth he would tell you that,” Lola said pensively. “After all, he doesn’t even know you. Unless . . .”

  Rebecca gave her a look of annoyance. “Unless what?”

  “He’s interested, I bet. He likes you.”

  “Yeah, right. Anyway, he told me not to tell his sister about what I saw.”

  “Well, I think he likes you. I’m telling you, I have a nose for these things. I’m like a bloodhound.”

  Rebecca took another piece of toast and began to spread lemon curd on it. “I think of you more as a poodle with black, curly hair.”

  “As long as I have a pedigree . . .”

  “Come on, you two, cut it out,” Berta said.

  Lola clucked her tongue and swiveled on the stool. “Since we’re all here, I wanted to mention that Rory invited me to go to Nairn for a few days.”

  “Where’s that?” asked Berta.

  “Near Inverness. Some friends lent him a cottage. I’m so excited! We’ll finally get to be alone. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Berta shrugged and pushed up her glasses. “This is your trip,” she said.

  “Why don’t you rent a car and travel around?” asked Lola.

  “If these people would drive on the proper side of the road, I would,” grumbled Rebecca. “But I don’t even want to think about crashing somewhere or running over some poor soul.”

  Lola rolled her eyes and rested her head in her hands. Rebecca finished eating her toast and cleared the breakfast cups. “I’ll go return the dresses to Mrs. Ferguson’s shop,” she said.

  “Why?” Lola asked. “The festival doesn’t end until tonight.”

  “Do you think Berta looks like she wants to go to a party?” Berta blew her nose loudly, raised a hand, and wagged her index finger as a negative. “Because I’m not going by myself.”

  “You won’t be by yourself. You have Sophie.” With a cunning snicker, Lola added, “And Kenzie. Because, in case you didn’t notice, he looked at you like a cat looks at a tasty mouse. But, of course, you were more interested in studying the ground.”

  “You focus on romping around with Rory and leave the rest of us al
one,” snapped Rebecca.

  “Fine,” said Lola. “You two do whatever you want.”

  Berta went back to bed after a quick shower and a couple of aspirins, so Rebecca gathered the dresses and, a little disheartened, left for the store to return them. She wasn’t gone long. She dropped the dresses off at Mrs. Ferguson’s, ran a few errands in town, then returned to the cottage in time for lunch.

  She found Berta resting on the sofa, leafing through a magazine. Rebecca settled in next to her and gave herself a foot massage—her feet were tired from all the activity of the last few days.

  “And Lola?” Rebecca said. “No, don’t tell me: she left already.”

  “Exactly, and she doesn’t know when she’ll be back.”

  Rebecca snorted. “As long as she comes back in time to catch the plane . . .”

  Berta put a hand on her leg. “What are you going to do?” she asked. “I’m a mess with this stupid fever and cough, and it drives me crazy that you’re stuck here because of me.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t mind.” Then Rebecca remembered her conversation with Sophie. She had to let her know they wouldn’t be going to the festival or to Culloden the next day.

  “Culloden?” Berta was surprised.

  “Yes, she said the band was going to play there.”

  “Oh, I wish I could go!” Berta said. “I want to see them play, I want to go to Culloden, and mostly I want to meet Kenzie Mac . . .”

  “MacLeod,” Rebecca finished.

  “Is he as hot as Lola says?”

  “You know Lola. She likes all men.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Berta said. “She usually has good taste.”

  “Well, I don’t deny that he’s attractive. Of course, dressed like that and with all those tattoos . . .”

  “He has tattoos?” Berta started to laugh but had another coughing fit.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “I was imagining your mother’s face if she had seen you dancing with a guy like that.”

  Berta kept laughing and coughing until she started crying. Rebecca wanted to be serious, but thinking about her mother’s horrified face made her laugh too. “The shock would kill her,” she said.

  Then Rebecca stopped laughing. She thought about the fact that she really did need to let Sophie know. With Berta still so ill, she didn’t think they could go anywhere. She knew Berta felt guilty about them missing out, and if it had been only a cough and sneezing, Rebecca would have felt freer to go out. But with the fever, Berta shouldn’t be left alone for long.

  Rebecca decided to ask Mrs. Munro how to locate Sophie. In the afternoon, she knocked on her landlady’s door.

  “Hello, love,” Mrs. Munro greeted her. “Is something wrong? Has your friend Berta taken a turn for the worse?”

  “No, no, it’s not that. I just need to find Sophie.”

  “Well, I don’t have her phone number, but the MacLeods live on Croyard Road. If you go down to High Street, turn onto Croyard Road to the left, then go straight out of town, you’ll take that narrow road until it curves to the right. At the end of the gravel road, you’ll see William’s cottage. It’s the only one, and you’ll know it because he has sheep grazing in the meadow next to the house. There aren’t many people left in Beauly who raise sheep, but he seems to enjoy it. What can I tell you . . . The poor dear . . .” She was pensive a moment, then asked, “Will you remember the way?”

  “I think so: High Street, Croyard Road to the left, out of town, gravel road to the right, and sheep.”

  “What a good memory, dear.”

  LOLA THE LAMB

  Croyard Road led out of town in a northwesterly direction. Rebecca left the last houses behind her and kept going, as Mrs. Munro had directed. The lane was lined with enormous trees with dense, undulating foliage that hid the sky overhead. It felt like walking through a green tunnel, and she quickened her pace as the cold slipped under her thin, knee-length skirt.

  The road was quite narrow and showed evidence of having been repaired here and there. On the pavement, the word “slow” reminded drivers to control their speed, but so far she hadn’t seen a single vehicle. When there was a break in the trees, she could see meadows—extending as far as the eye could see—crossed by low walls and dilapidated fences.

  She found a gravel lane on the right, leading to a reddish stone cottage with a peaked tile roof at the end of the lane. On each side of the simple lane were meadows enclosed with well-maintained wooden fences. In the meadow on the left, a group of six or seven sheep grazed.

  The sound of gravel crunching under her feet accompanied her every step. For some reason, her heartbeat quickened. Just as she arrived at the house, a man came out carrying a small reed basket. When he saw her, he stopped abruptly and looked at her.

  “May I help you?” he called, still at a distance.

  Rebecca slowed her pace but continued walking.

  “Is . . . is this the MacLeod home?” she asked.

  “Yes, it is,” responded the man, who had picked up on the girl’s accent and immediately had an idea of who she might be.

  “I . . . I wanted to talk with Sophie, if she’s home.”

  William walked toward her.

  “Sorry, she’s not here,” he said, stopping a short distance away. “Mary picked her up after lunch.”

  Mr. MacLeod did not look that old, and his hair, although sprinkled with gray, still glinted with copper highlights. He was unshaven and had pronounced circles under his deep blue, almond-shaped eyes. Rebecca saw that Kenzie had inherited his intense eyes from his father.

  “May I leave her a message?”

  “Of course, lass,” he answered.

  “I just wanted to tell her that my friend’s cold hasn’t gotten any better, so we won’t be going to the festival today. And I wanted to thank her for inviting us to Culloden tomorrow, but I’m afraid we won’t be able to make that either.”

  “How far have you walked?”

  “We’re staying at Mrs. Munro’s, on Riverside Drive.”

  “That’s a good distance. You certainly went out of your way to let my daughter know.”

  Rebecca smiled modestly. “She’s been so kind to us. It was the least I could do.”

  William observed her with interest, sensing her discomfort. “Do you fancy a cup of tea or something cold before heading back?”

  “Oh, no, thank you,” she hurried to say.

  “Please, I insist. I can’t let you leave without some refreshment.”

  “Please don’t bother.”

  “It’s no bother. Here, sit and rest under that tree,” he said, indicating a large willow tree near the fence that separated the meadow from the house. “I’ll be right back.”

  Rebecca stopped protesting and headed toward the tree, holding tightly to the umbrella she’d grabbed from the house. Under the refuge created by the branches of the willow tree was a rustic wooden table with a bench on either side. She sat on one of the benches and thought what a wonderful spot it would be to take shelter from the sun, if the sun were to ever shine with any intensity in this land.

  A moment later, William returned with two cans of Irn-Bru soda in his hands. Rebecca accepted one, opened it, and took a small sip.

  “That’s nice,” she said, savoring the refreshing citrus flavor.

  There were a few moments of silence. The man seemed thoughtful and introspective.

  “This is a lovely place,” Rebecca said to break the silence. “I love this little spot under the tree.”

  “Sophie loves to practice her bodhrán out here. She can spend hours playing. Sometimes her brother sits with her and listens.”

  “By the way, my name’s Rebecca,” she said.

  “I know. Sophie told me about you. I’m William.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, si
r.”

  “You too, mo Spinneach bancharaid.” Seeing his guest’s incomprehension, William clarified: “It means ‘my Spanish friend.’ ”

  “Thank you.” Rebecca turned her gaze toward the meadow. “How many sheep do you have?”

  “As of yesterday, eight. Alice gave birth yesterday afternoon.”

  “The sheep’s name is Alice?”

  “Oh yes. Sophie names the sheep, and she always picks the name of a friend who hasn’t been nice to her. Fortunately, her friends haven’t found out yet. If one comes to the house, we try not to call the sheep by name. It’s a deal we have.”

  Rebecca couldn’t help chuckling.

  “Do you like sheep?” he asked.

  “I’ve never really been around them.”

  “Would you like to get closer?” he said, getting up from the bench.

  “Sure. That would be fun.”

  They left their soft drinks on the table and passed through a small wooden gate. As they walked across the field, the sheep came to their owner, their bells tinkling.

  “This one is Emma,” he said, pointing to a black-and-white sheep. “These are Lucy and Emily.” He indicated two with white bodies and black heads. “Here come Molly and Mary.” Rebecca giggled when she heard the latter name. “That one over there, with the big horns, is Jack. Sophie named him after a classmate who made fun of her for speaking Gaelic. She never forgave him.”

  “I see,” said Rebecca, smiling.

  “And those in back are Alice and her little lamb.”

  “Will she get upset if I go closer?”

  “I don’t think so. Let’s try.”

  They walked to the back of the field bordered by the edge of the road, to where Alice was. The little lamb at her side looked like a fluffy white cotton ball.

  “May I touch it?”

  “Go ahead. She won’t do anything to you.”

  Rebecca knelt on one knee to pet the small animal, whose little tail moved in circles like a blender.

  “What’s its name?” Rebecca asked.

  “It doesn’t have one yet. Do you want to name it? I think Sophie would like that.”