“People are going to hear you.” Beverly hissed.
“Let them,” Calleigh said with a shrug.
Commonwealth’s primary social contract with its employees was simple: You are provided with a huge number of vacation days with the express understanding your co-workers will exert enough social pressure to prevent any of them from actually being used. Calleigh’s complete break with the contract was the fuel for her own little social revolution. Later in the day, she would continue her rebellion by making a personal phone call without either hiding in the stairwell or walking a half mile down the street. Then, there would be a scouting mission to the supply closet to see if there were any name brand Post-Its or decent pens.
She had not stopped beaming since she had entered her credit card number and clicked the pay button on TravelersWorld.com the night before. “It’s going to be beautiful, Bev. Three weeks in Scotland.”
“Not London?”
“No.”
“Or Paris?”
“Nope.”
“Scotland?”
“Scotland,” said Calleigh. She was booked all the way through, from Houston InterContinental to Heathrow, and then from Euston Station aboard the Caledonian Express for the overnight to Inverness.
“Can you postpone until after the…”
“No, I’m booked and paid. By this time Friday, I’ll be stepping off the train in Inverness.” Beverly’s flared nostrils and pursed lips let Calleigh know her non-stop delight pissed Beverly off to no end. What the hell, she thought. You only live once.
Chapter Two: Meanwhile, in Scotland
Dixon’s flat was littered with the emotional and physical detritus of the last romantic attack launched against him. Lauren, the ex- of the moment, lived with him in the flat for a whole ninety days before she had stormed out. In her wake he felt a bit out of sorts. He was not the cleanest of people, but he had a way of organizing things that worked for him. Her attempts to reorganize and impose her way had only led to a more apparent chaos.
The instigator of Lauren’s midnight departure for Edinburgh, High Fidelity, sat on the top of the stack of books he now had to walk around. He had been sitting on the sofa playing a video game when she had stomped across the flat to wave the book in his face.
“I love this book,” he had said as he took the book from her outstretched hands.
“I know. That’s why I read it.” She looked around the flat with her nose wrinkled. “You seem to have gotten stuck in the middle of the plot. Are you ever going to, you know, get a real job or move out of this flat?”
Lauren was referring to the offer he had turned down from Waterstone’s. “Owning my own shop is a real job and I’ve no reason to move out of a perfectly good flat. I’m not goin’ to ever be Donald Trump, but I do well enough, I’ll thank you to know.” The housing market in Inverness might not be London, but he was not going to move just to impress…well, he did not know who, but he was not doing it.
“It smells of soup.”
“Does it?” He took a deep breath, but could not smell anything but yesterday’s fry-up. Not the type of information which would swing the conversation in his favor, so he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Don’t you want more?”
“What more could I want?” was the wrong answer. She had picked up her bag and stomped out through the door.
Dixon tugged on the damp swollen door to the flat until it popped open. Of late, his few relationships had all ended to the same tune. They all wanted him to have more money, a bigger flat, and a more impressive job. He was a work to live rather than live to work man. He would rather spend time with his mates, or hiking, or reading, or anything, rather than working to pay for a lifestyle. If there was something he really wanted or needed, he could save for it.
He climbed down the steep, narrow staircase from the flat, waved to The Ladies as he strolled by the café counter on the mezzanine, and said, “Hello, awrite,” to customers who had already lined up at the counter for their elevenses. He wove through the stacks of second hand books, History, Psychology, Mystery, Literature, Psychology, and History.
History. There was plenty of that. From his first Upper School girlfriend who ditched him for a bloke with a car, or Lauren and her desire for a more American version of success, eventually they all left.
Bloody, hell. It’s not as bad as all that, Dixon thought. Is it?
No, in his final year of University, there had been Calleigh McCabe. They met on the first day of class, and spent every moment they could together until she boarded the plane back to America. Calleigh had been perfect for him at that point in his life. In the wake of Lauren’s departure he looked-up Calleigh’s profile on Facebook. She looked the same with her bright smile and long brown hair, but the staggering 784 “friends” was intimidating. If she considered all of those people friends, would she even remember him? In the end he did not send a friend request. He just surfed on, across the web, content with his memories and the knowledge she was well.
He would meet someone else. Granted, Inverness was not exactly a club hub. The church sponsored singles scene was right out. There was a woman out in the world for him…and he would meet her as soon as she stumbled into his bookstore and found him.
“Aye, there’s my one and only sunshine.” In his dual roles as employee and best mate, Caiden McKay saw it as his life’s work to provide Dixon with the best in companionship and the worst possible customer service a man could ask for.
Dixon walked around the end of the check-out counter to stand next to Caiden.
“What’ll it be today, then? Murder, mayhem, or will you continue to pine for your lost love?” Caiden asked as he handed Dixon a steaming cup of tea.
Dixon took a sip of tea as he watched the day’s first book specific customers mill around the shop, heads tipped back to read the hand lettered signs he and Caiden had hung when the shop had opened seven years ago. People collided with one another like bumper cars as they squinted at the sun faded signs, the wording barely discernible in dim light which filtered through the dusty windows. “I think I am going to have someone in to clean the flat.”
“Get out,” said Caiden.
“No, I may well do. I’ve had it on good authority it smells of soup.”
“Of course it smells of soup, you daft bugger. You live above a cafe which only serves soup.”
Dixon leaned forward, his elbows pressed hard against the counter. “I was thinking.”
“Oh, God. Hang on.” Caiden balanced his tea on top of a stack of local Blue Guides Dixon had purchased six months ago, but neither of them had bothered to put out on the shelves. He mimicked Dixon’s stance, bringing them shoulder-to-shoulder, side-by-side as they leaned across the counter top.
“Do you think we should be doing more? Keep longer hours, try to get more business?”
Both turned their heads toward the sound of one of The Ladies providing the day’s tourist information service in the café Mezzanine above, “No, you can bloody well not have fecking ice with your fecking soda. You’ll have it in the tin as God intended or not at all.”
Caiden turned back to Dixon and held up his right hand, counting with his fingers as he spoke. “First, neither of us has the marbles to ask The Ladies to stay longer each day. Second, we’re open the same as everyone else. If people wanted to do business after four, Starbucks and Costa would already have done it. Third, if you wanted to work for Waterstone’s, you’d have gone and done it already. You’ve been here every day since you swung the doors open. The last time either of us go out through that door will be in a box.”
“That’s a horrifying thought.” Then Dixon’s face was lit by a bright smile, “but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Exactly, mate.” Caiden shook his head as he stood.
A young woman with a frown stood at the counter. Her nose ring and blue hair clashed with her wool pea coat and sensible shoes.
“In art school, are you?” asked Caiden with his hand
stuck out. “Let’s see what you got.”
Her eyes narrowed as she lay a beaten copy of Elizabeth Gaskell’s Gothic Tales on the scarred wood of the counter.
“Ah, love, no,” he said has he handed the book back to her. “You can do better than that.”
Her frown deepened. With a huff she turned, shoulders slumped and walked back toward the stack she had emerged from. She stopped, then threw a sour look over her shoulder at Caiden and Dixon.
“Go on. I have faith in ya’. There. On the shelf above you head. That’s Barthelme. Start there.” Caiden turned back to Dixon. “We’re providing a community service, we are. Where else are you going to get mentoring like that for free?”
Chapter Three: What are the Chances?
Calleigh boarded the plane on Thursday afternoon with nothing more in mind than spending three weeks where the air and water were clean, the skies clear, and the people friendly. By the time she stepped off the train in Inverness her back hurt, her clothes were wrecked, and her hair defied her brush and was wadded in knots around her head. Then there was the reek of day old Strongbow from her jeans, after she spilled half a pint on herself in the dining car.
She stumbled from the taxi and dragged her bags through the lobby to the Concierge desk.
The French Concierge took a long look at her and said, “Took the train did you?” We are here to help. Anything you need, extra soap, towels, just ask.”
The room was perfect. A king bed set in the center of an airy room. It was fresh painted as well, and with modern furniture to boot. She was more than happy to take of her beer and sweat stained blouse and throw it away entirely, she was so annoyed by the spill and the smell of them. After she showered and re-dressed, she stopped and took a long, hard look at the bed. A nap would be bliss, but if she could power through the day, the rest of the trip would be jetlag free, she thought.
Well, if she were going to stay awake, then she needed people, someone to talk to. As she strode through the lobby, she updated her Facebook status with her new locale. It wasn’t often she was travelling abroad and she was excited to share her adventure with her “friends.”
Inverness seeped into her skin as she walked along Castle Street. From the tourist souvenirs along the High Street to the luxurious cashmere sweaters in shops she would never have dreamed of entering when she was a student, she took it all in. Three and four story stone buildings lined both sides of the winding streets, the pavement crowded with pedestrians. A crisp breeze blew off the River Ness and pushed her hair off her shoulders. From the pedestrian suspension bridge she watched seals play in the clear water. Despite being exhausted, she felt better than she had in years.
Hunger drove her away from the bridge in search of a serving restaurant. At 10:30 in the morning it was too late for breakfast in Inverness and too early for the lunch service to begin. She was saved by the familiar sight of a bright yellow “M.”
She ignored the vibration of her phone until she was finished eating. There was a flurry of, “Have a great time!” and “Lovely!” Facebook messages, and actually one invitation to meet and catch-up. She did still have some “friends” from her days here, after all. Muriel Corrie, a childhood mate of Dixon’s, whom she had actually never really liked, was interested in meeting up. She had actually hoped a few more of her old friends would have seen she was in town. She jammed the phone back into her purse without answering Muriel’s offer.
Driven by nervous energy, and a punch drunk sleeplessness which somehow actually pushed her to accomplish something, she strode down Church Street. She tried to slow down and take the time to thoughtfully look at each piece of artwork in the first gallery she entered, but was back out on the pavement ten minutes later. The day had to have a goal, something which said, “This is what I did on my vacation.” Then she tore through a stationary shop with such speed the card racks were left spinning in her wake, the idea of sending cards dismissed as quickly as it had struck. Eastgate Centre. She might not have come to Inverness to shop, but she would at least be able to walk off this unsettled feeling inside a toasty warm mall.
A bright blue A-frame sign stood in the center of the pavement on the opposite side of the street with “Used Books and Café” painted in arched gold letters across the top. A book. Would. Be. Perfect. With a book and a nice cup of tea she would have a reason to sit down, to calm down and settle into being on vacation.
Condensation ran in streams down the inside of the glass front door, the drops obscuring any view of the shop beyond. Visions of strictly ordered shelves covered in undiscovered mystery novels danced in her head as she pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The gleaming shelves by the front door supported stacks of newer hardback titles, divided into fiction and non-fiction sections, each section arranged in alphabetical order by author. The new Robert Crais caught her eye, and she plucked it off the shelf. With the book nestled in the crook of her left arm against her chest, she walked through the short hallway and into the main part of the store.
The smell punched her in the face and stole her breath. Her eyes watered under the twin assault of mouldering paper and broccoli soup. To her right was the Mystery section, every inch covered in a thin layer of thick, brown dust. Books were stacked in precious piles on the floor in front of every bookcase and down the length of the common pathway. The check-out counter was buried in books but for a two foot square of bare wood countertop, behind which a heavy-set man sat reading a tattered copy of Jasper Fforde’s Thursday Next: First Among Sequels.
Two backwards steps and she was back in the gleaming entrance hall. She took deep gulps of the clean Inverness air carried in as customer’s streamed in and out of the building. Out of her purse came the notebook she kept for just such occasions, where she noted the name and address of the shop, why she would never return, and which social media sites the posting should be listed on. Notebook returned to her purse, she flipped open the front cover of the Crais. £2.50. It would cost five times that at a first run bookstore. Fortified with a deep breath of clean air, she stepped back into the shop and dropped the book on the counter, her credit card already laid on top. If all went well, there would be no need to breath.
The man behind the counter pushed the card onto the scarred wood counter, flipped the book open, checked the price, closed the front cover, and then entered the price into the cash register.
Calleigh could feel her face flush as she fought the urge to breath.
He turned toward her, “Do you want a carrier?”
When she shook her head, “no,” stars burst in front of eyes.
Caiden picked the card up off the counter, a quick glance at the expiration date and…
Calleigh gasped. The blood drained from her face as she choked on the dust clogged air.
“Are you going to live?”
She nodded “yes,” her right hand circled in a “move along” gesture.
He ran the card through the machine, the screen immediately flashed “Invalid.” The expiration date…sat right above the name “Calleigh R McCabe.”
“Aw, you’ve got to be joking,” Caiden said under his breath. He turned to Calleigh, “Are you from the States, by chance? Sometimes we have a wee bit of trouble with cards from the States.”
“Yes, I have another card here if…” She had her head down as she dug through her purse.
“No, it’s all good. Just give me a moment to,” Caiden shoved a stack of books off the counter behind the register into the floor. “Where are you, you fec…,” he muttered.
“What was that?” asked Calleigh.
Caiden turned back to her with a smile, “Nothing.” He rooted around behind the register until he came up with a handheld intercom. A high pitched whine shook the windows when he flipped the switch on the side of the base. He pressed a large, red, toggle button, “Ceannard, if you could come the counter, please.” Feedback screeched through the overhead speakers as he released the button. To Calleigh he said, “Won’t be a mo
.”
Calleigh pulled her fingers from her ears and mentally added this deficiency to the list of reasons to never set foot in this shop again. “It’s fine. If I could just get my card back…”
Caiden held up his index finger to say “just one minute” as he let loose through the intercom again. “Ceannard!” He turned back to Calleigh with a sloppy grin. “It’s the difference in the system, you see. We use Chip & Pin. In the US you use magnetic strips. He’ll be here in a minute, set you right up.”
Great. Two guys who won't be able to work the credit card machine, thought Calleigh.
***
Dixon slammed the phone down. Four cleaning companies and not one was willing to clean his flat for less than £250. He quite liked the smell of soup and having an extra £250, thank you very much. The whine of the intercom brought tears to his eyes. He put his hands over his ears and waited for the muffled screech of the sign-off signal. Twice a year or so Caiden re-discovered the old intercom system, amused himself for a few days, and then forgot about it again.
He was caught off guard by the shout of, “Ceannard!” from the speaker over his desk.
“Bloody hell.” Dixon wove through the boxes of books stacked around his office, around the bookcase which covered half the doorway which led from the office to behind the counter. “Is the building on fire?"
Caiden leaned against the counter, his back to Calleigh, right hand stuck out toward Dixon with a credit card gripped between his index and middle fingers.
Dixon took the credit card and read the name, “Calleigh R McCabe?”
Calleigh had her head down as she dug in her purse for Kleenex and looked up when she heard her name. “Dixon?”
Caiden gave them both a sloppy grin as he leaned with his head in his hands, elbows pressed against the countertop. “You’re welcome.”
Chapter Four: Old Flames Reunited
[Runes of Argyl 01.0] The Runes of Argyl Trilogy Page 130
