Blame It on Scotland

by Patience Griffin

  Tuck rose early, planning to sail under the radar again, but God had other plans. Just as he put out the first net, dark threatening clouds appeared on the horizon, and by the looks of it, the storm would be a doozy. He couldn’t bide his time out in the North Sea until Easter was over and risk John’s boat to the storm. Instead, Tuck made a run for Gandiegow and had only just tied off when the first gale force wind hit and the sky let loose with all its fury.

  Tuck sneered at the cross on the Indwaller before dashing up the pier. The Almighty was having his way with him—scolding him with the storm, and kicking his arse until he made it to the kirk on time for Easter service.

  Andrew was waiting for Tuck in the hallway when he arrived home.

  “Ye’re coming with us to the kirk.” Andrew’s steady voice had the power of the Lord behind him.

  “Aye.” What choice did Tuck have with both Andrew and God hounding him?

  Tuck was going for Andrew’s sake alone, not the Almighty’s. For when John had needed Him most, God had forsaken the faith-filled fisherman.

  Tuck, though, never lost sight of the truth. God wasn’t the only one who could be implicated in John’s accident…Tuck had blood on his hands, too. He could’ve dropped off Raymond at a nearby farm, let someone else deal with him, but Raymond probably would’ve died for sure then. What was the Almighty playing at to put Tuck into such an impossible situation?

  Andrew stood there, watching, his gaze never wavering, as if waiting to make sure Tuck wasn’t going to make a run for it.

  “I’ll get ready to go,” Tuck finally said.

  “We’ll wait for you.” Andrew’s words were firm and his expression spoke loud and clear: You’ll not miss out on this Holiest of days.

  “I won’t be long.” Tuck went down the hall to clean up. When he came out of his room, seven-year-old Glenna, who was Moira’s cousin, waited for him. She looked sweet in her Easter bonnet and pink plaid dress that Moira had made for her.

  Glenna took Tuck’s hand. “Happy Easter, Uncle Tuck.”

  It was enough to make his heart melt. He loved this little girl. He picked her up and gave her a hug. She didn’t judge. She didn’t point out all his faults. She was a little ray of sunshine in this dark world. From the start, he and Glenna had a special bond. Maybe it was due to the fact that they both were a little lost. Tuck, because of his rocky past, and Glenna, because she lost her parents in a car accident a few years ago. If he planned to ever have a family—which he didn’t, not since Elspeth, his ex, had cured him of such an affliction—he’d want to have a sweet little girl like Glenna.

  Andrew with his cleric’s collar and Moira in her plum-colored dress appeared in the hallway and the four of them left for the kirk. As the people started to arrive at the church, Moira and Andrew took up their posts beside Tuck. Whenever anyone sent an accusing glance his way, Andrew would smile at them, as a reminder there would be no condemnation in God’s house.

  Andrew gave Tuck a reassuring nod, before leaving to put on his robe. Tuck was left with the females.

  Moira smiled over at him. “Glenna and I are going to run to the restroom. We’ll see you in the Sanctuary.”

  Tuck nodded. He should’ve gone in and sat at their pew, but like an idiot, he hesitated.

  A second later, the kirk door opened again, and the Narthex became deathly quiet. Maggie, John’s wife, walked in, looking pale and fragile. For the first time ever, her long black braid over her shoulder wasn’t neat and tidy. But being a strong Scottish lass, she had her I’ll-get-through-this expression pulled tight across her face. Gads, the women of Gandiegow were stronger than any man. Baby Irene was asleep on Maggie’s shoulder and her seven-year-old son, Dand, was beside her. His eyes were swollen and red, as if he’d been crying.

  The kids! John wasn’t the only one wounded. The rest of the family was hurting, too. Tuck’s heart ached and he felt like crying, too.

  Gandiegow’s quilters descended upon Maggie. Deydie, the head quilter, the oldest and most crotchety of the bunch, gently took Irene and handed her off to her dearest friend Bethia. Two other quilters strategically maneuvered Dand away to where the men lingered off at the side. Tuck stepped farther away, too, to avoid Maggie’s piercing blue eyes. He should’ve walked nonchalantly into the Sanctuary, but he stayed glued to the spot, as apparently, he wasn’t done torturing himself.

  Deydie, short and squat, had unusual concern in her cataracted eyes. “How are ye holding up, Maggie?’

  Maggie, though she momentarily chewed her lip, nodded stoically.

  “And John?” Bethia asked, as she gently rocked baby Irene.

  “He’s…he’s…” Maggie—sturdier than the largest boulder above the village—broke down, sobbing.

  Overcome by witnessing her emotion, Tuck inhaled sharply. Maggie’s tears made John’s predicament more real than the blood on the Indwaller’s deck.

  “There, there,” Bethia cooed. All the other women, too, made comforting shushing noises at Maggie, as they reached out to touch her.

  The men of the village put their heads down and hurried for the safety of the Sanctuary.

  But Tuck couldn’t stop watching.

  “He’ll never fish again!” Maggie cried in declaration. “You know how scared I’ve been for him lately. Fishing is too dangerous of a job. And I’ve gotten the doctor to agree with me that John is to quit, now that he only has one arm!” She shuddered at her words. “It’s just as well, but how are we to survive? John will never live on the dole.”

  None of them would. Gandiegowans were a proud people.

  Deydie got up in Maggie’s face. Her fierce eyes glowed as she took Maggie’s arm and shook it lightly, until Maggie looked at her. “Don’t you worry about it none, lass. We take care of our own. I have an idea.”

  Och, but an idea wouldn’t feed the bairns—Dand and baby Irene—and the look on Maggie’s face agreed with Tuck’s assessment.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and moved farther out of sight. But Rachel, Brodie’s wife and one of the few people Tuck could call friend, zeroed in on him. Discreetly, she made her way over and pulled Tuck away into the deserted hall and out of earshot.

  “What are you doing?” She had a way of cutting through the bull, one of the many reasons Tuck respected her.

  She stared at him hard, because he hadn’t answered. “Don’t you dare run away. That would only make things worse. Moira said Andrew asked you to stay. Besides, you live here. This is your home.”

  Tuck couldn’t call what he’d been doing living, especially when compared to his brother. Andrew belonged to this village, was completely invested here, whereas Tuck hadn’t had real roots since wearing short pants.

  “I’m not running.” But guilt kept pummeling Tuck. Was there any way to make things right? He wanted to help out the Armstrongs, but all the strikeouts he’d encountered only showed him that the tide was against him. He had no extra money. No savings. If only he hadn’t wasted his coin on clothes, the pub, and wooing women over the years. Now, he wished he had every pence back.

  “Brodie and I are worried about you.” Rachel’s pinched eyebrows magnified her concern. “Working the boat for John is a nice thing to do. Stay and help out. Ross will be back to take over and you can be his first-mate.”

  It’s not enough! Tuck wanted to yell. In that moment, a thought lightninged across his mind. Maybe he could have it both ways. He’d talk to Hugh. He could work for both the wool mill, plus continue to take John’s place on the boat. Hard work would atone for Tuck’s sin. It wouldn’t make up for what he’d done to John, Maggie, and the kids, but it would be a start. Tuck could commute between the two jobs, be a part-time resident at both Gandiegow and Whussendale. As an added bonus, he’d keep his promise to Andrew…in a way.

  But not today.

  “Listen, Rachel, if Andrew asks, tell him that I couldn’t stay.” He didn’t want to share his plan with anyone just yet. He had to make sure it would all work out first.


  Rachel opened her mouth to argue, but music started playing in the Sanctuary. The quilters and Maggie moved forward, coming into view, as they led Maggie into the service.

  Brodie, along with Rachel’s daughter Hannah, stepped into the hallway near them. “Are ye ready, luv?” He offered his hand to his wife as he nodded to Tuck in greeting.

  Rachel’s eyes delivered the message before her words. “Don’t go.” But she didn’t stick around to find out what Tuck was going to do. She must’ve seen the determination on his face.

  Across the Narthex, Andrew appeared, robed in his Episcopal priest garb, positioning himself at the doorway to the Sanctuary. There was nothing Tuck could do now. He’d have to explain it all to Andrew later.

  As soon as Andrew marched in and up to the pulpit, Tuck left the kirk and headed to the parking lot, ready to plead his case to Hugh, and explain in person the strange work arrangements he’d need. As Tuck drove up the hill and away from Gandiegow, he kept telling himself that everything was going to be okay. He wasn’t running away. He was heading toward a solution. But no matter how hard he tried, Tuck couldn’t shake the feeling that once again, though he was trying to do the right thing, it still would go all to shite.

  3

  Kathryn Breckenridge, Ryn for short, waited in line at Edinburgh airport’s Border Control, hugging her dead mother’s patchwork tote with the swan appliquéd on the side. Ryn’s nerves were shot. It didn’t help a bit that there was a baby right behind her with her young mother holding her. Maybe her anxiety had nothing to do with the baby. Since Mom’s death last month, Ryn hadn’t been right. Her stomach ached most of the time and she had moments where she was sure she had a low-grade fever.

  The baby cooed again and Ryn jumped as if gunfire had gone off. She closed her eyes, hoping the torment would be over soon. But that’s what she’d been saying to herself for the last eight hours, during the final leg of the horrible trip from Minneapolis to Edinburgh.

  It had all been too much with the trip feeling more like nursery time with a half-dozen diaper-wearing passengers onboard. The flight could’ve been a time for Ryn to unwind and a chance to process what had happened these last several months. God knew she needed some peace and quiet to figure out what she was going to do next. But the babies screwed up that plan—the squealing and crying, sometimes in stereo—making it impossible for Ryn to think.

  But it’s more than that, the little voice inside reminded her. Her issues with babies went deeper than a few wails. But as always, Ryn tamped down the old hurt, hoping this time would be the last time, and the pain would never rise to the surface again.

  “First time in Scotland?” asked the young mother from over Ryn’s shoulder in her lilting Scottish accent.

  Ryn turned around to see the drooling blond-headed baby latch onto her mother’s braid and pull it to her mouth.

  She jerked her gaze away and focused on the mother instead. She was probably close to Ryn’s age, twenty-eight. “Yes. First time.” Ryn’s birthday had been three weeks ago. She’d spent the day packing up Mom’s things into boxes for Salvation Army. She’d only kept a few items—the pearl-handle embroidery scissors, a jar of her mother’s buttons, and a small stack of fabric fat quarters—all packed away in Ryn’s checked bag.

  “Are ye here on business?” The mother smiled and nodded toward Ryn’s attire.

  Ryn glanced down at her belted, black pantsuit paired with her sturdy Mary Jane heels. The same clothes she’d worn to her mom’s funeral. “No, not business.” Ryn was more comfortable in jeans and a printed tee, but it was important to make the right impression when she met her Scottish cousin for the first time.

  Behind the mother, a sharp-dressed guy in a herring bone sports jacket leaned closer and eyed Ryn as if he was interested. Instantly, her stomach hurt worse, and she made a point of dismissing his come-on. For the past two years, she’d deliberately taken a hiatus from all men, especially wary of the good-looking ones. Her past relationships had been with extremely handsome men, every last one of them oozing with charm. Charm—perfected and honed—but their honeyed words were only a means to get her into bed.

  Ryn was done making the mistake that Charm equaled moral character. One cheater too many had cured her of her propensity toward handsome males. Moving forward—if and when she ever dated again—she’d take a kind-hearted, pasty dumpling over good-looking any day.

  The Border Control officer called out, “Next?” He waved Ryn over.

  Ryn stepped up to the counter and presented her passport.

  “Name?” the officer asked, as he flipped it open and peered at the document.

  “Ryn Breckenridge.”

  His head popped up and he raised an eyebrow. “The bird, wren?”

  “Sorry. Long flight. I’m Kathryn Breckenridge. The tenth Kathryn Iona in a row. My mother Kathy and my grandmother Kay came up with my name, Ryn.” She was talking way too much!

  The officer nodded kindly as if he didn’t mind her babbling. “What’s yere reason for traveling to Scotland?”

  Ryn kept it short. “I’m looking for my family.” But her voice cracked when she said family. In truth, after losing her mother, she had no family left in the U.S., as Granny Kay had passed a year ago.

  He tilted his head to the side. God, she hoped he wasn’t getting the wrong idea, worried she wasn’t stable enough to enter the country.

  For a moment, Ryn chewed the inside of her cheek, but then told him a more detailed truth. “Mom and her cousin, Maggie, made a quilt when they were girls—the Goodbye quilt. Last month, before Mom died, she asked me to return the quilt to Maggie here in Scotland.” Ryn squeezed her tote to let him know that Exhibit A lay inside…and to reassure herself the quilt was safe.

  The officer’s eyes narrowed, but then he declared, “Ye’re on holiday.” He stamped her book and slid it toward her. “Next?”

  For rattling on, Ryn gave him an apologetic smile while retrieving her passport.

  As she followed the Baggage Reclaim sign, she muttered to herself, “This trip could be a wild goose chase.” The notion nagged her so often she murmured, “I should put music to it and turn it into a country song. What in the world was I thinking?”

  She’d been rash. Or maybe it was the grief. She should’ve found someplace temporary to stay. Instead, she’d pared down what she owned, put the rest in storage, and used the last of her savings to buy a ticket. “I made a promise,” she repeated to herself, though speaking it aloud didn’t have the reassuring effect she’d hoped.

  In fact, Ryn was scared to death. Feeling queasy. And praying to God that she’d find Maggie and deliver the quilt before her money ran out. If she didn’t, what would she do then? When Mom got sick, Ryn pretty much burnt all bridges with her graphic arts customers. She was too distraught to give them an explanation of why she couldn’t complete their orders. She was in shock. She couldn’t bear to repeat the horrible truth to her clients over and over again: My mom’s dying and I just can’t talk about it. She had some strong, definitive feelings about pancreatic cancer…it sucked!

  Ryn stood by the baggage carousel and waited. Yeah, she’d done a lot of waiting over the last three months, which had been pure hell. Mom’s diagnosis, the hospital stays, the funeral. Now, she waited here in Scotland, needing to fulfill an errand. Her mother’s last request.

  There had been no closure at the end. Just sorrow. The relationship with her mom had been complicated, right up until her mother’s final breath. Her mom was no jewel, but she was all she’d ever had, and Ryn loved her. But her mother had kept too much hidden and left too soon, still not answering the questions which weighed heaviest on Ryn. Like Who is my father?

  The last time she’d asked, and gotten no answer, had been when Ryn was fifteen. If only she could go back to before the fatal diagnosis. Ryn would’ve asked again and waited her mother out, and not backed down when Mom pursed her lips and changed the subject. Now, Ryn would never know…

  Her blue roller bag
appeared on the conveyor belt. Ryn set her tote between her feet, the fullness of the bag making her feel comforted that the Goodbye quilt would soon be safe and sound with Maggie. She tugged her roller bag from the carousel, securely positioned the tote back on her shoulder, and walked through the sliding doors which led to the rest of Scotland.

  Surprisingly, the sun was shining and her spirits lifted. But as she pulled her phone from her pocket to connect with Maggie, adrenaline clashed with her nerves and she experienced an internal earthquake. Her hand shook as she pulled out the two pieces of paper she’d printed off from the internet. One was how to make an international phone call with her cell phone, and the other piece of paper held Maggie’s number, which she’d found from a Google search.

  Ryn should’ve called her while back in Minneapolis, but she’d kept putting it off, trying to get through one minute at a time. There’d been so much to do, so many calls, that she couldn’t add in one more. And now she was kicking herself for not making that initial contact. It just made this moment that much more nerve-wracking. Ryn read through the directions one more time and then dialed.

  A man answered, “Ross Armstrong.”

  “Oh, hi. I’m Ryn Breckenridge and I’m looking for Maggie.”

  Ross sighed. “Maggie’s not here. She’s fixing to go to Whussendale—”

  “Whussendale?” But at that moment, Ryn’s phone died. “Dammit!” Buying a new cellphone battery was just another thing she shouldn’t have put off! Ever since her mother’s death, Ryn hadn’t been herself. She’d always been the responsible one, always on task, always the grownup. But losing Mom had Ryn acting and doing things so unlike her. Like coming to Scotland so unprepared!

  Ryn glanced up and read the sign. “Tram.” As a plan came together, her despair dissipated. She’d go into the city center and find a battery. Then head to Whussendale, wherever the heck that was. “One problem at a time.”