by Uceda, Mayte
“My father’s a lawyer too. And he would never defend the devil.”
“I don’t doubt that. But we’re not talking about your father.”
Rebecca smiled, thinking about Mario. “Well, Mario might.”
Kenzie offered the flask.
“No, thank you. If I had any more I wouldn’t be able to walk home in a straight line, and you’d have to carry me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, no?”
“And deprive myself of the pleasure of watching you walk like a tipsy sheep?”
“A sheep? It would have been more courteous to think of a nobler animal.”
“You are in the land of sheep, so it’s a good example. And sheep can be noble, too.”
“OK, I’ll give you that. But I didn’t care for the comparison.”
“You’re right; you don’t look like a sheep. A gazelle, does that make you feel better?”
“Much better. At least they’re graceful and svelte.”
“But I don’t know how drunk gazelles act.”
“And you do know about drunk sheep?”
“Absolutely. When I was nine I stole a bottle of my father’s best whisky. I hadn’t ever tried it . . . You know, curiosity. But I’d always heard it’s best to enjoy whisky with friends, so I didn’t want to have my first drink alone.”
“And you gave whisky to a sheep?”
“Yes, we took turns. But Sally liked it a lot more than I did. The darn thing licked the bowl dry every time I gave her some. Every once in a while she shook her head side to side, but then she would keep drinking.”
“And what happened?”
“Well, it didn’t sit well with her. Made her horny, actually. She tried to mount Harry, the ram of the flock, but he wasn’t having any of that.”
“And how did you fare?”
“Not much better. I had to drag myself to my room. In my daze, I left the bottle in the shed, and my father found it the next day. He tanned my hide and told me the next time I wanted to try whisky I should let him know.”
“Did you learn your lesson?”
“You bet I did. I didn’t try it again until I was seventeen.”
“And the sheep?”
“Sally never drank again.”
“I mean, did she recover from her buzz?”
He smiled at the memory. “Well, the next day she was lying down in the stable. My father thought she was sick and called the veterinarian. When he concluded that the sheep had a hangover, I had to stay out of his way for two days to avoid another thrashing.”
Rebecca let out a laugh.
“Believe me, it wasn’t so funny for me,” Kenzie said, laughing himself. “But now I see they were good times. Then things changed, and we went to Skye.”
He said this matter-of-factly, like someone who’d moved because of a job. Rebecca kept silent, hoping he would add something else. Kenzie grabbed a few small rocks, placed them in the cup of his hand, then made them bounce and caught them in the air. He didn’t say anything else.
“I should go,” she said. “I told Berta I wouldn’t be long, and if I don’t get back soon she’ll send out a search party.”
As they stood, Rebecca faltered, her leg muscles stiff from sitting on the rocks. She tried to right herself but stumbled toward the river. Kenzie grabbed her arm just in time, and she leaned a hand on his shoulder.
“Let me help you,” he said, and put his other arm around her waist.
“I’d better be careful around you,” she said. “You like getting unsuspecting women and defenseless sheep drunk.”
“That’s true, I’m despicable. And you’re right,” he added more seriously, as they got down from the rocks. “You should be careful of me.”
Rebecca looked at him. His stubble created the shadow of a beard on his face. It was lighter and redder than his hair. Once again she felt a sensation from below.
“Why don’t you sit down a minute while I pick everything up,” he said.
Rebecca did. She thought about going to the river to splash some cool water on her face, in hopes of clearing her thoughts. She watched him gather his gear and put what he could in the backpack. He carried the rod and the net in one hand and took Rebecca by the elbow to help her up.
“Can you walk without falling?”
“I didn’t drink that much.”
Rebecca walked without difficulty, and Kenzie let go of her arm. They were quiet for a few minutes.
“Where exactly is the Isle of Skye?” she asked.
“The Inner Hebrides, off the west coast of Scotland. The Celts called it the winged island, and the Vikings called it the cloud island. It’s a place where it feels like time has stopped.”
“It sounds nice.”
“A city girl like you wouldn’t last a week, no more than two days in winter.”
“Are you saying I’m so superficial I couldn’t live far from a big city?”
He twisted his lips in a contorted smile.
“No, I don’t think you’re superficial, not at all. But there are a lot of people who’ve tried to move there, attracted by the beauty of the landscape. Not many last.”
“What was it like living there?”
“To give you an idea, life in Beauly is positively bustling compared to Skye.”
Rebecca had a hard time imagining that. They walked on in silence for a few more moments.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why we moved to the island?”
She stopped and looked at him, surprised and a little embarrassed. She shook her head no.
“Because you already know, right?” he said.
She tried to say something, but before she could find the words, Kenzie said to never mind. “I’m sure Mrs. Munro told the story better than I could anyway.”
“I’d like to hear your version,” she risked saying.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Well, you asked me some personal questions. Quid pro quo. It’s only fair, right?”
“True enough, my curious señorita.”
The Spanish word sounded incredibly sexy, Rebecca thought, coming out of Kenzie’s mouth.
“We went because my father couldn’t take care of Sophie and me at that time.”
“Because of your mother?”
He exhaled audibly. “My mother couldn’t handle the monotony of Beauly and wanted to move to Kirkcaldy. But my father didn’t want to go back to work in the mines. Their relationship fell apart. Then she left and went to Edinburgh. That was it.”
“Why didn’t she take you and Sophie with her?”
“I’ve wondered that for years. I suppose she couldn’t support us.”
“Was it terribly difficult for you?”
“Only at first. My father took us to see her frequently. Then we went to Skye.”
“And it was your grandfather who raised you.”
“Yes.”
“Did you see her again?”
“A few times.”
Rebecca considered this. “Are you bitter?” she asked, recalling how, during confession, Father Arnau always emphasized how bad it was to hold on to bitterness.
“I get ticked off when I see my father chasing his demons with a glass of whisky.”
“He never tried to start a new life?”
He shook his head.
“It’s so sad.”
“There are worse things.”
They walked on in contemplative silence. Soon they were back at the cottage. Berta and Mrs. Munro were stationed on the sidewalk in front of the gate.
“Rebecca! Where have you been?” Berta exclaimed. “I was starting to think you’d fallen in the river!”
“It was my fault,” Kenzie said. “I asked her to help while I was fishing.”
&nb
sp; “You could have taken your phone,” Berta scolded.
“Well, dears,” Mrs. Munro interrupted, “I’ll get going. I see that our girl has been in good hands, and I want to see my game show before I go to bed. Kenzie, love, my old Fiat is running good as new. I don’t know what you did.” On her way inside, she was still calling out his praises. “You’ve got a head for engines, young man, a good head.”
Berta resumed scolding Rebecca. “You scared me!”
“I’m sorry. Time got away from me. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“I was just about to go looking for you.”
“I’m sorry. Really.”
During this exchange, Kenzie slipped away.
Inside the house, Berta couldn’t hold back. “Were you with him this whole time?”
Rebecca nodded, and Berta put her hands on her hips.
“Are you crazy?”
“Why? We were just talking.”
“And what have you been talking about for almost three hours?”
They moved to the living-room sofa, where Rebecca recounted what had happened as calmly as she could.
“Be careful, Rebecca. It’s not wise for you to get close to him like that, even if you’re just talking. I’m beginning to think this camping thing isn’t such a great idea after all.”
“Are you saying that because of me?”
“Of course I’m saying it because of you!”
“I can take care of myself, Berta.”
“Well, I’m not so sure. If this guy were ugly, with the grace of a one-legged cricket, I wouldn’t worry. But he’s really hot, damn it! Nice, attentive . . . and the worst thing is, he’s completely the opposite of Mario.”
“If you think he’s so different from Mario, why are you worried?”
“Oh, Rebecca, please! Are you trying to convince me you don’t like him? Because I know you, and I know you wouldn’t spend three hours alone with a man other than Mario. You would feel absurdly unfaithful. So I know you like him enough to ignore your own standards.”
“Don’t blow things out of proportion, all right? He was just good company.” She giggled, remembering the tale of the inebriated Sally trying to mount Harry. “My marriage is not in danger because of this. But still . . .” Her words trailed off.
“But still?” Berta narrowed her eyes.
“The thing is, I can’t get it out of my head that I’m not ridiculously happy about my wedding.”
“You’re confused, that’s all,” Berta hurried to say.
“I know, but what happens if—” She stopped suddenly and made a strange face, shrugging her shoulders.
“If you fall in love?” finished Berta.
Rebecca was silent, and Berta added, “If that happens, only you will know the answer.”
SPANISH TORTILLA AND SCOTTISH WARNING
Berta awoke the next morning to noisy bustling about in the kitchen and a familiar smell wafting under the bedroom door. She got up and followed the smell to the kitchen, where she found Rebecca concentrating over the stove.
“It smells like tortilla,” Berta said, perking up.
“Your sense of smell is impeccable.”
“You’re certainly up and cooking at an early hour.” Berta saw a plate with a steaming, delicious-looking potato omelet resting on the counter. Rebecca was finishing another of the same size in the skillet.
“Do you seriously think the two of us are going to eat all this? Or is one for Mrs. Munro?”
“No, it’s not for her. But now that you mention it, maybe I should have made three.”
“If it’s not for her, who’s it for?”
Rebecca looked up and smiled at Berta.
“Well?”
“William, Sophie’s father.”
“And Kenzie’s,” Berta added.
“Don’t start.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. I just want to eat.”
Rebecca took a plate from the cupboard, cut a wedge of the tortilla, and handed it to her friend.
“Mmm, it smells so good. Thank you. And in return, I’ll tidy up.”
Rebecca plated the second tortilla, then went to sit next to Berta with a slice for herself and a cup of tea.
Berta scrubbed the skillets and cleaned up while Rebecca showered and dressed. Before heading to the MacLeods’ to deliver the tortilla, she grabbed a jacket and umbrella; the morning sky looked filled with rain clouds, and she didn’t want to show up at William’s soaked to the skin.
Rebecca walked slowly, in no hurry. It was still early, and she had the whole morning in front of her. She had asked her friend to join her, but Berta had her own plans. She wanted to call Albert at midmorning, when she knew he would be taking a break from his studies.
The walk seemed short. She knew the way, and the familiarity made her destination seem closer. It wasn’t long before she left behind the last houses on Croyard Road and took the narrow lane that led to the MacLeod home. The sheep were grazing in the meadow, and little Lola frolicked around her mother. Rebecca’s mouth curved into a smile as she thought of her friend, for whom the baby lamb was named. The animals watched her indifferently and continued chewing the grass.
The sharp sound of wood being split by a sure-handed ax distracted her attention from the sheep. The heavy blows came from behind the house. Heading in that direction, she found Sophie and Mr. MacLeod, who was splitting a chunk of wood. Sophie, off to one side, picked up the pieces and stacked them against the wall.
They didn’t notice Rebecca until she was in front of them. Sophie jumped in surprise and immediately went over to give her friend a hug. Her father leaned the ax against a tree stump.
They offered her a cup of tea. Despite the cool morning and threatening sky, they sat under the large willow. Then Rebecca took the tortilla from the basket, its aroma drifting over to them.
“Spanish tortilla?” asked William incredulously.
“Yes.”
“Did you make it, lass?”
“I did.”
“Mmm, it smells so good,” Sophie said, inhaling deeply.
“Yes, it does,” William McLeod agreed. “The smell reminds me of Alberto’s tortillas. But I have to say, yours look better than his ever did.”
“Thank you.” Rebecca beamed.
“No, thank you, lass,” he replied. “You shouldn’t have bothered—but I’m really happy you did.”
The girls discussed their camping plans for the weekend. William gave Rebecca some helpful information. He advised her to take a good mosquito repellent; on the lakeshore the insects could get so thick they were like flying clouds.
“The midges bite like the devil,” he warned. “Don’t forget to keep the insect zipper closed on your tent at all times. If any of those ravenous little buggers get inside, you won’t get any sleep, scratching yourselves all night long.” He looked at his daughter, who had started scratching her arms just at the mention of it.
“It’s true,” Sophie said. “I forgot to close it once, and it was a nightmare. I didn’t sleep at all that night.”
Rebecca finished her tea and looked at her watch; it was close to noon.
“Sophie,” William said, handing her the tortilla, “would you wash the plate before returning it to your friend?” Sophie stood up with the plate and went to the house. When they were alone, William addressed Rebecca in a confidential tone.
“Kenzie told me you caught a salmon yesterday.”
She blushed and answered a little shyly, “Well, I didn’t really do anything. I just put the net under the fish.”
William studied her face a moment but looked away when he noticed her unease.
“He loves to fish. Has ever since he was a lad.” He stacked the teacups and saucers before continuing. “We used to fish together when he was a wee thing. Then . . . Well, his grandfather
didn’t like it so much. So then he fished alone. Sometimes he would play hooky from school and spend all day at the river. He made his own rods, nets, and even hooks, but he never took the fish home.”
Sophie reappeared and placed the empty plate in Rebecca’s basket. Her father gave her the cups and saucers and asked her to take them inside. She feigned exasperation as she complied.
William rubbed the back of his neck. “His grandfather didn’t have much patience with him, and I know those first years on the island were hard for both of them. Kenzie was a little devil. I suppose he was resentful. The lad wouldn’t obey. He’d storm off and wouldn’t return for hours. One time he even spent the night out in a storm and didn’t come home until the next day. My father would write it all down in his letters. He was very strong-willed, and his grandson was as impulsive and stubborn as he was. So he left Kenzie alone. He wouldn’t worry about it if, after a scolding, the boy didn’t return for a day or two. He knew Kenzie would return when he was hungry or cold. That was his strategy. As all this was going on, I was busy drowning my troubles in booze.”
He thought for a moment, looking up at the willow branches. “The only thing I want for him is to one day have the family he deserves, a family of his own, the one his mother and I couldn’t give him.”
Rebecca swallowed. A gust of wind blew her hair.
“Why are you telling me this?” she whispered, feeling heat rise in her cheeks.
“You’re a smart girl. I think you understand.”
William’s words followed her home. His unexpected openness had surprised her. Obviously, Kenzie had told him about their meeting at the river. Rebecca wasn’t sure but had the feeling his father had wanted to clear a few things up, as if he considered her a threat to his son’s happiness. But she didn’t think his warning was necessary. She wasn’t the kind of girl who would seriously interest Kenzie, not to that degree. They were too different. What confused her was that the story he’d told her about his son’s childhood had moved her deeply, the same way Mrs. Munro’s account had a few days earlier. She could see the guilt on William’s face. But Kenzie certainly didn’t act as though he’d had a traumatic past. On the contrary, he’d told her about that time in his life as if it were completely normal.
