by Karen Kelly
“Especially if they travel south to other Highland Games,” exclaimed Annie. “I can’t imagine wearing that during a Texas August!” She fanned herself at the thought.
Ian looked slyly over at Wally. “You have to admit, Wally, wearing a kilt would be cooler in the South.”
“Ayuh,” came the response from Wally’s perfectly straight face. “That’s another reason I’m just fine with staying put where I was born.”
Laughing, the friends continued on their way, Emily peering through the throngs of people on the chance she might still find Kyla. But by the time they had all reached MacTavish’s tent, the shoes were still in her mother’s possession. Noticing how her shoulders were drooping with disappointment, her father whispered to her, “Em, you stay outside the tent with me, and we’ll keep looking while the others deliver the messages. OK?” Hearing her husband’s suggestion, Peggy handed her daughter the dancing shoes.
Cradling the shoes in one arm and slipping her free hand into her father’s strong grasp, Emily nodded. “Thank you, Daddy.” They stepped close to the tent canvas, out of the way of the foot traffic as the others entered MacTavish’s, but their eyes roamed diligently over the crowd, looking for the sky-blue kilt and the graceful movement of the young dancer.
They had been standing beside the tent only five minutes when their friends joined them. “Was MacTavish there?” Wally asked.
“Yes,” answered Ian, “and he did take two of the notes from Annie.”
Annie added, “He didn’t actually confess to knowing McKenna, but he did take the note addressed to her and promised to ‘try to locate her.’”
“I hope MacTavish was telling the truth this time,” said Peggy. “Do you think we should take the note to Eli’s aunt now?”
Alice glanced up from the map she had been consulting. “You know, the lost and found booth is close to the harpers’ building. Peggy, why don’t you, Wally, and Emily deliver both the note and the shoes? The rest of us will stop at Kit and Caboodle, and then we’ll look for Brooke to give her Finley’s note.”
Peggy took a glance at her watch and nodded. “It is getting pretty close to closing time. We don’t want to keep the shoes so long that Kyla doesn’t have time to ask about them at the lost and found.” Seeing Emily hug the shoes closer, Peggy gently patted her daughter’s shoulder.
A frown lowered the corners of Emily’s mouth, but she slowly nodded. “I know, Mom.” She sighed. “I just wish we’d seen her.”
“Me too,” said Peggy. “But I wrote our address in the note, in case Kyla wants to write. Maybe you’ll see her dance again next year.” Deciding where they would meet the others after their errands were completed, the Carsons entered the stream of people, which was starting to thin as parents carried their mementos and tired children to the parking lot.
Thirty minutes later, every note duly entrusted to messengers they didn’t know, the Stony Point friends followed the crowd leaving the Highland Games.
15
Annie nestled into the cushioned deck chair at Grey Gables, luxuriating in the soft breeze that flowed across her front porch. After her jam-packed Saturday at the Highland Games, she intended to take her Sunday as a serious day of rest. On the small round table beside her stood a glass of iced sweet tea next to a stack of her grandfather’s journals.
As soon as she had returned from attending the morning worship service at Stony Point Community Church and had eaten lunch, Annie had combed through the multitude of journals Charles Holden had composed and saved during his many years as a veterinarian. Lining the bottom shelf in Grey Gables’s library, the journals were arranged in chronological order, which made the task of finding the ones most likely to contain what Annie was looking for simple. She started by selecting the journals labeled 1978, the year the Highland Games had begun, to 1985.
She paused to gaze at the seascape before her. Few things moved her as much as the sight of the ever-changing water world. At times, it terrified her with its power and anger. Often, as on that warm August day, it soothed and delighted her. Always, it seemed to put things into perspective.
Annie stretched her arms overhead just in time for Boots to spring onto her lap and nose around under her chin. Lowering her arms, she returned the favor by caressing the cat in the same location. “Did you miss me yesterday, Boots?” After a “meow” and some kneading with her paws, the feline answered by curling up in a tidy heap in Annie’s lap and making herself comfortable.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Smiling, Annie reached over and plucked the first journal from the pile. “Hope you don’t mind being a book rest.” Positioning the soft-backed book on the cat, she opened to the first page. As always, the sight of her grandfather’s handwriting brought both poignancy and comfort. How she missed her parents and grandparents! How thankful she felt to have so many reminders around her of the people they had been, and the ways in which they had helped her to grow into the woman she was.
Annie began to read, her movements limited to page turning, tea sipping, and the occasional cat scratching. Transported back to 1978, she experienced the workdays—and sometimes nights—of a country veterinarian through her grandfather’s eyes, each one different from the one before it. In comparison, her years of bookkeeping for the car dealership had been decidedly more staid, although not without their own charms.
Ninety minutes later she was chuckling over an incident between her grandfather and a woman “bent on poodlizing the entire town” when Alice’s voice surprised her from the other side of the porch. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh! You startled me.” Annie ran a hand over Boots’s head to apologize for interrupting the cat’s nap with her jerky movement. She raised the journal for her friend to see while Alice climbed the porch steps. “One of Grandpa’s journals,” Annie explained. “He truly had a way with words.”
Alice crossed the porch and sat in the chair on the opposite side of the table from Annie. “People don’t always write the way they talk, but Charlie certainly did.” She surveyed the stack of journals. “Looking for Gunns or Roses?”
“Either or both, I guess,” Annie replied. “And no, I haven’t found any yet, but I’m only up to 1980.” Annie passed the open journal over to her friend. “Here—read this story while I start the next one. You’ll get a kick out of it.” Noticing Alice’s eyes on her almost empty glass of tea, she added, “Would you like some sweet tea while you read?”
“Subtle, aren’t I?” said Alice. “I’d love some, but I hate to interrupt Boots’s nap there.”
Annie waved a hand, as if swatting the guilt away like a fly. “Neither of us has moved for an hour and a half. We could both stand to interrupt our inertia long enough for me to pour us some tea.”
“After yesterday, you have earned some inertia time. Though I suspect Boots had plenty of it while you were gone.” Alice reached over to rub the cat’s ears. “Why don’t you go chase mice or bugs from Annie’s garden, lazybones?” One feline eye opened into a slit for a moment before closing again. “Or maybe not.”
Chuckling, Annie picked up Boots as she stood to go get the sweet tea, and then she unceremoniously deposited the cat on the vacated cushion. After watching the woman who had put an abrupt end to nap time pick up her glass and head for the door, the feline stuck one leg out and began to groom.
“Ruffled your fur, did she?” Alice murmured before turning her attention to the journal in her hand. By the time Annie pushed open the door with her shoulder, two frosty glasses in her hands, Alice was grinning from ear to ear.
“Here you go.” Annie extended a glass toward her friend. “Funny isn’t it?”
“It’s even funnier because I remember this woman! Charlie captured her in perfect detail. She tried to convince my mother we needed to add a poodle to our household.”
Annie reclaimed her chair and took a sip. “Did it work?”
“Oh, no!” Alice laughed. “She nearly had Mother convinced, but I threatened revolt. You know, I nev
er liked poodles. And for once, my sister, Angela, agreed with me, so Mother changed her mind.” She lifted the glass to her lips, sipped it and then exclaimed, “Wow, this is sweet!”
Annie raised an eyebrow. “Yes, dear, that’s why they call it sweet tea. It’s also why I only drink it during the warm days of Maine summer.”
“Good thing you’re not the couch-potato type,” Alice declared. “You must burn it off during your high-energy mornings.” She handed the journal back to Annie and gestured at the remaining pile. “Do you want me to start on 1981?”
Annie plucked the top book from the stack and held it out to her. “Yes! Just make sure you tell me if you find anything really hilarious, or anything about the Gunns or Roses, of course.” She paused a moment. “Do you think anyone will ever contact Ian?”
Alice laid the journal in her lap and took another sip from her glass. “Who knows? People often don’t make sense, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“And those folks seem so tightly knit,” pondered Annie. “Even more than people in Stony Point when I first came back.”
Alice was quiet as she thought of the moment she and Annie first saw each other again when Annie was unloading her car after inheriting Grey Gables from Betsy. They had put in a lot of work reconnecting after decades. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Alice asked “Especially when you think of the first Hook and Needle Club meeting you attended.”
Annie rolled her eyes, but a smile hovered around her lips. “Now that you mention it, Leathan reminds me a little of Stella.”
Alice looked sideways at her friend until they both started giggling. After catching her breath, she said, “To anyone else, you would sound absolutely crazy, but I get it.” She sighed and looked out at the sea, as Annie had earlier. “I’d love for us to discover the story behind the sporran and ferrules. Is there anything else we can do besides look through Charlie’s journals?”
“I haven’t thought of anything else yet,” Annie answered. “Maybe someone else will come up with an idea at the next club meeting.”
Alice nodded. “Sometimes a little distance helps to see a challenge from a different slant.”
“Speaking of challenge, I wonder how Gwen is surviving her bank weekend.” Annie opened the journal in her hand. “The next meeting promises to be filled with stories.”
“Hopefully, it’ll be filled with some successful brainstorming too.” Alice followed her friend’s example and turned to the first page of the 1981 journal. “Although I think we can cut Gwen a little slack if her brain is numb.”
“Agreed.” Annie checked the time on her watch. “Let’s read for an hour, and then I’ll make us some dinner—maybe some pasta salad with my garden veggies and grilled chicken.”
Alice’s eyes brightened. “Sounds delicious.” She lowered her eyes to the book in her hands. “I’m glad I forgave you for losing touch. Who knew you’d turn out to be such a good cook?”
“Right back at you, Muffin Maven,” Annie said, smirking, before settling her concentration back to the last month of 1980. The banter put aside, the two women managed to skim through the rest of the journals through 1985. Though they found many amusing stories of wayward animals and curious people, they did not find any Gunns or Roses.
Alice plunked the 1985 journal onto the top of the stack. “How much further should we read?”
“There’s only a few more left,” answered Annie. “Grandpa was pretty much retired by 1990, although he was always helping out whoever needed it, according to Gram’s letters.” She stretched her arms overhead and arched her back. “I’ll glance through them later, before bed. I need a break from reading for a while. Want to help me snap some green beans for dinner?”
Alice stood up, gathering the stack of journals in her arms. “Sure. I’ll put these back in the library first. Should I grab the last of the journals for you while I’m there?”
“That would be great. Thanks!” After picking up the two empty glasses, Annie followed her friend into the house. “Just put them on the table in the hall. I’ll get the beans ready for snapping.” Once inside, the women parted for different rooms of the house, but they were soon reunited in the kitchen with a bowl of fresh green beans between them.
Alice glanced over at the harvest basket, piled with green cucumbers three to four inches long, on the counter next to the sink. “Did you pick all those cukes this morning?”
Annie snapped the ends off the bean in her hand. “Yes, I did. And there’s more from yesterday morning in the mudroom. If I don’t do something soon, I’m going to run out of room!”
“Sounds like pickling time to me,” Alice hinted, as she picked up a bean. Boots padded into the room and crouched next to her water dish for a drink.
“You’ll be happy to know it’s on my to-do list for tomorrow.” Annie gestured at a bowl of garlic bulbs sitting in the center of the table. “As you can probably tell from all the garlic, I’m starting with dill. Then I’ll try bread-and-butter pickles. But I have some bad news.”
Alice tossed a snapped bean onto the growing pile and raised an eyebrow.
“Reading over Gram’s recipes, I realized my pickles won’t be ready for the Labor Day picnic.” Annie frowned at the bean in her hand. “Not by a long shot.”
Alice thumped her hand down on the table. “I totally forgot about that! They have to sit and soak in all the tasty flavors, right? Just make sure you put some jars aside for next year.”
“Do you mind waiting for a couple months before receiving your pay for helping me in the garden?”
Her friend sighed with an air of martyrdom. “If I must.” She reached over to finger one of the bulbs of garlic. “It’ll be worth it, if you follow Betsy’s method to the letter. Over the years I ate a truckload of her pickles, and never once did I bite into a mushy one.”
“From what I read in Gram’s notes, the key is soaking the cucumbers in an ice bath for at least two hours as well as starting with firm cucumbers.” Annie nodded at the harvest basket. “Those feel just right to me. What do you think?”
Alice finished snapping the ends off a green bean and added it to the bowl before sauntering over to where the day’s harvest was nestled. She gently tested the feel of the cucumbers. “They feel just right, Annie. If they end up mushy, it won’t be the vegetables’ fault.”
“Thanks—I think.” Annie frowned, only half joking. “How come I suddenly feel like the entire success of next year’s Labor Day picnic is riding on me following Gram’s recipes perfectly?”
Alice returned to the table and looked her childhood friend in the eyes. “Don’t you think you might be taking too much responsibility onto yourself?” Placing a hand on each of Annie’s shoulders, she gave Annie a little shake and grinned. “Just say no to perfectionism! Seriously, do you really want your identity to be wrapped up in pickles?”
Annie’s shoulders relaxed under Alice’s hands. “It does sound pretty silly, since you put it that way.” A quick shadow of embarrassment flitted across her face. “I loved Gram so much, but sometimes—the way folks talk—it seems like she was perfect. The shining example of the Proverbs 31 woman—I doubt I could ever live up to her legacy.”
“Who ever said you had to?” Alice asked. “Her legacy is hers, and yours is yours. Besides, you have talents Betsy never had. There’s a reason Charlie had someone else doing the financial record keeping for his and Betsy’s businesses. Does that mean you’re better than your Gram because you rocked at bookkeeping for the dealership? Or do you ever feel like you should be a missionary like your parents?”
Annie shook her head. “I never did feel any pressure to follow in my parents’ footsteps. For some reason, it was easier to realize I wasn’t called to missions than it has been for me to embrace being different from Gram. Maybe it’s because I always saw her as a kindred spirit, being more of a homebody like she was.”
“That’s OK as long as you remember you are her granddaughter, not her clone,” Alice said, wagging a bean a
t her friend.
Annie resumed her bean snapping. “Point taken. How’d you get so smart?”
“It’s always easier dealing with someone else’s emotional baggage than with your own,” Alice replied. “But in this case, it’s terrain I’ve traveled for decades, thanks to my own family’s legacy.”
“And you’ve done a pretty good job of being who you are all these years, in spite of it.” Annie smiled at her friend. “I know it was really tough on you going through your divorce. I wasn’t here for you then, but I know Gram was. I have always been thankful she was. Thanks for using your struggle to help me with mine.” She plucked the last bean from the bottom of the bowl. “Now it’s time to cook these beauties.”
“Good. I’m getting hungry.” Putting aside both the blessings and challenges of family legacies, the two women turned their attention to more immediate concerns, like cooking dinner.
Several hours later, the sun had gone down, and Alice had returned to her cozy carriage house. Annie opened her bedroom windows a little wider to let in more of the cool summer night air. The wonder of enjoying August nights free of air-conditioning never seemed to wane for her, and she stayed at the window for a while, simply letting the breeze move around her. By the time she turned away from the window, Boots had already claimed her patch of the patchwork quilt on the four-poster bed.
Annie collected the next veterinarian journal, 1986, from the short stack where she’d placed it on her bedside table and nestled into her comfortable chair. Opening the cover, she pictured her grandfather with that spark of latent mischief in his eyes as he sat at the rolltop desk in the library after each workday, scribbling his observations. The flow of his writing and the images he described reminded her of the bedtime stories he told her during her childhood summer visits.
“Here I am, a grandmother, and you’re still telling me bedtime stories, Grandpa. Thank you,” she murmured. Turning to the next page, a name jumped out at her—Mitchel Gunn. He apparently had needed Doc Holden’s help with a sheep that was suffering from a large abscess on his neck. Reading through the note, thankful it did not contain photos of the procedure, Annie’s eyes grew wider at the end. Her grandfather had written, “The sealskin goes to the one who bears the falcon and the rose.”
