Hayley gave me a schoolmarm look. With her face washed clean and her jammies on, she looked almost like a teenager. “Your math skills suck,” she said. “And I don’t know the French word for four. Go to sleep. We don’t have to say goodbye yet.”
* * * *
The next morning, I clung desperately to my positive attitude. I’d wanted so badly for everything to be perfect for Hayley and Willow. I traveled frequently, but this was the first big trip either of them had ever made. Why did the weather have to be so depressingly… Scottish?
I didn’t mind rainy days as a rule. There was something soothing about a gentle, steady downpour. But not now. It didn’t seem fair to my travel companions or to the Highlands. Not when first impressions were so important. I wanted my friends to have the time of their lives. So far, the only thing to see was a blanket of grey mist covering the city.
Over breakfast, I tried to keep the conversation going. We were a quiet bunch. I sensed that anticipation had taken a backseat to reluctance and maybe even dread. Hayley looked downright scared. Willow was harder to read.
Though I had nothing to feel guilty about, I squirmed inwardly. Should I be the one to rewrite our game plan? After all, I’d initiated the trip. Here in the confines of the hotel, we were safe. And together. What had seemed like a lark back in the States suddenly felt astonishingly real.
A month was a heck of a long time. Did I dare send my two little chicks out into the world without me?
My agitation stole my appetite, though I stuffed down bacon and eggs. One thing I had learned over the years while traveling in remote sections of the world was to eat when the chance arose. You never knew when the next meal would come around.
Hayley, God love her, insisted on trying the haggis. Willow pretended to gag theatrically. I smiled. I knew that sheep organs mixed with oatmeal weren’t my cup of tea. And speaking of tea…I lifted a hand and waved for the server. After requesting a fresh pot of hot water, I smeared raspberry marmalade on toast and ate it along with my final cup of Earl Grey.
When we had finished our meal, I reached into my big leather tote and held out three small tissue-wrapped objects. “Pick one,” I said. The roomy, turquoise Kate Spade bag had been a gift from my grandma on my twenty-first birthday. Grammy would have approved of this trip.
Willow and Hayley chose at the same moment. With a nod from me, they unwrapped the gifts. Inside each was a small oval box, perhaps two or three inches across and an inch deep. The lid was inscribed with Celtic symbols. I really hoped they liked them.
“It’s beautiful,” Hayley said.
Willow stared at hers. “This is an antique, Mac. Must have been wickedly expensive.”
I waved a hand. “They’re snuffboxes. I found them on eBay. Sterling silver and ram’s horn. Aren’t they cool? Even women dipped tobacco back in the day.”
Hayley ran a finger over the engraving on hers. “I love it. But I know you don’t expect me to take up dipping.”
“Of course not. These are for us to collect mementos. Anything that touches our souls or stirs our imaginations. Little bits and pieces to remind us of our trip, so that in the weeks and months to come, we can open the boxes and remember Scotland.”
“It’s a lovely idea,” Hayley said.
Willow nodded. “Thanks, McKenzie. I have no idea what I’ll find, but I’ll keep my eyes open.”
Their genuine pleasure reassured me. I might have fudged a bit when Willow protested. The boxes had been pricey. After all, they were very old and in mint condition. I knew the moment I saw them they were the perfect gift for the two friends who had given me so much.
A short time later, we stood out on the walk, huddled beneath an overhang. I had ordered a cab to take me to the car rental place. Soon I would be on my way to the Isle of Skye.
Willow and Hayley clutched bus schedules in their hands. Willow had made arrangements to stay in the general Inverness area but in a youth hostel. Hayley was headed south for a village on the shores of Loch Ness.
Suddenly, emotion closed my throat.
Hayley voiced the words I didn’t speak. “Be safe,” she said.
Willow nodded. “And don’t do anything stupid.”
My cab pulled up at the curb. I gave the driver a grateful smile as he loaded my bags into the trunk. When it was time to step into the car, I hesitated. Glancing over my shoulder, I took one last look at my friends. “Remember Claire,” I said. “Be brave.” Because I was on the verge of stupid, sentimental tears, I got in the car and gave the driver the go-ahead.
As the vehicle started to move off down the street, I twisted in my seat and peered out the back windshield.
While I watched, a bus pulled up in front of the hotel. I saw Willow pick up her backpack and suitcase and hug Hayley. By the time she boarded, my cab turned a corner and I lost sight of the hotel entirely.
A fluttery sense of panic engulfed me. How could I leave dear Hayley all alone? I tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Would you mind to go back around the block?” I asked. “I want to make sure my friend gets picked up.”
The man nodded, unfazed, as if accustomed to the eccentricities of tourists. By the time we made it back to the hotel, no one stood in the street. In the distance, a different bus, not Willow’s, trundled down the pavement.
“Okay,” I said. “I guess everything’s fine.”
I sat back in my seat, feeling a definite sense of anticlimax. From here on out, I was on my own. I was counting on Scotland to entertain and inspire me. Anything else would be gravy.
Chapter 3
Hindsight is 20/20. I’d heard my grandmother spout that maxim a hundred times while I was growing up—usually in the context of some mischief I’d created. She was always trying to show me the error of my ways…to teach me how to look before I leaped. Sadly, she was gone now, and I was still the same impulsive, leap-before-you-look kind of woman.
Today was a case in point. After leaving my two friends in Inverness, I should have driven immediately to my destination and settled in. Privacy was important to me…that, and the space to breathe. Instead of booking a hotel somewhere, I’d chosen to rent a small cottage on the Isle of Skye for the entire month.
My goal, other than the only-half-serious one of finding a hunky Scotsman, was to polish my photography skills. I was a good amateur, but I wanted to take things a step farther…maybe even snag a gallery exhibition of my work.
It’s not like I needed the money. Even if no one bought a single print, it would be okay—disappointing, but okay. I just wanted to prove to myself that I was good at something other than being McKenzie Taylor.
The trip from Inverness to the charming town of Portree on Skye was two and a half hours. Even on a rainy day. I should have arrived well before dinner. That timeline, however, assumed I was a straight-from-A-to-B kind of person, which I wasn’t.
First off, I lingered in Inverness. Tucked away on a side street, I found a secondhand bookstore I’d read about. Leakey’s was housed in an old church with floor to ceiling shelves and the aroma of aging paper and fresh-baked scones. Thousands of books, mostly out-of-print, were crammed into every nook and corner. I lost myself in the crowded aisles.
Though I could easily have left with a dozen volumes, I limited my purchase to only three: a history of the Highlands published in the late 1800s, a coffee table book of Highland photographs and essays and a book of recipes that looked interesting. I wasn’t a gourmet cook, but I did like to putter in the kitchen. Perhaps I would perfect a dish or two while here in Scotland.
By the time I finished shopping, my stomach growled. I lingered in the store’s coffee shop corner for a bowl of soup. Then by early afternoon, I was on my way.
Cloudy days might be dismal to some travelers, but for a would-be photographer, the weather was perfect, especially since the rain had dwindled to a non-threatening mist. The light was amazing, the scenery even more so. I found myself stopping every couple of m
iles to take shots of moody lochs and raw, windswept hills.
I’d splurged before leaving home and bought a brand new, high-end digital SLR camera. With the online manual and my own fairly extensive experience with the latest photo editing software, I was convinced I’d be able to satisfy my artistic ambitions.
Unfortunately, my fascination with the Scottish countryside, particularly as seen through the lens of my new camera, made me lose track of time. By the time I finally made it out to the island of Skye and up to the tiny town of Portree, I was starving again. Though I was eager to find my rental house, I stopped for a late dinner of sautéed scallops, warm, fresh-baked bread, and a single glass of perfectly chilled Pinot Grigio. I knew my accommodations would not be stocked with groceries. That would be up to me.
By the time I was done eating, the light had begun to fade. I wasn’t too worried. I’d been given good directions, and though it had been some time since I’d driven on the left side of the road, after today’s trip, it was coming back to me.
Once again behind the wheel of my rental car, I headed north up the hill and out of town. Soon, dwellings were fewer and far between, and I was out on my own. A shiver of unease snaked up my spine. “Don’t be silly,” I said out loud, giving myself a pep talk. I couldn’t be more than a couple of miles from my destination.
Though I was driving slowly, it was difficult to make out signposts until I was practically on top of them. Twice, I backed up carefully to see if I had missed my turn-off. Here was a situation where it would have been nice to have a passenger to navigate while I concentrated on the road.
My pulse picked up speed in inverse proportion to the pace at which the car now crawled. I wanted to pull over and consult my map, but the road was narrow. What if someone came flying over a small rise and rear-ended me?
Despite my many travels, I was not at my best. Every shadow in the dark seemed threatening. Losing patience, I pressed down on the accelerator. What’s the worst that could happen? If I passed my turn-off, all I had to do was back up or turn around.
As I sailed along, cocooned in the relative naiveté of my plan, some kind of small animal darted out in front of me. Its frantic eyes glowed momentarily in the beam of my headlights. “Hell’s bells!” I jerked the wheel to keep from hitting the creature and promptly ended up in a ditch.
The impact jarred everything from my teeth to my tailbone. I shut off the engine and sucked in great gulps of oxygen, trying not to cry.
The car was tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. Fortunately, my side was up and not down. Though I knew instinctively it would do no good, I carefully shifted from park into drive and gave it some gas. Nothing happened. Unless I missed my guess, I had at least two wheels not making contact with anything at all. Even more worrisome was the loud noise that had accompanied my precipitous stop. I was very much afraid I had broken an axle.
In the grand scheme of things, that was no big deal. I had signed off on the extra insurance at the rental company. Even if this car was not drivable, I would surely be able to get a replacement in the morning.
That, however, was cold comfort at the moment. It wasn’t as if I could call Triple A for a tow. I was well and truly stuck.
Though I might eventually be reduced to sleeping in my disabled car, I had to do something in the meantime. I was wearing the same white pantsuit I had traveled in yesterday, with a clean silk tank top underneath. The night was cool but not uncomfortably so. My jacket was long-sleeved, so I was fine for the moment.
Thankful for the yoga lessons I had taken continually since my junior year in high school, I lowered the window and levered myself up and out of the vehicle. I knew I couldn’t be far from the ocean. In daylight I could probably see it from where I stood.
Water didn’t scare me. I did, however, have a healthy fear of plunging over a cliff. For the first time it occurred to me that the wise thing to have done was book a hotel room in Portree and make this trip tomorrow morning.
With keys in hand, I went to the rear of the vehicle and tried to open the trunk. The electronic button on the key fob produced no results. Next, I inserted the key and tried to open it the old-fashioned way. No luck.
It seemed as if the frame had bent, just enough to keep me out of my belongings. I was deeply thankful that I had put my purse and carry-on up front with me. At least I had something.
Standing in the middle of the road, I pondered my next move. Willow and Hayley and I had agreed not to use technology for the next month except in an emergency. This definitely qualified. When I pulled out my phone and powered it on, I saw only a single bar. Even that small glimmer of positivity went in and out.
I tried anyway, choosing to call the restaurant where I had dined not long ago. I’d found the phone number on my credit card receipt. Portree was a small place. I was sure that whoever answered would be willing to direct me to a roadside assistance service.
It was a sensible, well-thought-out plan. Except for the part where I couldn’t get the call to connect. That was the trouble with the modern world. Technology made us dependent on the bells and whistles. When they didn’t work, we were up a creek.
Though my nose was cold and my eyes watered, I focused on plan B. Surely there was a home nearby. There were supposedly almost ten thousand inhabitants on this island, a quarter of whom lived in the largest town…Portree. That left 7500 souls to come to my assistance.
Though I wasn’t as dedicated as Hayley when it came to researching our trip, I did know that I was in the midst of six hundred fifty square miles (give or take) of island territory, not all of which was connected by road. The population density was 6.04 people per square kilometer.
Even adjusting for the folks who lived in towns, surely there were at least a couple of people in shouting distance. I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Hellooo-ooo,” I yelled.
The wavering sound disappeared, swallowed up by low clouds and the empty countryside. I fancied I saw a tiny light far in the distance, but my perspective was skewed. I sure as heck wasn’t about to go striding across the moors in search of something that might not even be human habitation.
“Hellooo-ooo,” I tried again, feeling foolish. Wasn’t that the accepted definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over but expecting a different outcome?
It seemed I had two choices. I could start walking back to Portree. Or I could sit and wait for help that might never come. I wasn’t really a sit-and-wait kind of gal, but I was wearing heels, and my comfy walking shoes were trapped in the trunk inside my suitcase.
Still, any activity was better than nothing…right?
I leaned against the car and took off one of my shoes. They were Manolo Blahniks. Wickedly expensive. Surprisingly comfortable. Currently useless. I balanced on one foot and used both hands to try and snap the heel from the base of the shoe. Turns out, old Manolo made a quality product. And he had an inside track on some kind of space glue, because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t break the heel.
This struck me as ridiculously funny. I started to laugh and couldn’t stop. Here I was, stranded in the middle of a seemingly unpopulated wilderness, hopping on one leg like an injured flamingo.
Suddenly, I flashed back to my childhood. One of my early nannies—when I was in kindergarten maybe—was a Cuban woman named Josefina Ortiz. She and her family had fled Cuba in the 1950s. Jo-Jo, as I called her, had a crush on Desi Arnaz, and she also liked to nap after lunch. She would sit me on the sofa beside her and tune the TV to a channel that showed old episodes of I Love Lucy.
With my little tummy full of homemade macaroni and cheese or gooey quesadillas, I leaned up against the solid, warm bulk of my nanny and listened to her snore softly while Lucy and Ethel got into one scrape after another.
In those moments I was safe and warm and loved.
The memory caught me off guard, bittersweet and faintly disturbing. I knew that my parents loved me, despite their foibles. I’d been brought up
with every possible advantage and opportunity. Still, when I thought about my youngest years, the happiest memories were those I spent with women who were no blood kin to me at all.
Perhaps that was why I clung so stubbornly to my friendships with Hayley and Willow.
As I stood there, stork-like, caught in the past, a flash of bright light cut through the mist. Accompanying that herald was the muted roar of a vehicle. Hallelujah.
When the motorcycle pulled up beside my disabled car, I was too relieved to have any qualms about my safety. Besides, major crime was virtually non-existent in a place like this. I should know. I checked. When I decided to rent an isolated house for an entire month, it only made sense to weigh the pros and cons.
I put my shoe back on and wrapped my arms around my waist. A combination of the weather and the late hour made me shiver. “Hello,” I said.
The driver cut the engine. Now the silence was twice as deep. He swung a leg over the seat, stretched, and removed his helmet. “Trouble, lass?”
“Not at all. I like tipping cars into ditches. It’s something we do back home when there aren’t any cows available.”
The man froze, his hands caught mid-motion scraping back his wavy, jet-black hair. At least, I thought it was black. In the darkness it was hard to tell. I could just make out wide shoulders, a strong jaw, and the fact that he was more or less my age. Even in the dark, his masculinity and rugged good looks registered.
When he moved three steps closer, the back of my neck tingled. I’d always had a smart mouth. Some people didn’t appreciate sarcasm.
“American, aren’t you?”
Was that resignation I heard in his voice? “Yes, though I’m not sure what that has to do with my car being in a ditch.”
The stranger shrugged. “Wrong side of the road. Happens all the time.”
His unspoken criticism made me bristle. “I’ve traveled across six of the seven continents. This isn’t my first rodeo. The only reason my car is in the ditch is because I swerved to keep from hitting an animal. So I would appreciate your removing that smirk.” He didn’t need to know that most of my travel had been done in groups…or that I rarely drove myself.
Not Quite a Scot Page 2
