by Gwyn Cready
Reggie signaled for a refill.
“I’m Axel, by the way.” He held out his hand. “Axel Mackenzie.”
Reggie shook it. “What are you doing in Bathgate?”
“I’m a photographer.” He grabbed Reggie’s glass and ducked his head toward the tripod and equipment bag tucked into the corner. “I’m here for a story.”
“On what?”
“Romance novels.”
Reggie nodded. “Kiltlander.”
“Among others.” He filled the glass and set it down again.
“Have I seen your stuff?”
“Probably. I do a lot of magazine work. God, did you see the moon out there? I’m dying to take a crack at that.”
“What was the stramash about the lassie?”
Axel made an unhappy grunt, hoping it would be answer enough.
“I see.” Reggie sipped his beer. “I’ve had a run of bad luck myself. My soon-to-be ex-wife wants half of everything.”
“Well, fortunately, I’ve got nothing to be halved. And in any case, we broke up a long time ago.”
“Mm-hm.”
Axel couldn’t quite put a description on what had happened between him and Ellery. He was relieved to know she hadn’t cheated on him, though in his heart he’d never really believed it. But another part of him was unexpectedly sad to discover something that would have brought them such joy had been lost.
Right woman, wrong time.
“Reggie,” he said, slouching against the wall behind the bar, “it sounds like what you need to do is find yourself the right woman.”
“Have, my lad. Two problems. First, I’m na’ divorced. The ex-wife’s dragging her feet, and it wouldn’t be right to ask the new lady until that was settled.”
“And?”
Reggie’s shoulders settled a degree lower. “And I can’t get the new lass to pay me the slightest mind.”
Dr. Albrecht ran up to the bar, nodding briefly at Reggie. “There is a flight,” she said to Axel. “I’ll let her know. How are vee doing on the beer?”
“Tons left. This is definitely a harder-drinking crowd.”
“Would you like me to send over a cask of whiskey?” Reggie asked, the eagerness to help written clearly on his face.
“Thank you, Reggie,” she said absently, scanning the dance floor. “You can send me the bill.”
“No, no, it’s on me,” he said, but she had already flitted away.
“I see what you mean.” Axel pulled out a bottle of aged whiskey he’d found under the bar. “This yours?”
“It is.”
Axel put down two shot glasses. If he was going to give up the taste of Ellery Sharpe, it might as well be for a shot of eighteen-year-old Scotch.
He gave each glass a generous pour and picked up his. “To someday figuring women out.”
Reggie picked his up and threw it back. “Sláinte.”
Axel drank his. And then she was gone.
“Do you like it?”
The exquisite peaty smokiness rolled past his lungs and into his belly. It was great, but not as good as what it had replaced. “It’s marvelous.”
Reggie smiled.
“Are you planning to get some dinner?” Axel asked. The caterer had opened a resplendent buffet with a lamb roast, parsnips, potatoes, meat pies, beans, stewed cabbage and Dr. Albrecht’s soup. He could smell the garlic of the lamb all the way over at the bar.
“I believe I might.”
“What do you suppose those things are?”
Reggie looked toward the platter where Axel was pointing. It was piled high with some sort of dough pockets.
“Pasties, I imagine. More of a Cornish treat than Scottish, but I doubt this crowd will notice.”
“They look like pierogies,” Axel said, thinking of that delectable Pittsburgh treat. “Only with a pastry crust.”
“‘Pierogies’?”
“Rolled dough folded in a half-circle over mashed potatoes and sautéed onions. Fried in butter and served with sour cream. A-mazing.”
“Mmmmm. Wonder what they’d be like with neeps and tatties? Are they a Canadian dish?”
“Oh, God, no. Pittsburghian. Not fattening enough for Canadians. Our national dish is poutine—chips topped with brown gravy and cheese curds.”
Reggie’s eyes blinked dreamily. “This I must try.”
“Poutine, a couple of Labatt Blues, the Maple Leafs on the big screen…” Axel stared happily into the distance. “But,” he added quickly, “pierogies are nearly their equal. I don’t know why, but I have a real soft spot for them.”
“I don’t suppose the lassie’s from Pittsburgh?”
Axel’s cheeks warmed.
“Mm-hm.”
“That’s where the brewery I almost bought is too.”
“A sort of regional hat trick?”
Axel laughed. “You, my friend, know your sports.”
“If only I knew women as well.”
“I hear ya.”
Reggie climbed to his feet and gave Axel a nod before heading toward the food. Axel grabbed his camera and began to reel off some shots of the band as they wound down, slowing the shutter speed in order to get blurs of movement. There wouldn’t be an article—there was little chance Black would publish what Ellery had written—but Axel could probably pull the photos together into something for a travel magazine.
Dr. Albrecht reappeared. “Axel, vill you close the bar? The bigvigs vant to do some speeches during dinner, and they don’t vant people getting up for refills until it’s over.”
“Sure. No problem.” He’d worked enough places over the years to know you could always count on the suits to shut down the fun. “Say, is there going to be dancing afterward?”
“Oh, I’m sure there vill be. The place is booked until one.”
“Reggie would like the first dance.”
She frowned. “Vhat do you mean?”
“The first dance, Frau Doktor. With you.”
“vith me?” Her face filled with surprise. Good Lord, how subtle had Reggie been?
“Who else?”
“I, vell…” She stammered out a few more sounds, dimples puckered, and fell silent.
“I’ll let him know?”
“Yes,” she nodded, eyes sparkling. “Danke.”
Axel closed up the bar, grabbed his camera and found Reggie in the food line. “You’re lined up for the first dance after dinner,” he said, thumping him on the back. “Make the most of it.”
“What? How—”
“I told her where you stand. Knocked her right back into German.”
“But the divorce…”
“A dance isn’t a marriage proposal, pal. Keep it clean.”
Axel hitched the camera onto his shoulder and made his way to the guitar player. “Great set,” he said; then, slipping the guy a five-pound note, he added, “First song after dinner? Make it a slow one.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Ellery pressed the END button and hugged the phone to her chest. It killed her to be half a world away when Jill needed her. But Jill had assured her over and over that the appointment was purely informational and that she was sure her friend, Melissa, would be able to go with her. After Jill’s initial hesitation, which had been like a slow stab to the heart to Ellery, she had opened up, relieved to share her burden with her sister. They’d ended the call with Jill agreeing to call back if she couldn’t confirm Melissa.
Ellery was trying to keep her mind off the boyfriend, who wasn’t returning calls. Jill didn’t want to talk about him and said he was “a nonvariable” in the equation. A week ago Ellery might have agreed, but the look on Axel’s face when he’d asked if Ellery’s baby had been his had convinced her otherwise. How awful for Axel to have spent the last five years wondering whether she’d had an affair or, worse, to think she’d known it was his and didn’t want it. She’d carried her anger for so long, nurtured it like it was some bittersweet replacement for the child she’d lost, and all it took was
a half hour of mutual worrying about Jill to make all of it seem as inconsequential as leaves blowing in the wind.
She could still feel the spots on her back where his fingers had come to rest as they’d kissed, and all she wanted to do was find him and tell him about the phone call.
He wouldn’t have been a horrible parent, she thought, or even a bad one. His heart was in the right place, even if Ellery didn’t quite believe his protestations about giving up partying. He had, after all, been out the entire night drinking with that slimeball Barry Steinberg.
How the hell had Steinberg ended up in London at the same time as she and Axel? He was a slimeball, no doubt. But he was also a fantastic writer, and a worthy opponent in this race to the Lark & Ives finish line.
Dammit! She wanted that job. She’d be perfect, possessing just the right mix of administrative and critical skills. She knew just how she’d set up the new magazine too. Not too priggish. Not too GQ. With great utility players in key roles. No more specialists. She wanted team players who could pinch-hit for each other. Everyone would learn. Everyone would be challenged. She’d be sitting in that chair, and she could hire anyone she wanted. Heck, she could hire Axel. Why not have the best, right? After all, he was—
Then she remembered.
Axel would be in Pittsburgh, running a brewery. Far away from New York. Far away from her. And while he had said he wouldn’t give up photography completely, he’d made it pretty clear he didn’t like the magazine industry or New York.
Suddenly, the Lark & Ives confection she’d been rolling around her tongue lost some of its sweetness.
She also reminded herself that she was theorizing well ahead of the evidence. Yes, they’d made love, and, yes, he’d just given her the most wonderful kiss, but he was also disappointed with the article she’d written, which she had to admit he had every right to be. He was aware of what she was capable of as well as she did, and he held her to high standards. Well, at least the standard of truth, and he knew she had learned more about the power of romance novels in the last few days than she was letting on.
She was starting to feel a little disingenuous about not writing the story Black wanted. Hell, she’d been tearing through Kiltlander at record pace. Of course romance novels had the power to bring intelligent readers pleasure. It would be foolish at this point to argue anything else. But, oh, how she wanted that job at Lark & Ives…
Axel had a more compelling reason to be disappointed with her. He’d spent five years living with pain and uncertainty that she had made him suffer. She hadn’t done it consciously, but she’d been the cause of it nonetheless.
The trees were brilliantly lit by the platinum glow of the full moon, and she made her way back to the party.
In the barn the guests were relaxing at their tables or still waiting in line at the buffet, and the incredible mix of smells was making Ellery hungry again. But she wanted to find Axel and didn’t see him or Dr. Albrecht anywhere.
A man in his late fifties or early sixties with a shock of white hair and an enchanting pale blue kilt caught her eye. He was standing beside the empty dance floor, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot and moving his lips in some rosary-like repetition. When she focused her attention on it, she realized he was counting rhythmically: “One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four…”
“Upcoming waltz?” she asked, and he started.
“Indeed,” he said. “Though my partner seems to have fled.”
“Sounds like a fatal error on her part.”
He smiled. “Oh, I’ll catch her eventually. The band’s going to play half the night. Are you looking for someone?” he added, catching the wide look she was casting around the room.
“Yeah, a guy a little older than me. Brown hair. He’s wearing a kilt too.”
The man’s brows lifted and his smile grew larger. “Pittsburgh, right?”
“How did you—”
“It’s a night for good guesses. He’s on break. Should be back soon, though. Should I tell him you’re looking for him?”
“Yes, thanks. If you see him, tell him I’m going back to the house.”
“I’ll let him know.”
On the way her phone buzzed. She looked down. It was a text from Kate. ARE YOU WITH ELLERY?
Ellery had forgotten the phone she had was Axel’s. She dialed Kate’s number at work. “What’s up?”
“Why are you on Axel’s phone? Is he lying there next to you?”
“I’m outside a barn in Scotland.”
“Wow, I hope you have some blankets.”
“Funny. I talked to Jill.” Ellery took a quick look around the yard. Wherever Axel had taken his break, it didn’t seem to be around here.
“I was just going to ask. Is everything okay?”
As close as she was to Kate, Ellery wasn’t going to share the story. That was going to be up to Jill. “Yeah. Just down about some boy. She’ll be fine.”
“Oh, good. Thought I was falling down on the aunt front.”
“Nope. Your instincts were right. I appreciate the heads-up.”
“No problem, my friend. Unfortunately, that’s not why I called.”
Kate’s voice had dropped to a no-nonsense whisper, and Ellery felt a lump grow in the pit of her stomach.
“Black’s looking for you,” Kate said. “Called your phone. Called my phone. Called Axel’s phone.”
Ellery looked at the recent calls. Two from Black. Axel must have had his phone on SILENT or he’d sent them to voice mail before he’d handed the phone to her.
“What does Black want?” Ellery asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.
“Near as I can tell, to see you strung up from the Lark & Ives tower.”
Ellery winced. He’d found out. Somehow he’d found out. And her compromise romance article was going to be the icing on that already heartburn-inducing cake. She was surprised Black hadn’t figured out a way to have her struck by lightening. She stepped away from a utility pole. “Oh, shit.”
“It gets worse.”
“Worse than me losing my job?” She wondered if Black had read the article.
“Depends on how you feel about your photographer,” Kate said.
“What does that mean?”
“Well, Black’s pretty angry with Axel too.”
“Why, it’s not his fault I’m interviewing at Lark & Ives.”
“No,” Kate said carefully, “but it is his fault you turned in, and I quote, ‘a turd wrapped in prose so dull, it could do double-duty as a thermostat manual.’ ”
Well, that answered that question. “I still don’t see how it’s Axel’s fault.”
There was a long pause before Kate answered. “Apparently, Black had enlisted him to help ensure you wrote the kind of article he wanted.”
Ellery didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Axel was being paid to coach her on the article? Good God, he’d have known better than anyone that he didn’t have a chance of influencing how she wrote her story. She would have noticed anything obvious. And anything subtle—
She froze. The books. The book club at his friend’s pub. The kiss.
No. It couldn’t be true. There was no way that kiss or his kindness regarding Jill or his heated desire during their lovemaking at the hotel yesterday could have been made-up. She knew that in her soul. Nonetheless, Kate’s revelation threw the rest of what she thought she knew about Axel into an uncertain light.
“Ellery, are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be okay.”
“I’m sorry. Kinda stinky, huh?”
“Yeah, kinda. If it’s true, and I’m not sure it is. But in any case, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
“Black’s still trying to reach you. You’re going to have to talk to him.”
“What? To be fired? There’s a call I don’t mind sending to voice mail.”
“You think he’s going to fire you?”
“At this point I’m not sure I care. You know, of course, the Lark & I
ves thing is getting close, and this may make it a little easier. But I can get writing gigs if I have to.” Though she hoped it didn’t come to that.
“Oops. I gotta run,” Kate said, which was probably code for “Black on the move.” “I’ll call you back.”
Ellery said good-bye and bounded onto the porch of the bed-and-breakfast, through the door and up the stairs. She needed to see Axel’s face in order to know how she felt. His door was closed. She knocked, but there was no answer. She tried the door, but it was locked. She ran to her room and found her phone. Eight missed calls: two from Kate, five from Black and one from Carlton Purdy. She was just about to call Carlton when Dr. Albrecht stuck her head in the door.
“Oh, there you are. Vhy are you not vith Axel?”
Nice to get right down to business. “Is he here?”
“He vuz at the barn. Do you mind if I drop this here.” It was Axel’s duffel.
“That’s fine.”
She put the bag on the floor. “He said you’ll need a flight to London tonight, so you could fly home tomorrow.”
Ellery smiled, happy to have found a measure of reassurance in Axel’s concern for her.
“There’s one at eleven you can still make,” Dr. Albrecht added, looking at her watch.
“I probably won’t need it,” Ellery said after a moment’s consideration, “but I’ll let you know. The issue seems to have resolved itself a little bit.”
“Good, good,” the sociologist said. “I have a call in to a friend with a car service to make sure he can get you to the airport. I’ll let him know it’s on hold.”
“Thank you. I should know soon. I have a few calls to make.”
Ellery’s phone rang, and she shrugged apologetically at Dr. Albrecht, who scooted out. The call was from Black, who was making his sixth try. She considered blowing him off, but what was the point? She’d rolled the dice and lost. Time to pay the house.
“Sharpe here,” she said, sinking onto the bed.
The next few moments were a blur of accusations, vodka-soaked fury and an incredible selection of Anglo-Saxon interjections, including several Ellery believed may have dated as far back as The Canterbury Tales. Her actual firing was sandwiched somewhere between a tirade on the vanishing days of employee loyalty and an ode to some John Cheever short story about an elevator operator at Christmastime, and a dog seemed to be barking the entire time he spoke. When he finally settled into throaty harrumphs and avuncular disappointment, she knew they were nearly done.
