Kissed by the Rain

by Claudia Winter

  A frenzied ten minutes later, dragging my suitcase like an obstinate dog behind me, I passed Trish, who sleepily wished me a good trip. When I went to put a tip into the jar on the reception desk, her pale mouth made an O of surprise.

  “Take one of the umbrellas in the lobby, miss.”

  “Huh?”

  “Please take one. People always forget about them,” Trish explained.

  When I stepped outside, I understood. Pouring rain. What a country.

  The path was muddy and full of potholes. I stumbled down the incline, cursing myself for having packed rather than worn the rubber boots. Just when I’d nearly reached the car, my feet went out from under me and I found myself on my behind while my suitcase careened onward before tipping over on the pavement.

  “Oh, Josie. Did you hurt yourself?” Li cried out from the passenger seat of the dark-blue rental car.

  I scrambled to my feet and stowed the filthy suitcase in the boot before dropping into the back seat. My cherished linen trousers were caked with mud. I caught Bri’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes showed compassion for a second, before resuming their usual mockery.

  “Spare me your commentary, unless you want me to ask whether that hat was a DIY project,” I said, looking for the seat belt. There was none.

  Bri turned around and grinned. She had to lift her chin to look at me from under the brim of the abysmally ugly creation sitting on top of her head, loaded as it was with a silk rose the size of a hand. “We could, of course, just start driving, but it might work better if you gave me some sort of address.”

  “Are you in any condition to drive?”

  “Listen, young lady! I already had a driver’s licence when your mother was still playing naked under the cherry tree.”

  Li giggled and started to hiccup.

  I bent forward and took Bri by the shoulders. “Let me smell your breath.”

  “To check for minty freshness?”

  I raised an eyebrow, which made Li giggle even more. “Are you sure you’re not still drunk from last night?”

  Bri wriggled away haughtily. “I’m sober as a newborn calf—something that cannot be claimed for your great-aunt Lieselotte. She’s been reciting toasts in French.”

  “Have not!” Li huffed, her gleeful smile belying her protestation.

  “Have too,” Bri said. “The moment any old womaniser with an accent woos her, she loses her mind—and her memory. She raised her cup of tea to the couple at the next table this morning, shouting, ‘À votre santé.’ The nice people were more than a little confused, I can tell you. Probably thought they’d landed in Brittany by mistake.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, dearest sister.” Li’s eyes narrowed. “Besides, Antoine is neither a womaniser nor wooing me. Both of us are much too old for such things.”

  “There we are. An . . . toi . . . ne.” Bri stretched out the name as if it referred to a slimy sea creature.

  “You’re just upset because a man prefers talking with me instead of devouring you with his eyes.” Li was hurt. “Incidentally, our conversation last night was very sophisticated. Antoine was a physician before his retirement and his wife owned a second-hand bookstore in Strasbourg. She carried all of Sir Walter Scott’s books, and even had an original edition of—”

  “God!” Bri snorted. “And you don’t find it suspect that he shared all of that immediately after you told him you spend all day reading—and crocheting those hideous covers.”

  “At least I’m doing something to keep my mind sharp. As for matters of aesthetic taste, let’s start with the pink tracksuit with which you embarrass yourself at your fitness club.”

  “At least I fit into a tracksuit, Li.”

  “Stop it!” I barked, covering my ears. “You’re acting like twelve-year-olds.”

  “Does that mean that you’ll finally give me an address so I can enter it into this contraption?” Bri asked, while Li, grumbling, opened her book.

  That’s how arguments between the two usually ended—sharp-tongued virtuoso Bri, who cared little about what others thought of her, would get her way, and gentle Li, who shied away from conflict, would disappear into a printed world of fantasy, where it was up to her to say who won an argument.

  Sighing, I rummaged for Charlie’s now-tattered postcard in my handbag.

  “Kincraig—a k at the beginning and a c in the middle,” I mumbled, looking at the little heart Charlie had used to replace the dot on the i in my name.

  While Bri typed our destination into the GPS with surprising speed, I leaned back and frowned out of the window. The rain had grown stronger over the course of the morning and the sky was almost black. Squalls of rain drove all kinds of trash across the road. Apparently, tourists didn’t show much respect for the Scottish landscape they enthused about online. I watched a particularly capricious gust of air playing with a soft drink can, tossing it into the air and rolling it down the street until it disappeared.

  Bri started the engine, or tried to.

  We yelped in horror as the car lurched forward.

  “Oops,” Bri said, adjusting her hat.

  “Aunt Bri?” My hands were clammy. “You have to push the clutch before you turn the key.”

  “Right you are.” She fumbled around until the car started.

  “This is how she always does it,” Li explained, an edge to her voice. “It’s how she teaches people humility. And it works. When you get out of the car after a drive with Bri, you’re fully aware of how precious life is.”

  “Be quiet, Li. I have to concentrate.”

  I groped for something to hold on to as the car started to roll forward at walking speed.

  Humility. What an auspicious beginning.

  To my surprise, Bri—impatient and quick-tempered—turned out to be a fairly decent driver, even though she wasn’t used to driving on the left. I didn’t mind crawling through Edinburgh’s heavy traffic at twenty miles an hour, but that changed once we got on the freeway to Perth.

  I was about to point out to Bri where she could locate the accelerator when I noticed her white knuckles.

  “Aunt Bri, are you all right?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” She was breathing hard and her eyes were fixed on the middle of the two-lane motorway. Honking belligerently, a cattle truck veered around us, sending a wall of water at our windscreen.

  I checked the side-view mirror. “I think you have to drive a little faster.”

  Li laughed and turned a page. It wasn’t clear whether she was amused by her Highlander romance or my request.

  “I’m driving plenty fast, Josefine,” Bri said. “Why don’t you just relax? Dream about your fiancé or about someone more exciting.” Her eyes flicked nervously to the traffic building up behind us. “How about the handsome Scottish baker?”

  “You’re terrible!”

  “And you are alarmingly dried out for your thirty years, young lady. There’s nothing wrong with adding a little butter to the dough before you tie yourself to a dullard for the rest of your life.”

  “I won’t allow you to talk about Justus that way.”

  “At least I have the decency to tell you what everyone thinks.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that?” Furiously, I tapped Li’s shoulder. “Aunt Li, what is she talking about?”

  Li peeled her eyes from her book reluctantly, but her sister leapt to her aid.

  “You’re a clever woman, Josefine. I’m sure you understand just fine without interrogating my poor sister. Let it go for now, before I drive us into a ditch. Enjoy the view.”

  “Oh, we’re crossing the Firth of Forth,” Li exclaimed.

  Even I allowed myself to be distracted by the two majestic bridges spanning the sparkling, silvery estuary that links the Firth of Forth with the North Sea. Other drivers seemed equally impressed. As we rolled across the mile-and-a-half-long bridge in rapt silence, all the regular lane changing and honking ever so briefly fell away.

  I was about to grab Li�
�s shoulder to demand the confession she still owed me when, for a moment, I thought I saw Aidan Murray in one of the cars that overtook us. The taillights of the truck quickly dissolved in the mist at the northern end of the bridge.

  So it had come to that. I was not only having nightmares, but actually hallucinating. What was going on with this country?

  The car careened onto the shoulder, screeching to a halt. I was hurled forward and got wedged between the two front seats. Bri’s hat lay on the dashboard and Li whined while fishing for her book on the floor. Flushed with anger, Bri rolled down the window and shook a fist into the rain—not that this impressed the motorcyclist who had cut us off.

  “Hoodlum!” my aunt screamed. She killed the engine.

  Li sighed and smoothed the pages of her book while I tried, unsuccessfully, to extract myself from between the front seats. Bri closed the window and calmly put her hat back on before taking notice of my struggle.

  “What are you doing up here?”

  We stared at each other for a few seconds. Throughout my life, I had often tried to hold Bri’s ice-queen gaze. I couldn’t do it this time either. So I sucked in my stomach and tore myself lose from the mousetrap into which I had fallen. I really should lose a few pounds so the bodice of my wedding dress won’t rip.

  “I need a cigarette,” Bri griped.

  “A cup of tea would be lovely,” Li replied. “With milk and a tiny spoonful of honey. It’s much healthier than sugar.”

  I closed my eyes and silently counted to ten. Bri interrupted me at eight.

  “Nothing to say, young lady?”

  I quickly looked at the fuel gauge. “Petrol? Restrooms?”

  “Two words sounding like hallelujah.” Bri started the car. “Let’s find a petrol station.”

  The next lesson I learned was that rest stops are nearly unheard of on Scottish motorways. We were forced to relieve ourselves in the bushes of a small parking area, and then drove almost twenty miles before spotting a sign for a petrol station. Shortly afterward, Bri turned down a winding drive flanked by yellow broom bushes. Two blue petrol pumps stood in front of a little wooden building.

  I had never been so happy to get out of a car. I stretched out my arms and raised my face to the drizzle. The soothing scent of peat and the ocean filled my lungs. Umbrella and cigarette case in hand, Aunt Bri headed for the broom bush–covered hills. Aunt Li had stayed in the car with her book, eyes shining and mouth half-open. It was obviously a thrilling passage—perhaps an R-rated one.

  I fished my mobile phone out of my bag—no new messages—and then opened the fuel cap of the car.

  Bri was perched on a bench on the hill, enjoying a cigarette and taking in the view. Straight-backed and still, and with the umbrella unfurled over her hat, she looked like Mary Poppins come to life—even though not a soul on earth was less similar to that cheerful nanny than Aunt Bri.

  I looked around idly. There were several other cars, a few buses, and a camper van in the car park. One family was picnicking, the father grilling sausages while his noisy children played in the bushes.

  A dark-green, four-door pickup truck was half-hidden behind one of the buses, so I hadn’t noticed it at first. Upon spotting it, however, the fuel cap dropped out of my hand and rolled under the car. Cursing, I knelt down to retrieve it, and when I got up again, Aidan Murray was leaning against his truck with crossed arms, grinning right at me.

  At least I wasn’t hallucinating. On the other hand . . . I squinted. Yes, it really was him. He picked up the paper cup he’d balanced on his truck’s roof and raised it to me as a toast. I turned my back. Maybe if I ignored him, he would disappear.

  I studied the display on the pump, watching the numbers roll over in slow motion.

  “Hello, Mrs. Stone,” said a cheerful voice behind me.

  My hands became clammy. Why was I such a wreck around him? “You again?” I said without taking my eyes off the display.

  “I’m equally pleased to see you.” His voice told me that he was smiling.

  I threw him a reluctant look. “How small is this country that I can’t get rid of you?”

  “Well, there’s only one motorway from Edinburgh to Inverness, Mrs. Stone. But you’re right, it’s a funny coincidence. Maybe fate has something planned for us.” He winked.

  “The only motorway, huh,” I snarled. “And you had to make a stop at exactly this service area. What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn’t you be selling cakes with your girlfriend Vicky?”

  “The womaniser thing again?” Aidan narrowed his eyes.

  “You tell me.”

  “What about you? What are you and your aunties doing in Inverness? Is your cousin living there?”

  “We’re going to Kincraig, for your information. My cousin is staying at O’Farrell’s Guesthouse. Any more questions?” I bit my lip. Why in the world did I tell him all that?

  “Kincraig?” He seemed puzzled.

  Had I not been sure that embarrassment wasn’t part of Aidan Murray’s emotional repertoire, I might actually have believed his ruffled act. He quickly caught himself and studied the fuel display, which had finally stopped streaming numbers. I put the nozzle back on the pump, screwed on the fuel cap, and tapped on Li’s window.

  “Aunt Li, I’m going in to pay. Should I get you some tea?”

  She flashed a thumbs-up without looking up from her reading. Her cheeks were flushed. So it was an erotic passage.

  “Mrs. Stone, I’m afraid you won’t get to Kincraig as easily as—”

  I spun around. “Why can’t you just leave me alone, Mr. Murray?”

  “All right! I’ll back off. But you really should make sure you got the right fuel.”

  This man was incredibly stubborn—unfortunately, he was also incredibly attractive, leaning against the pump and gazing at me curiously as if I was an exotic animal. But I would never become part of his trophy zoo.

  “Please. Just go your way and let me go mine,” I said as kindly as I could.

  He raised his hands. “It’s up to you, Mrs. Stone.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Murray.”

  The green pickup was still there when I came out with two coffees and Li’s tea. Aidan sat in the driver’s seat, making a phone call. To avoid having to meet his gaze again, I focused on balancing the hot drinks. Bri wasn’t back yet, so I sat down in the driver’s seat and handed Li her tea.

  “You’re an angel, Josie.” She put her book on the dashboard and sniffed at the cup. She was the only one in my family who called me Josie, and each time she did I felt warm inside.

  “Unfortunately, they didn’t have honey, so I added some sugar,” I told her, fighting the urge to look across the car park.

  “I see your Mr. Murray has turned up again. He really is a good-looking man,” Li said casually, sipping her tea.

  “You think so?”

  “I do, indeed. Above all, he’s a gentleman—polite, helpful, well bred. A little like Mr. Darcy, but funnier. You seldom find such a combination in men.”

  I laughed. Aidan had about as much in common with Jane Austin’s seductively brooding hero as a log of wood with a bar of gold. Poor Aunt Li. As far as I was aware, she had never known a man outside the pages of a book.

  “Don’t you find it odd that your paths keep crossing?”

  “Not you, too, Aunt Li! Fate and all that! Listen, I’m engaged and not interested in Aidan Murray.”

  “But you are interested in him. Why else would he bother you so much?”

  “He doesn’t bother me at all.”

  Li’s next question blindsided me. “What are we doing here, Josie?”

  She said it with the same understanding smile she had worn many years ago when she’d freed me from the principal’s office, where I was accused of cheating on a maths test. To this day, nobody knew that Charlie had secreted the crumpled scrap of paper into my pencil box to help me with formulas I couldn’t remember no matter how hard I tried.

  Just like then, I could neit
her bring myself to confess nor to hold Li’s affectionate gaze. Instead, I stared at the wet windscreen and thought of Charlie, Grandmother, and the ring that had to be on my finger when Justus and I exchanged vows. Li’s question had opened a door in my mind and, inside, snippets of lost memories swirled around like dust. In this room lurked not only my fear of disappointing Adele von Meeseberg, but also long-suppressed rage, resentment, and a dull feeling of worthlessness.

  “You know why we’re here,” I said.

  “I know that you and Charlie have, unfortunately, not been the best of friends. So I’m asking myself why it’s suddenly so important she be a part of your wedding party, as Mathilde claims. I’m quite sure you have enough pretty friends who would look good in Charlie’s bridesmaid dress.”

  I could feel myself blush.

  “So tell me, Josie. What is this all about?”

  I had yet again underestimated this old lady in her thick glasses and old-fashioned pantyhose. Hidden behind her gracious, often quirky demeanour, there was at least as much of the keen Markwitz family wit as Bri so loved to display.

  “Charlie stole the wedding ring from Mama’s safe,” I whispered.

  “The bride’s ring?” Bri looked shocked. “That is a problem.”

  I managed something like a smile. “Do you understand now why I have to find Charlie?”

  “It’s not important whether I understand or approve of your actions, Josie. The question is where your search will lead you. The ring just shows the way.”

  “I don’t understand,” I replied, disappointed she hadn’t given me the answer I wanted to hear.

  “I didn’t either, for a long time—for quite a long time.”

  “What about the curse? All those tragedies when the bride didn’t wear the ring? Do you believe it? Or is Grandmother the only one who clings to this superstition and I’m making myself crazy for nothing?”

  “Let me put it this way—the mythos of the ring made sure I chose the right path.”

  “But you never got married.”

  “Right.” She smiled and seemed sad for a moment.